POOHEAD189

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Beren gave her an ostentatious bow, speaking in an upper class Andredian accent. "Your magical aptitude is only matched by your stunning intellect."

"I read many books and my pedigree is the envy of the Academy of Vorriellioune." She said haughtily, standing above him and waving her arm with very little direction, overracting to an incredible degree.

"Hey, who are you two?" A grumbling voice asked, causing them to open their eyes like surprised deer. An older man with the outfit of a clerk looked at them, his muttonchops and scowl a sight to behold. A few other drifters looked at the commotion over the racks of clothes and rows of shoes. "You came in here just to mock my store? Get out of here so my customers can get back to browsing."

"No, we uh... it's a long-"

Jocasta placed a hand on Beren's mouth. "Our humblest apologies sir, we will vacate the premises immediately." She said, and took out a silver lordling, nimbly flipping it in her hand and tossing it onto the desk he stood just beside. It twirled and then fell flat. "A token of apology. I insist."

Beren caught on, and hid it from his face. He extended his arm to Jocasta, and the two waltzed out of the store before the man could even deny the rightful payment of the clothes he did not even recognize. Once they made it out, they shared a grin and then started laughing. The sun was starting to set, and the usual cold was turning freezing. They hurried back to the manor, arm in arm. They didn't speak, but somehow they just felt comfortable in such close proximity.

Perhaps it was all the times she landed in his lap?

---

The next day...

Beren and Jocasta had spent the night and day doing their own thing. Sleeping, eating, speaking to the servants and meeting with Baron Marius. They had only spent a couple of hours together, talking about the party that night and just talking like they had known one another for years. Beren had managed to go out a few times that day, running errands he wouldn't talk about. Once the hour was drawing close, the two changed into their clothes and were provided with baths beforehand.

Now, they stood on the giant-sized street brimming with people at the foot of the Grimstone Citadel, the seat of governmental power and central monument to the entire city. Men and women danced in the streets, torches and shows of fire from acrobats and magicians on a nearby street corner were alit as the sun began to sink behind the city walls. A few small pops of varying contraptions went off in the distance, but no fireworks as of yet.

Carriages drawn by well-bred horses and thoroughbred oxen routinely pulled up to the red carpet that was laid out at the entrance. The gateway to the greathall were two great wooden doors atop twelve wide steps of well paved stone, the carpet cascading down the stairway and led to the very edge of the street. Guards in breastplates and tabards with the symbol of Iskura tood with halberds at the fore, blocking the pathway with their pole weapons to keep the citizenry from entering.

"Halt! Without the proper papers you are not allowed to enter. Back up." The guard they approached warned, redirecting his polearm to better brain Beren with if it came down to it. Beren gave him a smile and produced the letter he had received with the seal of Baron Marius. Jocasta did the same and smiled wickedly.

"Oh...uh..." he stammered.

"If you'll excuse us." Beren said, taking Jocasta's hand and leading her past the guard, who stepped aside sheepishly. Beren gave him a "thanks" and walked into the great doors to ascend to the top floor, rumored to be using a pulley system from within the castle. Inside the great hall, they found the rumor to be true, as there was a section of the wall where the platform rested, and a chamberlain waited upon it with his hand on a wheel, attached to a mechanism.

"The top floor I presume, my lord, my lady..." He said to them.

Gold & Glory: AU thread

Markus moved his head from side to side to stretch his neck, the sword absorbing the blood sent a shiver up his spine as if he'd been tickled or found himself particularly sleepy. Luckily he felt the effects of neither, and not for the first time wondered if the sword's powers were effecting him in some adverse way, or if he simply felt the echoes of its pleasure. Seeing as the dark elf he killed that had it did not look any worse for wear, he felt it safe to assume the latter, at least for the moment.

"Let's check to see what this bitch of a ship has below decks," He said, not deigning to look back at Emmaline. Whether she followed or not did not matter to him, as long as she didn't start screaming at any nearby gulls to alert any other potential adversaries to their position. Markus snorted at the thought, and then strode across the deck. The planks were dark and made of strange wood that barely creaked. He went to the central door, where the stairs would lead below decks. He opened it and found the assumption proved true, so he stepped down the five steps of the wooden stairway.

The first doors on his left and right were closed. Briefly he considered opening them, but the third door, the second to the left had bars over a small aperture much like a jail cell. It drew him closer, sword held before him. Inside he could hear soft moaning and murmuring, and the smell was undeniably parallel to the unwashed streets of marienburg. He stepped to the portal, his hand slowly reaching for the latch...

Behind him a door burst open, swinging wide as a dark elf reaver leaped out with sabre in hand. He did not gloat or give preamble, instead stabbing Markus with a killing stroke. It almost worked, the blade getting caught on a chain-link of his armor just before Markus stepped to the right, batting away the sabre with his own blade. The dark elf was quick, riposting with a sinuous feint and another stab, only held back by a wide parry from the privateer. They parried and cut and stabbed in a brutal dance, the walls scarred from their flying steel. The drucchi had the advantage, his blade smaller and his reflexes quicker. No doubt the elf had practiced swordplay longer than Markus had been alive, and if the captain had his old backsword he felt he would already be dead.

Markus redirected his style, going for an unorthodox routine and side stepping in the tight quarters. The dark elf mirrored his movements and managed a cut across Markus's cheek, drawing fresh blood down his face. The elf smiled wickedly, pressing his advantage and stepping forward only to suddenly flinch in momentary blindness. Markus' sword had engulfed in flames, the captain stepped to the left again and swinging his sword in a terrible backhand cut that bisected the dark elf's head, cauterizing the sliced skull even as it was split in two.

Slowly the dark elf's corpse fell against the wall and slid to the floor.

"Close," Markus said to himself, breathing a sigh of relief. He wasn't a talented mage. In fact he was less talented than Emmaline, and that was saying something. But he knew just enough to keep himself alive in an otherwise deadly encounter. He let the top of the dark elf's head slide off his blade and bounce on the floor, and felt certain if there were any other elves on the ship, they would have come to this one's aid. Markus yet again reached for the door where he felt the slaves were kept, and when it opened, he found he was right.

Over two dozen men and women in nothing but rags, some even completely naked, huddled together and shivered in fear. Some stared blankly at the wall, devoid of hope despite it staring them in the face, whilst others eyes darted back and forth like prey animals. In the back he saw two elves, likely high elves. They sat together, and though they had a look of defeat on their faces, he could tell they weren't husks of their former selves at the very least. They were also the only slaves to look up in surprise at Markus walking into the room.

"The dark elves are dead." Markus declared after waiting a few, pregnant moments for the other humans to react. When there was yet again no reply, he barked at them. "Your masters lie dead!"

A few of them turned to look at him, their brows furrowing in confusion. A woman pulled her hand out of her mouth, having chewed on her fingers so much they were mushed and broken. She blinked and stared at him, as if looking past him to some cruel jester behind the captain. "Dead?"

"That is not possible." Another said. "No, no... not possible."

"We will sail this ship up the harbor, who will help me?" Markus asked. They all gazed at him now, including the two elves. The natives of Ulthuan did not speak, however. They merely looked at one another knowingly. Markus found out why a moment later when one of the men began to scream, higher pitched than Markus thought possible for any man with any sort of dignity. More accompanied him and others wailed and moaned in abject shock.

"No! They can't be dead!" A younger woman screeched, approaching Markus like the walking dead and reaching for him, clawing at his arms. "Do you know what they'll do when they find out!?"

"We will be tortured! Mutilated to the very soul!" An older man howled.

Gnarled hands reached for Markus, the slaves turning berserk. They bore wild eyes and frothing mouths and desperate energy erupted from them as they approached Markus and then swarmed his position. Markus saw murder in their eyes as they charged the doorway where he stood, leaping at him in abandon. He was confused, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knew they were too far gone. They blamed him for their inevitable fate. Even freedom was too frightening for these wretches. Another man might have attempted to close the door or try and reason with them.

The dark elf blade was ensconced in aqshy, flames roaring to life as his blade called to him in its thirst. For once, he and the sword were of the same mind. He ran the first slave through, pulling his sword out and cutting through two of the other zealots, lopping off a head as his blade buried itself into a collarbone. He let the bodies fall and stepped back, hacking a man down and piercing another's throat, his eyes set and his face grim. Blood soaked the floorboards as they relentlessly charged, Markus giving ground but cutting more down as they surged like a wave of bony locusts. They tripped over themselves and their fallen slaves, but when their advance slowed, Markus took the initiative and moved forward himself, cutting through them like wheat. Poor, helpless and staved men and women, people had freed. All fell before his blade as buckets of blood and corpses fell onto the floor, until there was naught but seven slaves yet alive. The very old, the very young, and the two elves that had watched intently.

Markus stepped over the corpses and into the room again, blood spattered on his drucchi trousers and cloak, his exposed flesh freshly cut from fingernails and the cuts of the dark elf swordsman not minutes ago.

"Will you help me sail, or not?" He asked the elves, and to their surprise he spoke in their tongue.

"Why would we help someone who just slaughtered his own kind?" They asked when they found their tongues.

"Tell me, were you captured by the elves of Naggaroth by happenstance, or did you come to the new world to slay your own kin?" He asked them. They stared at him silently for many moments. Slowly, they stood up together and gave a nod.

"We will help."

Gold & Glory: AU thread

"Good job," Markus told her, letting his blade linger in the dark elf's throat for a few moments as the blade lapped up the blood. He wasn't quite sure what purpose it served when Markus was relatively uninjured, but he felt the thing thirst and saw no harm in it. Pulling the sword out, he sheathed it with an ease despite his eyes gazing at the corpses rather than his scabbard.

"I doubt those are the last two dark elves in Naggaroth." Emmaline said, dropping the bough to the ground and wiping her hands on her dress.

"For once, you're right." The pirate agreed, kneeling down and searching the still-warm cadavers. He found a few coins of unusual mint, a green vial of Sigmar-only-knew-what, as well as a simple steel dagger. Pocketing the coins and the liquid, he spun the knife betwixt his fingers and presented it to Emmaline, hilt first. Once she took it, he unclasped a cloak and experimentally wrapped it about his form. There was a small splotch of blood on the tail end, but he doubted that was an anomaly in drucchi society. "Take off the elf's shirt and shoes, and wrap the cloak around yourself."

"I suppose that would work," she pondered, considering. "The armor?"

"Not sure. It might fit me, but it would never fit you. You'd be best acting keeping yourself cloaked." He said, and when he saw her looking at him dubiously, he smirked a smirk that showed his teeth. He looked somehow both handsome and yet very much like a shark. "You're not fat, but no elf has tits like that."

They got dressed quickly, and whilst Emmaline asked for and gazed at a few of the coins for her 'magic' which Markus was certain was her only motivation, he dragged the naked corpses into the reeds to keep them hidden from any more wandering patrols. Afterwards, he took the knife he had granted Emmaline and shaved as closely as he could. No elf he had ever seen had facial hair, and though he only sported a small fraction of what could be considered a beard, he needed to be as elf-like as he could.

"Do we know where we're going?" Emmaline asked as Markus slid the knife up his left chin.

"I'll follow their tracks." He explained. "They stepped lightly, but with luck I can do it. Do us a favor and don't breathe too loudly or stumble. And we won't go exactly where they came from. Just close enough to see if we can find any sort of settlement. We don't want to be where others are expecting our dead friends. We just want to walk in as if we already belong."

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Beren had been ready for awhile, though it was more because he wasn't very fashionably literate, and it was usually easier for a guy to pick things out. Still, he felt he would look presentable if he was going to an illegal auction house or something. The jacket looked somewhat like a frock coat, though he imagined it looked noticeably nicer about ten years ago. It was taupe in color, and he had to shake it fervently to get the dust off of it. Underneath it was a beige button down, and an old leather belt held trousers he felt appropriate, with dark shoes. He had tried his best to fix his hair in the changing room mirror and it had what he imagined might be a rakish quality, but he had been wrong before.

Despite his misgivings, he was a jokester at heart.

He didn't step out, he slid out into the hall with the most ridiculous plumed hat, colored a loud pink, atop his head. "What do you think?" He asked without skipping a beat, winking. Though after he got his laugh out of her, he took the hat off and fixed his hair yet again, tossing the hat onto the closest pile of clothes.

"Seriously though, I feel like this is the best this store has. Though I think I look like I'm about to sell snake oil." He told her with a raised eyebrow, turning around for her with his hands out. It was at that moment he was able to process how she looked, and he gave a suggestive whistle. She filled the dress it wonderfully, and he felt the unheated store had grown a bit hotter. Still, played it cool, so he instead asked a very prudent question. "Where did you get such good looking clothes?"

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Jocasta gave Beren a wink, and he hid his amusement when Otar looked back at him. He couldn't be sure none of the other dwarves saw it, but they didn't say anything. Muragrim and Gurin downed another pint of what alcohol they could find, but Buri had only had one flagon and he looked at the two humans with a keen eye.

"Percentage?" He asked, drawing a raised eyebrow from Jocasta.

"A seventh. Together." Beren said, pointing at Jo and himself.

"Ye've been here for one day!" Radsvir said, his voice rising. The human wench that had decided to stay and find a comfortable place on his lap flinched at the sudden outburst. He didn't notice, though his hand held her hip protectively.

"But if our findings are correct, it'll be because of us that you found it." Jocasta added, catching on quickly. The business aptitude and gold lust of dwarves was legendary even to the layman. Of course they wanted to get the details ironed out before they even found the Thundrim.

Beren crossed his arms. "We're not even asking for an eighth for each of us, just a seventh between the two of us."

Otar crossed his arms as well, closing his eyes. The elder paused in thought, and then gave a nod in acceptance.

---

"Invited to the palace!?" Jocasta said, aghast. She plopped down on the bed in her guest room, surprised. Beren stood leaning on the doorway, gazing at an identical letter for himself. She read the beginning aloud again to make sure the details were right. "You are formally invited by the Arch-Count to the Founding Day Celebration in the grand banquet hall of the palace and its surrounding courtyards and balconies. Your service to the county has granted you leave to speak to any lord and to be congratulated and awarded a token for your valor..."

"Free food," Beren pipped in, happy at that added detail. Still, he seemed a bit quiet. Jocasta owed a lot of people money, she didn't get invited to a lot of fancy celebrations unless she was working. Beren apparently felt some sort of way about it.

"What's wrong?" She asked him, curious.

For Beren's part, he felt and knew he looked embarrassed, which Beren imagined might look strange on someone who could grapple orcs and slay trolls. Still, he was younger than people gave him credit for, and he didn't exactly know how to verbalize his discomfort. Particularly because he was worried about being unimpressive to the girl that was staring at him right now.

"What am I going to wear?" He asked.

"I'm sure the Baron has-"

"No, I mean like...I don't know what I would wear." He explained. He had always loathed dressing up, and even though he had been to a banquet or two when his parents had been invited, the etiquette and the dress never could stick with him. The next part was worse, and he felt very wooden. "And uh...I don't know how to dance either..."

He pushed off the wall and shrugged his muscled shoulders, trying to remain his normally confident self, even if he didn't feel it particularly. He scratched the back of his head. "I'm not really a high class guy, you know I'd probably mess you up."

Gold & Glory: AU thread

The soft glow of the clouded sky above was eclipsed by Markus's standing form. She opened her eyes blearily and saw him looking down at her. He looked at her and suppressed a sigh or a curse. He was cutthroat, but he wasn't heartless. This was hard on both of them, and he knew they were walking into death anyway. But still, he wasn't going to have Emmaline keep him from that.

"I would pick you up, but since we have almost no food I'll need to save my strength, so let's go." He said, his voice strong and leaving no room for argument. She still whined a bit, and gave a curse again. He knelt down and grabbed her, but it was gentler than she might have expected. Slowly he pulled her upright, and when she had steadily sat up and didn't wobble, he wiped her blonde hair out of her face and looked at her.

He gave her a kiss. A lingering kiss that said more than he would, and then stood to his feet, holding out a hand. She took it, and once he hauled her up they started walking. Markus had returned to his aloof, grim self. Emmaline followed as best she could, only falling onto her face again once. Mercifully, they were both on more solid ground the next mile, with soft grass and warm wind. A large forest covered the horizon, the trees tall and ominous.

"Where are we going?" She asked.

"The elves went north, so we'll head north." He told her, stepping over a large patch of coastal reeds. Something furry skittered away, but Markus didn't pay it any mind. The wind whistled, but other than two birds riding the currents over the sea and the small critter, the land looked barren. It was hard to say if the quiet was the silence of an empty place or that of a lurking predator, and Markus wasn't sure which was more unsettling.

"Once we find good cover, I'll start a fire. We might can catch something to eat for dinner." He told her, and glanced back to see she was still close on his heels.

"I wish we could just head south back to skeggi, but..." She said, and he knew she was almost as loathe to leave the ship and the crew as he was. Neither of them were charitable souls or self-sacrificial priests, but Emmaline had a conscience despite her swindling and Markus was too bound by the Captain's responsibility to just let them die. Plus, they did not want to be separated. He also figured that to the south were the Lizardmen, and even though dark elves were known for slow torture, they were still closer to human. There was something about the man-reptiles of Lustria that was so unsettling. The cold intelligence behind eyes that shouldn't have it. The magics that could shatter ships, and the huge lizard warriors that would devour you if given the command.

Better to move north for now.

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

"Where's it located?" Beren asked, though the question was rhetorical. He pulled out an old map they found and laid it carefully over the table, crinkling loudly. Jocasta moved aside the leftovers of the meat pie and stood up, rounding the table and overlooking the map over Beren's large shoulder.

"How old is this map?" She asked, and he knew why. Much of the Grey Marches were a mystery in detail, even though the rough borders and length of the land was well known. Mountains and roads were well mapped, but the specifics of forests, marshes, or even rough peaks were largely unexplored or were needing to be rediscovered for human knowledge.

"Twenty one oh nine of the current era. Eighty years old." Beren said, placing a finger on the date at the far bottom of the map. He traced the finger upwards to Iskura, and with Jocasta's help found the general area based on anecdotes of the Morloke's writings to hone in on a small mountain to the west. It was unnamed, but it was closer to one of the other cities known as Demercia. Beren chuckled and shook his head, his thick unkempt mane of hair tickling Jocasta's arm. "I know we spent an afternoon here, but it can't be that easy..."

The bookshelves around them towered like ancient walls, but they weren't made of stone. Nor were they too thick to listen through. Unbeknownst to Beren and Jocasta, a listener pulled away from the hole in the shelf he had been watching through and rushed away, disappearing into the crowd...

---

Thirty minutes later...

The Dre Costan, Oscar Rodelo, gave a bow before a large, mahogany desk nestled in a quaint manor across the city. He had come in through the back as instructed, for such a low-life couldn't be seen fraternizing with the lord or lady Vandenhartd. Even the guards would not have recognized him, and so he had been given secret knowledge of a small entrance behind the gardens. He had been allowed in within minutes of his arrival, and now he knelt before the lady of the house, Janyce Vandenhardt. A plump, lovely redhead. She did not seem pleased to have Oscar in her presence, but her eyes were alight with curiosity as she commanded him to hurry past the formalities.

"Speak, worm" she ordered, and crossed her legs beneath her frilled dress.

"I have found the two who made it out of Helmguart. The ones who had delivered the letter to the baron." He started, but she rolled her eyes.

"Yes, I know cur! That's why you were to follow them-"

"Your grace, they are the same two who survived the expedition led by the merchant Falkenrath, and they have met the dwarves your husband has kept an eye on. They believe the might have found a lost hold in the mountains west of here." He said, fervently outlining his information. He had rehearsed the small message on his way here, wanting to recount it all in as exact and prudent a manner as possible. The low-life had been in the service of many scum who thought themselves greater than their station. The Lady was the first noble he had been recruited by to act as her runner, and the rewards she had promised were something beyond what he had hoped.

The woman sat up, staring at him hard. She was a youthfully pretty woman, forty years of age with little to betray the fact save a wrinkle beside her red lips. Oscar had seen her smile as pleasantly as any maid, though he knew just how cruel and grasping she was. Still, he had his fantasies about her. Something any man might imagine when in proximity to such a well-pampered senora. He quaked under her gaze though.

"How can they be one and the same?" She asked aloud, pondering.

"I think-"

"Shut up!" She growled irritably, standing up. The distraction was momentary, however. The woman began to think again, speaking as if no one where there but her. "Could it be coincidence? These two have first hand knowledge of Bedregar's realm, the ire of the Dead Lions, the friendship of Baron Marius, and the potential knowledge of a dwarven treasure..."

"Shall I leak the information to your husband?" He asked her tentatively. It was a loveless, and in fact hate-filled marriage. They had not shared a bed for years, if Oscar did not miss his guess. He rarely did, he considered himself a womanizer and knowledgable in such things.

"No, he likely knows part of it already. And that's all I would want him to find out. But I need to get one of them alone. Perhaps both... squeeze them for information. Yes, I'll look through my contacts. Yes, you've done well Oscar." She purred, giving him a smile that showed her perfect white teeth.

"My reward?" He asked, hope in his eyes.

"I remember. Those months ago I told you I make you worth more than your weight in gold, and you would be given to the most ethereal woman in the city, and I am a lady of my word." She said, sitting back down and reached under her desk to retrieve a small, brass chest. Oscar perked up, wondering what valuables were inside. Was it pure platinum? Or valdium? He approached the desk, even though she did not invite him to. The noblewoman did not mind, calmly unlatching the chest with a bronze key and turning it around for him to take. He looked at her, and slowly placed his hands upon either side of the lid. Without much caution, he opened it up.

Nothing. Just a shadow.

"What?" He had begun to ask, before it died in his lips when the shadow began to swirl. At its center, something glowed like the sun. It hadn't been a shadow, no, it had been an endless abyss, somehow located within the chest. The slow movement of the living darkness had been slow, but it swiftly grew and billowed out of the chest to coalesce before them both into a woman. Or something like a woman. Its skin was a dark red, like the glow within the cracks of igneous rock. Her hair was long and made of flame, and her eyes opened to reveal smoldering orbs like molten coals.

Oscar screamed, falling onto his back and trying to crawl away. The demon-woman grew and grew until she was nine, no, ten feet tall with her lower legs naught by shadow connected to the confines of the chest.

"Ifrit consider slaves very valuable." Janyce explained as the dark thing grabbed scrambling Oscar by the leg, and she reached into her bodice to produce a ruby tied around her neck by a silver lace. Oscar screeched and struggled like a hob within the coils of a constrictor, begging Janyce for his life. She just jingled the ruby. "Oh, I can't help you. This ruby only keeps me from being targeted. Don't fret, my dear. She'll keep you nice and warm."

The Ifrit bent space and time before Janyce as the she-demon was sucked back into the chest, dragging a terrified Oscar along with it. His olive skinned hand grabbed the table desperately, but Janyce just pinched the hand playfully and closed the chest once it let go, the arm disappearing into the pocket dimension within the chest. The room stank of sulphur and burning meat, so she opened the door. The cold air felt nice on her skin, and she crossed her arms as she looked over the center of the city.

"Now to deal with those other two..."

Gold & Glory: AU thread

No one escapes the clutches of the dreaded drucchi. Better to die than be caught by their cruel nets.
-Bos'un Herbert Fauchman

As Emmaline was busy losing the contents of her lunch over the side of the boat, Markus stared at the wooden planks on the rowboat, deep in thought. The churning sea rushed and shoved the craft gingerly, oscillating their position and filling their ears with the dull roars of the surf. The Captain of the Hammer clutched his sheathed, accursed sword, the scabbard resting over his shoulder. For miles in any direction, they were surrounded by sea. In the distance they could see a faded picture of land, but it would be hours before they reached the shore. The day was overcast and the wind tickled them, but it was not unpleasant. The vague sound of whispers that came with the wind were more unwelcome than the wind itself. Then again, these lands had been perpetually haunted in all the stories.

Mercifully, the Land of Chill was warmer than the rumors.

Markus had never been to Naggaroth, though he and his crew had an unfortunate run-in with Dark Elf reavers before. It was how he had acquired his black sword, and it was during that engagement he really started to respect Emmaline as more than a bumbling pair of tits. Unfortunately, he didn't foresee much more in the way of positive benefits when facing the dreaded elves of Malekith. It was almost guaranteed he and his lover would die here, on this strip of bare land on far end of the world. And yet there was nowhere else to go, and Markus was not going to die without spilling as much elf blood as possible.

The previous day, the Hammer had been sailing up the coast of the Sea of Serpents with all speed. Markus and his crew had been given a map from the Heinrich Kuaffhelm, the greatest loremaster of the New World. It was similar to most maps save one detail: the location of the fabled Tomb of Gold. After having survived the Lizardmen in their golden city, Markus had seen first hand the fabulous wealth the Lizardmen had in their hoards. It took very little to convince his crew and Emmaline to find the Tomb that was rumored to be unguarded by the scaled warriors.

On the ninth day at sea, the black sails appeared. Three dark elf sloops surrounded them and assailed the ship on all sides. Emmaline had been pitched overboard, and Markus could only dive off the ship and leave a rowboat untethered and floating upside-down in order to save himself and the sorceress. With clever magics she had kept them hidden from the sea-dragons that followed the dark elves, or the myriad of monsters that lurked within the 'sea of serpents,' but that left them stranded miles from the coast, idly floating with the wind.

If his men weren't dead, they would soon wish they were. The Black Ark they had seen in the distance had disappeared, and only by memory did Markus recall a dark elf settlement supposedly on the coast, by way of stories they had heard moored at Skeggi. They would go there and try to get his ship back, and if they failed, they would take the two small vials of poison Markus kept on his person to die swiftly and (relatively) painlessly.

Even if it came to that, Markus would kill for what they did to him.

"Your concern is wonderful," Emmaline said, finally bringing her head up and slumping against the side of the boat. She looked miserable.

"I'm not concerned," He said, aloof with his attention elsewhere. "You've gotten through far worse. We'll be on land soon."

Rise to The Top: Medieval Intrigue RP

"Hunting," he chuckled softly, listening to her explanation. He was accustomed to hearing all manner of stories about the activity. He, nor anyone he was really close to, had ever hunting anything more than a rat. But there were many barroom tales of men who tried to hunt on an aristocrats land and barely escaping, either the animal or the foresters meant to extract justice and protect the precious meat from all those save the land's lord.

"I guess I could give it a try and attempt to learn the bow or spear." He reasoned, and placed some of the hot potato dumplings in his mouth. Gods, he still couldn't imagine being unsatisfied with the life of a noblemen. Food was one of the greatest pleasures in life, save maybe a good woman. "It would probably be smart to become good at some form of combat beyond the knife and my hands. I suppose I'll never know when someone wants to duel me over something."

He continued to listen to her brief education on his behalf. Hunting would probably be the most prudent way to keep away from prospective daughters and suitresses, not that he was against getting to know a pretty girl. But he found he was increasingly interested in another, despite her reservations. Shut up, you won't compromise her, he tried to tell himself. He wasn't sure if he was lying to himself or not. Galt had the chance to eat the lunch a bit more quickly than her from her monologue, and so once she was finished he had some time to take a sip of water and contemplate.

"Your brother?" He thought aloud, wondering why she couldn't teach him herself. He wasn't entirely sure if her brother was keen on being around him, and Galt had to admit he did wish to spend more time with Silke. The fact she was an exceptional female hunter was no surprise to him. She was an exceptional woman, getting more impressive by the day. With that in mind, he would do well to listen to her, regardless of his reservations. "I'll do what you advise. Though I've heard the bow is sort of hard to learn. Would it be months before I went on this hunt of yours?"

The dark haired thief raised an eyebrow, and placed his elbows on the table, entwining his fingers together. Somehow he had heard elbows on the table were bad manners, and yet he felt very lordly doing so. Much that he had heard or thought was likely merely popular perceptions from those who knew the high class very little. "I guess I would ask who you had in mind for me to hunt with. I'm sure the Duke would love to have me, even if my skills were terrible. But I feel like people might think me attached by the hip or hiding behind his ducal robes from meeting my other peers, even if it is the safe bet."

What would they even hunt? Deer? Call him soft-hearted, but a deer had never done him any harm. He had seen a few on the road during his life. They were always majestic and graceful. He was a meat eater, but eating sausage was different than making it yourself. In some ways, he guessed it was like living on the streets. Sometimes you had to get dirty and even kill to survive. He supposed he just didn't like the 'sport' of it, like the high class envisioned the activity. Suddenly, he had a thought. "And how much does your brother really know about me? And what should I keep hidden from him?"

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

"I thought you said you had only been here a few months." Beren asked, hands in his pockets and curiously gazing over Jocasta's shoulder at the fireworks. He had been taught to forge and even fight to an extent in Thundrim Kadrin, but the warrior had never deigned to learn engineering, civilian or battlefield. It brought him memories of the maverick engineer, Sketti Hammerhand. He missed the crazed dwarf and his antics, but he guessed now he would see more traditional gunnery and fireworks rather than the experimental.

"It's the talk o' the town, lad." Gurin informed him, taking the explosives out of Jocasta's hands like a mother taking its children from a sitter. He was shorter than the comely woman by more than a head, but his hands were twice the size of hers. She gave a guilty smile and he was jovial enough to give a wink to show 'no harm done.'

"You'd know that if ye had been here longer than the day, I'm guessing." The elder, Otar, grumbled. Gurin handed him the fireworks and Otar stuck them in his pack. Strangely enough, the elder's beard wasn't as long as some of the others. It was thick and grey with age, but something must have sheared into it in the past. It was only the length of Beren's forearm, though it densely packed around his cheeks, chin, and upper lip. Beren had learned some of the dwarven religion during his five years in the thundrim, but there were likely some sects he did not know of. Perhaps the shearing of the beard led the old one to join the clergy, or perhaps his the clerics of runar were made to ritualistically shave. Either way, it gave him the look of a stout norgardian war-cleric rather than an old dwarf priest.

"We got commissioned to make something festive," Varin added, but just after he spoke there was a hoarse hee-haw past the door that led to the forgery. Varin gave a bow to Beren and Jocasta, his blonde beard brushing the floor before he hurried away to tend to what sounded like a donkey. "I think ye'll like it!" He called over his shoulder.

"I know we will," Beren laughed, and then gave them a phrase in their language that brought a laugh. Even Otar chuckled. "Can you give us any more information on the place?-" He then turned to Jocasta. "You cool to go check out the library? We got time to kill, right?"

An hour later...

The inside of the stone library was massive, with cavernous spaces between pillars Beren easily believed was shaped by the Jygrim, the giants of old. The columns were embellished and the rib-vaulted ceiling was overlaid with ornate tracery that a few robed scholars on the floor looked at occasionally, sketching or writing in their notepads in study. In this fortress of lore, even the building itself was a mystery to unravel or dictate a thesis on. Jocasta looked around with interest sparkling in her eyes. Beren was similarly interested, always with a capacity to learn. Though he found his eyes drawing back to his shapely companion. She was even prettier when her interest was piqued.

Through the window on the right, one could see Lake Mearavon glittering in the afternoon sun. The bulk of it lay east of Iskura, the two companions having come from the southwest in their travels. Only a small inlet of the lake stretched south of the city, curling around its southern wall like a protective barrier. Had it been warmer he would have half a mind to swim in it, but every time he stepped outside he was reminded of the unrelenting chill.

"Anything I can do to help? I only speak three languages, and two of them aren't widely used in human scholarship." Beren admitted with a guilty smile. The shelves of books were like walls, some over twelve men high. Ladders were available, but they were wooden and heavy. Acolytes of Aulor, God of Lore, walked among the throng of scholars, curious onlookers, travelers, and aristocrats, helping where they could with questions. They were apart of the staff, though more traditional librarians and clerical workers seemed to also be present, helping people find books or making sure they were sufficiently quiet.

There were even a few elves scattered amongst the purveyors. A blonde she-elf of exceptional beauty and pragmatic, traveler's clothing walked brusquely, passing by a reserved, dark haired male elf in short, sensible robes that poured over a gilded tome. Slightly shorter than men, with toned and lithe bodies, elven ears were, of course, long and pointed. Beren had heard a lot of nasty things about elves by his dwarven friends, but he had known a couple of wood elves in the Black Delta. They had been good friends and dedicated wardens. What he did know other than the obvious, like an inclination to magic, was that every elf felt emotions far more strongly than men, and so they did their best to remain calm and ethereal.

"Glad the dwarves didn't want to follow us." He whispered as the she-elf passed them by. The oddity of the varied crowd faded quickly, and he turned to Jocasta, giving a sly, facetious smile. "These big arms aren't just for fighting you know." He flexed. "I can hold a mean ladder."