POOHEAD189

NieR Roleplay Concept

@POOHEAD189 POOHEAD HIMSELF! Thank you for the kind words.

@WardenCelestine

Of course!

NieR Roleplay Concept

Admittedly I do not know much about Nier, but I do like Celestine RPs

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

Torm left the pavillion with a disenchantment to his outlook. Everytime he felt things would get simpler, they became more complicated. He believed saving a princess, being granted the vassalage of a lord, and winning his first arena melee at Yattar would be a dream come true just a week ago. Now? He wondered if he should have simply asked for a monetary reward after saving Theophanna and then riding off to ply his prowess to a fat old lord who would pay much for little work. It was not a thought he took lightly, but even if he regretted it, he had sworn an oath. A knight's word was his bond, and though he was no knight yet, he needed to act as one if he wished to become one. He also knew it would be unjust to ask for a release after two days. He would wait a year, do his due diligence, and then request to the Lord if he could be relieved from his service. Perhaps his "luck" would continue, and after a year, he would be considered a valuable man-at-arms, potentially even a knight. He simply needed to work, without prejudice or emotion.

Usually food took his mind off of things, yet he had eaten but an hour ago. He set off, keeping to the stones on the road to keep the mud and manure off of his boots. He hardly noticed the wooden rails and banners flapping in the wind, or the makeshift living areas the merchants used to ply their lesser wares when they weren't serving themselves. However, he did notice a table under a flagless tarp, where a motley assortment of serfs, stableboys, men-at-arms, and freemen played an intense game of knucklebones.

Despite himself, he lingered in the crowd to watch. Torm had played knucklebones often as a boy, with his friend Leifter, and the older men. It made him feel mature and dangerous, and he had grown to be quite good at the game. He watched as a thin fellow with long blonde hair rolled his bones. He sported a rich but unassuming tunic, likely a merchant, and with a smirk he removed the bones of the harlot on the left. She cursed under her breathe and slid her dice off the column.

"Good move, Louis," a taller man whispered to the winner. Even spoken quietly, the Terriché accent was easy to hear.

A large, burly man-at-arms rolled his own bones, and slid his up the column to add to his score.

"Berta, move your fat arse or roll again." A voice from the crowd said. The woman sniffed and spat on the ground, grabbing what was left of her coinpurse and hustled away. There was a call for a new player, and Torm waited to see someone take the seat. After five heartbeats, there was a general murmur of smug looks, until Torm found his body moving on its own. He saw the closest in the crowd give him a curious look as he pushed through him, before the other five players acknowledged his existence with bemused looks.

"Had a rough mornin' sir?" The man with a smith's apron said, placing an elbow on the table. "Ye're looking like ye've survived the arena."

"My luck's likely run out, then." Torm replied with a blasé attitude, and he kept his grin to a a more composed, smaller smile.

The game was rough, Torm felt the players had the lay of the land well enough, but by the end it was just he and the thin, golden haired man. Before long, he too, had been devoured by Torm's dice. Torm was relieved he had won, and he expected the string of insults in the haughty Terriché accent, but when the fellow demanded Torm return his winnings, the squire refused.

"If you had simply asked, I might have shown mercy, but Il favors the just as well as the brave." Torm replied, finally feeling in control of a situation. This time, he did give a wolfish grin. "Now be off."

In an instant, the thin man drew a dagger. He had the breadth of the table to get to Torm, but he made the leap all the same. Instinct kicked in. Torm could not grab his own dagger, or his other weapons in time, but the long hours of wrestling had given him fine reflexes. He caught the man's wrist with his left while simultaneously grabbing his golden head of hair with a quick jerk, and used it to slam his face into the wooden tabletop. The fellow's nose struck the wood and shattered, blood splattering, while the dagger fell from his nerveless fingers.

Gasps erupted from the crowd. They must be more squeamish than he would have given them credit for. It was not like violence such as this was rare in these situations? The man's companion, taller and broader, watched with a slack jawed bewilderment to what happened. Torm met his eyes, and after a moment he licked his lips.

"This is cousin to the Duke D'Montfort, monsieur."

The statement was so simple, and it took a few moments for Torm to feel the weight, before numbness took him. "Then I would have expected he acted more nobly." Torm replied distantly, and cast his gaze around the table, ice blue eyes daring any to come at him. If he were a wolf, he would have felt his hackles risen and his teeth bared. They did not know his name, only his face, and even then it was no guarantee they would even seek reprisal, at least officially. He let go of the noble's scalp, calmly took his earnings, and backed away as men rushed to help the stunned popinjay. Torm retreated, now going to find some place to lay low for the day, unless commanded otherwise.

Everything gets more complicated.

Bodacious Bounties: Bounty Hunter AU

Had Neil been across the room, he might have enjoyed the display. Well, he did enjoy somewhat regardless. However, after having sat here and bought her the drink, he felt a weird sense of responsibility to make sure this girl was at least somewhat comfortable. No one would accuse of him being one of the Cavaliers of Ganymede, but unlike most of the wretches or holy men of the galaxy, he did have a conscience, as much as he tried to hide it.

He glanced at the bartender and grinned. "You're suddenly lucid."

"She's been here a time or two before." The bartender said, somewhat defensively. "Never at the same time as you, though."

“I haven’t seen you here before,” she said, shaking her head to disperse a spray of droplets and doing further violence to her already disheveled hair before extending a hand.

“I’m Jocasta Ap’Gwyn… Jill of All Trade and Unfortunately Grounded Captain.”

Neil was bemused. Normally he would have been told to either get lost or to buy more drinks, but she extended him a hand. Gingerly, he took it and shook her hand. She was fair skinned, which meant she hadn't been on-world overly long. Two long years, Neil had been stuck on Allur Sahar, and he honestly had little to complain about it. A rarity here, but it was his kind of planet. His skin had turned two shades darker, and due to his brown eyes and black hair, he almost seemed a local save for the subtle shape of his nose and the lack of a full beard.

"Neil Edwards, Jack of all thieves and fortunately free to help." He said easily, and raised his hand to catch the bottle of malt liquor he had been drinking a few minutes ago. The weight and half filled liquid shook his arm gently, but he caught it with an effortless dexterity. Turns out, Neil had been watching the man he had thrown the chair in front of. The tough had decided to thrown Neil's bottle at him, dangerously close to Jocasta's head, and Neil had been talented enough to act like it was a friendly toss.

"For starters, stand up." He told her. It was her turn to look incredulous, but after a few moments of his infectious grin, she did as she was bid. Gods, even her slipping off the stool was a spectacle, he thought. Neil slid off as well, and removed his jacket. He held a hand out to let her know he was not trying anything untoward, and carefully slid his jacket around her waist to cover her up. He tied the arms snugly, just below her belly button.

"Thanks," she said, honestly touched in a small way. "I assume you're not giving me the jacket permanently..."

"Right," He said.

"Which means you want us to get to know each other better."

"You did say you wanted a decent sanitation unit." He pointed out, and took another swig of his bottle. "I happen to have access to one, at least, if you promise to give me your story."

Bodacious Bounties: Bounty Hunter AU

Neil counted himself lucky. Most plans didn't work so well. He had half expected to maneuver the drunken lout in the back and extract the card by gunpoint or knocking him out cold. That would have brought questions, and he was working on a limited timetable. He expected to be out of Neo-Elam and on the way to Neo-Jeddah in a week, and in two weeks he'd be living well and purchasing a ship that just might be able to get him through the blockade. He just needed to stay focused, keep his mind on the job for once, and-

Neil placed his malt down and glanced at the portal, before turning back to his drink.

He performed a doubletake, and the soft beat of the Smuggler's Blues was replaced by a perpetual rhythm that played through his head as he watched this incredibly curvaceous and pretty woman in makeshift apparel stride over to the bar. More than a few men, and even a few woman regarded her as well, albeit likely not all for the same reasons. She had clearly just experienced something rough. To some it might have been off-putting, but it only enhanced her beauty in Neil's eyes. His leg began to shake as he did his best to keep himself from going over there immediately, cursing himself for his circumstances. She was the kind of woman he would remember years later in a haphazard situation and idly wonder about. He placed a hand on his chest to settle his heart down, and for a moment he felt like he could keep himself in check.

“What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?” she demanded. The lazy eyed, dark mustached bartender turned, obviously high on some clandestine drug, or simply disillusioned with life.

Before the barman could even speak, Neil placed his bottle down again and leaped from his chair, vaulting over the table of a couple of locals engaged in business likely no less shady than his own from just an hour ago. He did not hear their curses, and as he crossed the last dozen feet to the bar, he spotted one of the tattooed billiard players approaching the counter, one who seemed to have a similar goal judging by his eyes. Neil placed a foot on the last empty chair of an otherwise crowded table and shoved it, sliding it across the floor to tangle the legs of the tough. His eyes went wide and his limbs flailed in panic, dropping his drink and hitting the floor with a crunch. In the blink of an eye, Neil had appeared beside the woman, opposite of the direction he had scrambled over from, as if it was a clever maneuver to fool her. The time it took for him to get from his chair to the bar was later clocked at 1.27 seconds by the security feed.

As if by pure happenstance, Neil leaned casually with his back to the bar counter, elbows resting against the top as he began to whistle an innocent tune. He sighed theatrically. "What does a guy have to do to buy a girl a drink around here?"

After his lament, his eyes nonchalantly swung in her direction and he looked shocked. "Wha- I-... " he placed a hand to his chest again. "Al-aḥlām taḥawwal ilā ḥaqīqah," he said wistfully. "Dreams do become reality." He raised a finger to indicate the barman. "Get her three of whatever she wants, on me."

The bartender began to open his mouth again, but Neil beat him to it. "This seat taken?" He asked, pointing to the stool beside the woman and planting himself on it, elbow on the counter, hand to his chin as he gave her a suggestive wriggle of his eyebrows. The bartender had learned his lesson, and decided to just hear her order before going to fetch it. Despite his shamelessness, Neil noticed a bruise or two on her shining skin. "By the way, you look like you've just dealt with a bad hand, so tell me to fuck off and I will."

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

Torm suffered the looks of the passing courtiers, stoic as a statue. "He looks like a wolf at bay" one woman whispered too loudly to her friend, and they giggled. He paid them little mind, too anxious to hear news, but he needed patience. His father had once told him a story of St. Kristoff, the saint of conversion. He told him that once St. Kristoff was speaking to the King of the Alarcs, who was being accosted by many shamans and priests of different pagan faiths for the conversion of his people. Each priest promised the king their god would bless his kingdom, and his wife would bear him a son. St. Kristoff, did not have a physical gift, and he was not allowed an audience with the king. He waited 5 days and nights, until all of the priests and men of witchery had done their best to impress the king, leaving him gold and jewels. However, once the king was told that St. Kristoff was still waiting outside of his throne room, he let Kristoff in, curious on what the saint had to say for himself. St. Kristoff then presented the king with a balm that would heal his wife's infertility. When the king asked him why St. Kristoff did not say he had such a gift before that moment, the saint replied, because he had not had the cream until noon that day, when the valta flowers had finally bloomed and he could collect the ingredients. He cautioned the king to be patient, as he had been, and ten days later, the king's wife was cured of her ailment, and she bore him a healthy son not a year from that day.

After the tale, his father had told him a knight's most noble attribute was patience. It was why they were required to stay up for an entire night in prayer to Il. Of course, all of this was told to an impressionable young Torm because his father wished to keep him from complaining on a carriage trip in winter. But he took it to heart, nonetheless. And so he waited in the noonday sun, his features neutral and his form straight but easy. He had not changed out of his armor. He had not had the time, and would not meet his lord without being able to serve in whatever way he could.

He noticed various courtiers and retainers rushing by, some of his lord's house, and others he did not recognize. He desperately wanted to know what was happening with the Lady D’Orbai and brother Albrecht. No, that order should be reversed, he told himself. He knew nothing would come of it, but he was getting far too comfortable with her. She was a foreign princess, and the wife of his liege. It did not serve him or her to be so casual. A knight was also judged by his etiquette, and whilst it was encouraged to serve a fair lady, there was a limit. After an hour, he had the inkling that he desperately needed to piss, but just before he was going to sneak off, Lord D’Orbai and two knights whom Torm recognized but could not think of the names of, strode up. His lord bade him follow him into the pavillion, and Torm did so.

Briefly, his lord conversed with the knights for a short moment, before handing one a rolled up parchment, and dismissed the both of them. They gave Torm hard looks, but departed without a word.

"Well you're just trouble wherever you go," his lord said, indicating he was understating an obvious problem. That confused Torm.

"My lord?"

He looked as if he wished to sit down on the cushioned chair, but made himself keep to his feet. "Your victory has caused quite the stir in the ranks, I'm told. I can't reward you in such a lofty fashion, yet again. Skill is not all I must reward, but loyalty as well. Your opponent has served me for four years as a squire, and seniority matters."

Torm opened his mouth, and then closed it. "Should I have... thrown the fight, my lord?" he asked cautiously, wondering if he even would have if, ordered.

"No," His lord admitted. "It would just be less of a hassle if you had lost. Now the men will want to test themselves against their elders, and some men of aged experience might lose in combat, and then on the battlefield when it really matters, some billman won't deigned to listen to an old coot he beat in the ring and get his squadron killed with a tactical blunder. Not to mention I heard my adoring wife was there. Don't look stricken, I am suggesting nothing. The thought is laughable. My concern is now many other lords will now find their wives being less...discrete with their extracurricular activities with their favored knights."

Torm felt for a moment he lord cared more for appearances than his own wife's virtue, but he would not dare to make such a statement. He wondered how he could even suspect such a thing, but his attention was stolen again when the Lord D’Orbai asked a strange question.

His lord removed his hand from massaging his temples. "That destrier? That horse is yours, is it not?"

"Yes m'lord." Torm said immediately, unsuccessfully hiding his confusion.

"Well, now you have two." Lord D’Orbai said. "Horses, that is, not warhorses. I cannot knight you, as of yet, though soon I might be forced to. But when or if that day comes, no knight has just one horse. I have a palfrey I won off of a bet I made with Signore Marelli. A fine dappled thoroughbred. I find little room in my stables, and this would serve us both. It will be arranged."

"You honor me, my lord." Torm remarked with a bow, but his lord waved him off dismissively.

Bodacious Bounties: Bounty Hunter AU

Down below, under the flyovers and the transit arches. Below the neon lights of the adver-sizes and the skybridges of the upper spires. Below the armored patrols of the Iron Fists, under the watchful eye of the Federation navy blockade miles above the tallest skyreachers. Down into the beating heart of the megalopolis of Neo-Elam. Where the bridges connecting the trunks of the habs and spires were used for soliciting and narcotics rather than mere causeways. Where the hazy glow from the vibrant signs of private clubs dominated the gaping maws of pirate dens and cartels, and the scent of wyrd sticks and shisha mingled with the wet heat of human sweat. Men, women, mutants, and even a few xenos accosted passersby, clamoring like suitors vying for affections in order to sell their wares or lure hapless innocents into a scam, or worse. The undulating thrums of aircar engines intermingled with the rumbling of transitcars flying along rusted railings. A hundred thousand conversations drowned out the lesser sounds of the burgeoning night, haggling traders, the sighs of lovers, and the muffled cries for help from victims of crimes that would disappear before discovery every occurred.

They say that on Allur Sahar, a man's fortunes were limited only by his imagination, no doubt to help sell their 'imagination enhancers,' but any approaching ships would feel there was some truth to the old claim. One look at the swirling domed tops of the cities, the magnificent minarets, the great statues of Al-Rahid, the planet's prophet and founder, could not help but stare in wonder. It was said the world used to be temperate in climate, but the greenhouse gases from the incessant pollution had made turned the planet into the arabian desert of old. Endless dunes of sand and dried riverbeds covered the planet between each megalopolis. Oases of debauchery in gilded paint, surrounded by a land devoid of all but the hardiest of life, including the desperate desert dwelling raiders. A small, golden world of banditry and vice.

Neil felt right at home. Even as the sun drew down, and he walked unfamiliar paths in the night, his jacket staving off the mingling pollutants, he felt a wary comfort. He had arrived three months ago, slipping past the perpetual blockade with a clever landing code to bypass the security patrols, making his small craft invisible. He had delivered on his promise to Ibn-Bashir, but his spacecraft had been flagged and impounded before he could skip and flee off-world. Luckily, he had found his true calling as a delivery man.

"Care to help a man under the watchful stars?" A beggar asked, his eyes tired and face lined from the constant wear of a hard life. Neil knew his life was hard from other concerns than money. The plant could use a better cover, and hiding the scent of a recently eaten supper from his thin facial hair would help. Neil ignored him and stepped under the blinking sign of old terran script المنزل الساقط , translated as 'Fallen Home.' The automated camera lens turned to focus on him, and Neil grinned at it. His lateral incisor glinted, breaking the code that indicated a non-member. It wasn't his own genius, it was a top of the line incision granted by his employer so he could make these runs.

Immediately, Neil was met with a long hall of Raquaad players, a digital card game on softly glowing tables made for the specific purpose of playing it in the den. The multitude of players were of all walks of life, some sporting expensive fiber-lyte suits from the upper spires, others in cartel fatigues, and even more were gangers of all different styles and ink. Opium and alcohol and hashish was heavy in the air, and Neil walked down the wide corridor, casually perusing each game. A mutant with huge, serrated teeth glared at him with yellow eyes, and Neil backed up in fear, catching himself on the shoulder on a tall, lean ganger who cursed at him. Neil gave a 'my bad' face, lifting his hands up after having discreetly slipped him the card of credit. Hal played the part well, but the delivery had been made. Neil hid a grin as he continued on his way, continuing into central bar. The people were packed and mingling as dancing girls swayed their hips on islands of warm, coruscating lights that accentuated their figures and silhouettes. The music beat rhythmically, accompanied by a traditional ney instrument that wound through the instrumental beat like a serpent.

He felt a hand land on his shoulder, the smell of spirits wafting into his face. "I no see you in here before!" A piercing laden drunkard said over the din, as if it was the most fascinating thing under the sun. The men he had been speaking to hardly looked away from their own drinks, and Neil shrugged with his carefree smile. "I no be here before!"

The man paused, and before long he began to laugh. Neil joined him, and after a few long seconds of laughter, Neil pat him on the shoulder and went on his way. The music shifted, the lights grew more red, and Neil navigated through the tides of people until the press became less obstructive. He found a lounge of quasi-velvet couches and low tables where the more casual roosted and were entertained by the ladies of the establishment. Under a chromatic light fixture, he noticed multiple men speaking softly to one another in a clandestine business deal and made a show of deciding to steer clear, before settling down next to a salaryman and a few voluptuous women in silks.

"Mind if I cut in?" Neil asked, poking his head between the shoulders of two of the girls. Three heads turned to regard him with dagger-like glares, and he kept his eyes away from the third woman in the back, who slipped something into the fellow's Vyqol spirit.

"Another lowbody," the balding salaryman muttered. Two of the heavily rouged women rolled their eyes in agreement, and stuck their tongues out at Neil. "Space yourself, pal. We're busy." Neil complied with another shrug, and slid away, idly listening to two freightermen grounded by the blockade for a good ten minutes before he felt slim fingers sliding into his pocket, replacing a card of credits with the salaryman's access card. Once again, he hid his grin, though a careful watcher could spot the twinkle in his eyes. The rogue meandered around the club for another hour, flirting with a few of the girls until they inevitably realized he had no money and spurned him.

By midnight, he had slipped out of the Fallen World and found a (relatively) smaller club called Smuggler's Blues in galactic standard, with warmer lighting, less oppressive music, and people played old fashioned billiards alongside a few tables of raquaad. He did buy a drink then, and finally slid the access card into his portable data-slate, scanning for the code. The card would be decommissioned by morning, but all he needed was to extract the code and tweak it a bit for him to make a custom version for himself.

~ BLACK FLAGS OF THE ABECEAN ~

Rul-Aman whirled his blades in a pirouette, a trick he learned that took very little skill but it was impressive to watch nonetheless. It had some small practical use for disorienting an easily balked foe, but mostly it was for show. Rul liked to do it every now and then after a kill, almost like a small ritual, but he also hoped it was at least somewhat intimidating to his next opponent. Unfortunately, seemed it was only for the ritual this time, because the Khajit he was about to fight snarled in anticipation. Fortunately, the Khajit he was about to fight then found an untimely end by the hands of an elderly dunmer.

Rul-Aman winced, shaking his head as the khajit fell dead to the deck.

Behind the corpse of the pirate was an armored figure, Rul-Amal not knowing it was one of the dunmer aboard his own ship at first, of course. He had ghastly armor on that looked made of a carapace, or perhaps wrought of obsidian. Rul-Aman was almost ready to leap at him with his blades next, but once the dark elf removed his helm, the Redguard gave a sigh of relief. "I thought you some daedra," he admitted. Then his newfound ally asked him to pass him his sack.

"Oh, wha-" Rul-Aman remarked, glancing behind him to see a sizeable traveler's pack just behind his boots. How did that get there? First pirates, then damned backpacks sneak up behind him. Hopefully a beautiful woman would be next, and then maybe some mead! He shrugged and looped one of his swords under the strap and sent it sailing softly into the dunmer's outstretched hands. "Of course, the least I can do."

It was only then that he deigned to look at his surroundings after the furious combat. Fighting for one's life tended to alter one's perspective in a limiting fashion. The dark elf seemed to be right for the most part. At least, their own ship seemed the worse for wear, but he had been in worse situations before. He turned back to his elderly ally and sheathed his swords. "Swim?" In the sea? At night? He'd rather take the enemy vessel. "I can swim as good as the next man, but I don't think that will be neede-"

Rul-Aman, along with the entire world to his view, was flung into the air along with a gulf of flame. The noise was indescribable. A roar so loud he felt as if he was next to Akatosh himself, screaming into the void of Mundus. He felt at that moment, that it was his last moment. Yet the moment stretched and stretched, and the pain and ringing of his ears did not stop. There was a weightlessness to himself, the one part of the experience that was not completely unpleasant, before it was dashed and he felt like his body was made of lead. Then he impacted the sea, horribly cold and wet. He began to suck in a lungful of seawater, only to realize his error as he desperately clawed for the surface. Seconds later, he broke the surface and hacked out as much water as he could, doing his best to breathe. Long seconds passed, and when he finally found himself being able to, he wiped his matted black hair out of his eyes and looked around. The Arslan's Fortune was shattered wreck, quickly capsizing before his very eyes. Gods, this was bad. Ironically, he felt immensely grateful for a moment, before he realized dying immediately might have been kinder. He naturally began to look for a piece of kindling, spinning in the water in his search before he found that Brinlaith was floating behind him.

...Well, the woman part came true. Now he just needed the mead.

Malleus Maleficarum: Tales of the Grim and Macabre

"Whatever comes..." He breathed, echoing her words. Not out of mockery, rather he spoke it to himself as if in litany. He did not looked at her witchery; not at first, anyway. A portion of himself felt the incantation she was performing was exactly what he had dedicated his life to expunging from the world, but he pushed the thought away. That was not true. Emmeralda was odd, conniving, and even a criminal likely, but she was not evil. It was nothing he himself had never done before. Her magic, if it could be called that, was not the enemy.

As she began to weave her hands and chant, he set his traveler's pack onto the hard clump of sand on the dilapidated floor where the earth met the beach, and produced a clump of berries, picked from a flying rowan. He unsheathed his sword with his right hand, crushed the berries in his left, and smeared them along the blade. As he did so, the iron bit his hand, drawing a small stream of blood. He placed the coated blade on his lap, took his right hand, and smeared his fingers across the bloodberry concoction, before he drew an elaborate, twisting knot upon his forehead.

There was a low, feral rumble that emanated from the shadows. It was hard to hear over the soft movement of the surf and Emmeralda's spellweaving. The wind whistled, carrying over the waves like a living thing. No, there it was again. A low rumble. It was unmistakable.

Will had heard the growls of feral dogs. Will had heard the guttural screams of wolves. He had even heard the desert hounds of Khandal and their strange laugh. However, he had never heard something so malevolent. He grabbed the torch he had brought, plucking it out of the sand and holding it high. The flame flickered in the wakening wind, his slick sword dripping fresh blood, staining the white sand. The growling grew louder, and as he watched, one of the shadows amongst the shrubs came alive. It drifted closer, a ghastly thing that seemed incorporeal until it stepped onto the sand, giving it shape and form. Red eyes stared at him, and a fanged maw, too stout for a wolf, opened to reveal jagged teeth. Will was no coward, but he felt his pulse racing at the sight of the huge, deadly thing. It was the size of a small pony, if he had to guess, and it did not seem a stupid beast.

Its details were hard to make out in the oppressive gloom, but other than the rough form of a canine, it was unlike anything he had ever seen in the world. One moment, he thought its back was covered in spines, and the next he felt its paws were human-like hands. Just as he imaged its tail was spiked, it was a shadowy blur, a snarl erupting simultaneously with its movements. Will held his sword out, point first, keeping his torch before him like a beacon against the darkness. He saw the creature loping impossibly fast, and as it hit the sandbank and spun to charge him, he whirled, but kicked out with his foot. Sand flew into the beast's face, but the dirty trick didn't deter the thing, only the torch seemed to cause it to flinch. He sidestepped its flying body, slashing with his blade. It bit the thing's flank, and he was rewarded with a yelp.

He felt a renewed sense of relief, perhaps even a bit of hope. It could be hurt, which meant it could be killed. A bullet would likely do nothing, but the sword could wound it. He followed the path of its launching body, but as he turned, he found it was gone. Suddenly he was hit from behind, heavy claws digging into his back. He flung the torch behind his head, causing the thing to scream so loud, he felt it was near the keening wail of a banshee. He knew if he had not thought quickly, it would have bitten his head off. He flipped his sword and stabbed, the point burying itself in something solid behind his back. He twisted the blade, a terrible sucking noise and the stench of something foul followed.

Will stumbled forward, but spun to face the thing, and got a his left leg bludgeoned by an immense blow from a paw for the trouble. Blood bubbled from the wound, but it looked to be the last effort of a dying beast. It roared, albeit weakly, red eyes alight and mangy, blue-grey fur visible in the light of the fallen torch. Will grimaced at his wounds, but held his feet steady just long enough to drive his sword blade into the dark face of the shadow-hound. It squealed loudly, but even as it began to slump, its body melded into the shadows once more, sliding further into the darkness before it disappeared for good.

"Shite..." he breathed hoarsely, and fell on his ass promptly.

Black Serpents: Warhammer RP

The Hollerman estate was an extravagant, albeit modest demense overlooking the Reik in the old quarter, penned in by a black iron fence resplendent with gilded finials. It was mostly for show, but it kept the vagabonds out, and any determined burglars would be repelled by the large guard dogs and household guard, both lazily patrolling the well manicured gardens and lawns of cut grass. Kayden himself was in the same carriage as Calliope, while his carefully picked troops kept in dual line formation outside the carriage, save for 3 of the women in his troop. Franscesca, as ordered, with her estalian dark hair in a fashionably wound bun, along with Ultinka, a slim and red headed kislevite border woman, her short hair styled and her icey eyes chilled like cold steel, accompanied by pear-shaped imperial mercenary named Gabrielle, her blonde hair in a luxurious ponytail. Each of them were dressed in the same rich amber taffeta, over a very full skirt with pleats at the waist, a scoop neck with piping, sported by a champagne brocade center panel with matching wide sleeves.

Kayden looked at them, and wondered if Neil would not have been a better fit for being in this situation, but then he quickly dismissed that notion. He trusted himself more, and Neil could have his fun out in town. He did not know what the problem was, really. This was his bread and butter, when not on the battlefield. Speaking down to lords, eating their food, sleeping with their wives, and then enjoying some cathayan tea, freshly imported of course. He supposed that whenever he did so, he did it at his own behest and schemes and not for someone else. However, she did pay on time and continued to do so, though Calliope had not yet specified if he was supposed to sleep with the woman or simply distract her for some unspoken of purpose.

For Kayden's part, he was very fashionable but he was not used to being showy. His crimson sleevless jerkin accentuated his shoulders and trim figure, and atop his head was a inky blue pleated cap with ostrich feathers from the distant southlands to give it some added value. By Calliope's behest, his tunic of linen was bronze and exceptionally poofy, though despite the gaudiness, he knew he looked rather handsome. Two things in the world Kayden was confident about. Strategy on the field of battle, and his frustratingly good looks.

Speaking of frustratingly good looking, emphasis on the former, he sat beside the dark lady, resplendent in a gown of black velvet, with an ebon corset that hugged her curves. It was an older style of dress, but still fashionable in certain circles. Her garment was embroidered with amethyst silk, and she was veiled, but her eyes were always seeking. Lady Blackwood seemed to sink into the shadows of the cushions as the carriage jostled around them, and Kayden glanced outside just in time to see they passed the fence into Hollerman estate proper.

The architecture was Dieterean; dramatic, full of grand stairways and intersecting domes and quadrata. Gargoyles with the heads of panthers clung to the flying buttresses of the west wing as they passed, leering at them with fanged maws. The sickly light of morrsleib drenched the cupolas and colonnades, the stone built to give a flair to the traditional light of mannsleib but could only weather the storm of the accursed moon that waxed this night. From the window, he could already see the warm light of the festivities just getting ready within the large windows. As they drew closer, his mind began to work.

"Gabby?" He said suddenly, turning to the blonde. She jumped, placing a hand on her chest.

"Hmmm?"

"No stealing. You thieve, you don't get paid." He told her, and she cursed. Kayden knew she had been plotting as soon as he had turned to her. His eyes went left. "Ultinka? Three drinks. No more."

"Vfine," she dismissed, though he could tell she was disappointed.

"Franscesca?"

"Si? Er, yes" She asked.

"Be yourself and have fun." He said, but added: "Oh, but speak reikspiel."

Now that they were taken care of, Kayden could relax a bit and focus where he needed to: On himself and the Lady Blackwood, as the other girls began to gripe amongst themselves. "In this theater, am I to reciprocate her...advances? And are we to be introduced together, or separately?"