Would Mistress Aisen, too, like a snake oiled massage?
SillyGoy Member
Goius Sillius
STATUS: Really busy right now. Will probably not be able to post till next week. 9 yrs ago
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Really busy right now. Will probably not be able to post till next week.
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Would Lady Vehrna be interested in some snake oil? No, not to drink, but to smear across one's body. It is quite good for one's skin, for it can stabilize the outer humours and make radiant one's complexion. However, the application requires a delicate, precise massage at key pressure points on the body, and can thus be delivered only by a trained professional. Like Variel.
It's only three copper pennies for radiant skin and a massage.
"A good trade," says the doctor.
It's only three copper pennies for radiant skin and a massage.
"A good trade," says the doctor.
Mistress, this is my character.
Name: Variel Ventris Septimus
Titles: Doctor
Gender: Male
Age: 36
Descriptive Appearance:
In the thick, voluminous garb of a plague doctor, Variel is rendered anonymous. Obscuring his visage is the appropriate beak-like mask iconic of such professionals. Slung across his shoulders is a thick, fat satchel containing all kinds of medical equipment: forceps, scalpels, knives and razors as well as unguents, salts and poultices for all sorts of life-threatening contingencies. In a smaller one, its strap crossing the other over his chest, there are things such as food and extra clothes: items unrelated to his profession. Gloved, strapped and with the hems of its trousers tucked into his worn leather boots, Variel's uniform is as sealed as it can be.
Outside of this grim clothing, he a man of prime age -- or, at least he tells himself. He has a slightly pallid, copper-tinged complexion and sports close-cut black hair whose longer locks are naturally wavy. His musculature can be described as average; he is neither lean nor chubby. Incidentally, he is also only averagely endowed.
Devoid of facial hair, it is evident that he shaves often. Crow's feet hang from the lids of his brown-irised, widely spaced eyes, and his nose is slightly aquiline. Having a round shape to his face, his smiles are warm and radiate kindness. This, in addition to his relatively small ears and above-average height, gives him an aura of calm charity.
In his gloved hand is gripped a short, thick cane, replete with all the wondrous versatility of a stick.
Personality:
Variel is a kind man, fond of song and food although he abstains from too much drink. He has always been a person of good, patient temper, and this has translated well from adolescence to adulthood when he began to practice medicine. His grins are wide and he smiles only when it is genuine, making it so that every one reaches up to light his eyes and ease the wrinkles that surround them. These wrinkles have come from a life full of sickness, death and far too many triage situations for his liking. Regardless, he presses on, content that he has helped to save so many. Of course, there is always the guilt of inevitably losing a few patients.
He is unmarried, and does not actively seek love. He believes his calling on earth is in the schools-turned-hospitals and bloodied apothecarions, not in a conjugal home where he can sire children. Other people have that role, and his is to help those people.
Basic Biography:
Variel is the third son of two innkeepers who do good business in the outskirts of the Capital of the Kingdom of Mortis. Raised more or less normally through childhood's ups and downs, he enrolled, with the help of an influential family friend, at the College of Arcanatras. After preparatory semesters, he was apprenticed to a doctor and the duo traveled where they were needed across the Kingdom. Eventually, when his master could no longer teach anything to him, Variel went his own way and has since been treating the sick and injured.
Skills:
Master Apothecary: Variel is superbly adept in medicinal alchemy and can brew up anodynes and healing salves even with tools so simple as a cauldron of boiling water and a stirring stick, provided he has the right herbs. Conversely, he can also create the direst of poisons and the most painful of venoms.
Surgeon: Variel is trained in the more invasive practices of the medicinal arts and can disinfect, close, and suture up wounds.
College Alumnus: Variel is a proud graduate of the College of Arcanatras, and as such is knowledgeable on various lores.
Thrifty Clerk: Being the son of two innkeepers has given Variel some insights (and virtues) regarding matters of coin, ensuring that he always has the pennies to to buy that extra bowl of stew.
Well-worn Wanderer: Variel has walked through vast expanses of countryside with nary a town to rest for the night. A survivalist, he is no stranger to personally hunting rabbits when his food stores run out.
Literate: Variel can read and write.
Equipment:
-Plague doctor's attire
-Fat satchel full of medicinal gubbins
-Modest bag of coins
-Extra clothes: a cotton shirt and pants
-Several days' worth of dried meat and fish
-A waterskin
-Doctor's cane
Name: Variel Ventris Septimus
Titles: Doctor
Gender: Male
Age: 36
Descriptive Appearance:
In the thick, voluminous garb of a plague doctor, Variel is rendered anonymous. Obscuring his visage is the appropriate beak-like mask iconic of such professionals. Slung across his shoulders is a thick, fat satchel containing all kinds of medical equipment: forceps, scalpels, knives and razors as well as unguents, salts and poultices for all sorts of life-threatening contingencies. In a smaller one, its strap crossing the other over his chest, there are things such as food and extra clothes: items unrelated to his profession. Gloved, strapped and with the hems of its trousers tucked into his worn leather boots, Variel's uniform is as sealed as it can be.
Outside of this grim clothing, he a man of prime age -- or, at least he tells himself. He has a slightly pallid, copper-tinged complexion and sports close-cut black hair whose longer locks are naturally wavy. His musculature can be described as average; he is neither lean nor chubby. Incidentally, he is also only averagely endowed.
Devoid of facial hair, it is evident that he shaves often. Crow's feet hang from the lids of his brown-irised, widely spaced eyes, and his nose is slightly aquiline. Having a round shape to his face, his smiles are warm and radiate kindness. This, in addition to his relatively small ears and above-average height, gives him an aura of calm charity.
In his gloved hand is gripped a short, thick cane, replete with all the wondrous versatility of a stick.
Personality:
Variel is a kind man, fond of song and food although he abstains from too much drink. He has always been a person of good, patient temper, and this has translated well from adolescence to adulthood when he began to practice medicine. His grins are wide and he smiles only when it is genuine, making it so that every one reaches up to light his eyes and ease the wrinkles that surround them. These wrinkles have come from a life full of sickness, death and far too many triage situations for his liking. Regardless, he presses on, content that he has helped to save so many. Of course, there is always the guilt of inevitably losing a few patients.
He is unmarried, and does not actively seek love. He believes his calling on earth is in the schools-turned-hospitals and bloodied apothecarions, not in a conjugal home where he can sire children. Other people have that role, and his is to help those people.
Basic Biography:
Variel is the third son of two innkeepers who do good business in the outskirts of the Capital of the Kingdom of Mortis. Raised more or less normally through childhood's ups and downs, he enrolled, with the help of an influential family friend, at the College of Arcanatras. After preparatory semesters, he was apprenticed to a doctor and the duo traveled where they were needed across the Kingdom. Eventually, when his master could no longer teach anything to him, Variel went his own way and has since been treating the sick and injured.
Skills:
Master Apothecary: Variel is superbly adept in medicinal alchemy and can brew up anodynes and healing salves even with tools so simple as a cauldron of boiling water and a stirring stick, provided he has the right herbs. Conversely, he can also create the direst of poisons and the most painful of venoms.
Surgeon: Variel is trained in the more invasive practices of the medicinal arts and can disinfect, close, and suture up wounds.
College Alumnus: Variel is a proud graduate of the College of Arcanatras, and as such is knowledgeable on various lores.
Thrifty Clerk: Being the son of two innkeepers has given Variel some insights (and virtues) regarding matters of coin, ensuring that he always has the pennies to to buy that extra bowl of stew.
Well-worn Wanderer: Variel has walked through vast expanses of countryside with nary a town to rest for the night. A survivalist, he is no stranger to personally hunting rabbits when his food stores run out.
Literate: Variel can read and write.
Equipment:
-Plague doctor's attire
-Fat satchel full of medicinal gubbins
-Modest bag of coins
-Extra clothes: a cotton shirt and pants
-Several days' worth of dried meat and fish
-A waterskin
-Doctor's cane
Let's do it.
I don't think I'll be making a post this round. If I did, Vaul would just be echoing what the others are doing, and as an amateur writer I hate redundancy.
"Malgadon," said Sorthraal, as he made way through the dark corridors of the Heaven. "You carry a heavy bolter."
"Yes," the marine behind him grunted, the belt feed of the weapon swaying with every one of his heavy steps. "What of it?"
"It will be close-quarters fighting."
"And as Fourth Claw's devastator, I'll leave that up to you, Udan, Vorax and Bas while I help to achieve fire superiority from afar. What of it?"
"Nothing. Nevermind."
"If you say so," Malgadon let it drop, ignoring the uncertainty in his brother's voice.
One of the Legion slaves bowed as they passed, dimming the light of his lamp pack in respect. "Greetings, my lords," he whispered humbly, although he was callously disregarded.
"Yes," the marine behind him grunted, the belt feed of the weapon swaying with every one of his heavy steps. "What of it?"
"It will be close-quarters fighting."
"And as Fourth Claw's devastator, I'll leave that up to you, Udan, Vorax and Bas while I help to achieve fire superiority from afar. What of it?"
"Nothing. Nevermind."
"If you say so," Malgadon let it drop, ignoring the uncertainty in his brother's voice.
One of the Legion slaves bowed as they passed, dimming the light of his lamp pack in respect. "Greetings, my lords," he whispered humbly, although he was callously disregarded.
Posted.
Turning his bolter around for the umpteenth time in his gauntleted hands, Sorthraal busied himself with frequent weapons checks before the signal came.
"This is madness," he intoned, for also the umpteenth time. "He wants us to kill our brothers."
"Because they do not believe, Sorthraal," replied Malgadon, standing across the aftcastle armorium with a self-satisfied smirk.
"I couldn't care less," Sorthraal said, as he pulled the handle and chambered a bolt round, "about their faith to the ruinous powers. I do care, however, that we will be committing fratricide." The traitor marine stood up from his throne, surrounded by munitions crates at his boots. "Malgadon, we fought with some of those warriors in the Great Heresy. You must understand my reluctance to murder them."
"I don't like it either," Malgadon said, as he stepped forward. The Killer's Heaven, in compliance with Eighth Legion tradition, was pitch-black in a complete lack of illumination, and only dimly lit in the decks reserved for the mortal crew. Yet even through this palpable darkness, neither astartes had any trouble seeing each other, owing to their gene-enhanced nature. "But we have no choice in the matter. I will not allow myself to go mad over these whispers."
Malgadon's helm was painted to imitate a skull. The ruby armourcrys of its lenses were the empty eye sockets while the vox-grille was the rictus snarl. Two long horns from a great beast of some sort curved into the air from its temples just shy of making scratches on the ceiling. Skulls were fastened by bronze chains across his cuirass and left pauldron, while two Mark VII helms -- one white, the other blue -- were impaled on the spikes that jutted out from his back-mounted power pack. Deed-scrolls and other panegyrics draped and hung from his deep blue ceramite, aggrandizing its wearer even further.
In contrast, the slightly older Sorthraal had little in the way of decoration. Or at least, it wasn't immediately noticeable at first glance, especially from afar: myriad runes covered the ceramite of his armor, in the flowing, serpentine tongue of Nostraman. Each sigil a concept unto itself, the script was ubiquitous all over his form. Others wore papyrus to record their deeds, but Sorthraal took the less obvious route and stenciled cuneiform on his equipment.
"He presumes to command us only because of the damnably incessant palaver of the Neverborn. If we did not have this affliction, then I would have killed him myself long ago. His existence is a cancer."
"I know, Sorthraal. You've told me plenty of times. Now, brother, please replace your helm. I think we are about to start soon."
He did so, grabbing his Mark VII helm and donning it. His powered armor hissed and whirred as the collar locks engaged, and teardrop-shaped eye lenses began to glow in activation. His vision, once unadulterated and true, was now tinged with a hint of red. Ammuntion counters blinked into existence while a targeting reticule scrutinized Malgadon's form. A cross mark hung above his head. Friendly, invalid target.
"Fine," Sorthraal said, as he followed his brother towards the doorway, muting the abrasive vox bleat with a blink-click at the channel's icon. "Let us get this crime over with as quickly as it is possible."
"This is madness," he intoned, for also the umpteenth time. "He wants us to kill our brothers."
"Because they do not believe, Sorthraal," replied Malgadon, standing across the aftcastle armorium with a self-satisfied smirk.
"I couldn't care less," Sorthraal said, as he pulled the handle and chambered a bolt round, "about their faith to the ruinous powers. I do care, however, that we will be committing fratricide." The traitor marine stood up from his throne, surrounded by munitions crates at his boots. "Malgadon, we fought with some of those warriors in the Great Heresy. You must understand my reluctance to murder them."
"I don't like it either," Malgadon said, as he stepped forward. The Killer's Heaven, in compliance with Eighth Legion tradition, was pitch-black in a complete lack of illumination, and only dimly lit in the decks reserved for the mortal crew. Yet even through this palpable darkness, neither astartes had any trouble seeing each other, owing to their gene-enhanced nature. "But we have no choice in the matter. I will not allow myself to go mad over these whispers."
Malgadon's helm was painted to imitate a skull. The ruby armourcrys of its lenses were the empty eye sockets while the vox-grille was the rictus snarl. Two long horns from a great beast of some sort curved into the air from its temples just shy of making scratches on the ceiling. Skulls were fastened by bronze chains across his cuirass and left pauldron, while two Mark VII helms -- one white, the other blue -- were impaled on the spikes that jutted out from his back-mounted power pack. Deed-scrolls and other panegyrics draped and hung from his deep blue ceramite, aggrandizing its wearer even further.
In contrast, the slightly older Sorthraal had little in the way of decoration. Or at least, it wasn't immediately noticeable at first glance, especially from afar: myriad runes covered the ceramite of his armor, in the flowing, serpentine tongue of Nostraman. Each sigil a concept unto itself, the script was ubiquitous all over his form. Others wore papyrus to record their deeds, but Sorthraal took the less obvious route and stenciled cuneiform on his equipment.
"He presumes to command us only because of the damnably incessant palaver of the Neverborn. If we did not have this affliction, then I would have killed him myself long ago. His existence is a cancer."
"I know, Sorthraal. You've told me plenty of times. Now, brother, please replace your helm. I think we are about to start soon."
He did so, grabbing his Mark VII helm and donning it. His powered armor hissed and whirred as the collar locks engaged, and teardrop-shaped eye lenses began to glow in activation. His vision, once unadulterated and true, was now tinged with a hint of red. Ammuntion counters blinked into existence while a targeting reticule scrutinized Malgadon's form. A cross mark hung above his head. Friendly, invalid target.
"Fine," Sorthraal said, as he followed his brother towards the doorway, muting the abrasive vox bleat with a blink-click at the channel's icon. "Let us get this crime over with as quickly as it is possible."
Can we start now, Apostle?
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