Is this a good thing, the changing?
It is quite lively, which makes it interesting - there's no real predictable outcomes given the combination of the players and openness of the setting.
The Harbinger of Ferocity Member
STATUS: Masses are always breeding grounds of psychic epidemics. 6 yrs ago- Last Seen: 4 yrs ago
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Masses are always breeding grounds of psychic epidemics.
6 yrs ago
The highest, most decisive experience is to be alone with one's own self. You must be alone to find out what supports you, when you find that you can not support yourself.
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7 yrs ago
One cannot live from anything except what one is.
7 yrs ago
The slave to virtue finds the way as little as the slave to vices.
7 yrs ago
The core of an individual is the mystery of life, which dies when it is 'grasped'. That is also why symbols want to keep their secrets.
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The Harbinger of Ferocity
Agent of the Wild, Aspect of the Ferine
Nature, red in tooth and claw.
"There is, indeed, no single quality of the cat that man could not emulate to his advantage."
- Carl Van Vechten
I am, at my core, a personification and manifestation of those things whose blood and hearts run red with the ferocity of the animal world. It is this which convicts and controls my works, my writing, my being; the force and guidance in which I gain wisdom from. It is what inspires me as a creator and weaver of words, the very thing I admire as an author.
My leanings, savage as they are, are of the feline sort as there exists no greater lineage of beasts whom can be drawn from. No others captivate and motivate my talent and skill as the greatest of cats do.
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It is quite lively, which makes it interesting - there's no real predictable outcomes given the combination of the players and openness of the setting.
@The Harbinger of Ferocity Ah, it seems our two most powerful combatants are about to join the feud.
It was interesting before and it just keeps on changing dynamics. We cannot let our only dwarven blacksmith get assassinated already this early in the game.
It was not a war cry, at least not one the lowly man seemed familiar with, but it undoubtedly was a call to alarm for some sort.
The orcish bellow, so loud as it was, spurred the tall robed man across the wooden counter with a surprising amount of dexterous spring; for his size and what he found himself clothed in the motion was fluid and he did not prove to slow even for a moment as he disappeared through the frame and into the back of the dwarven woman's smithy.
There was no doubt in the mind of the man, his palm calmly setting the raw, rough silver ore atop the others in an audible clack, that there was trouble afoot; the mysterious wagon had all but vanished no less, although truthfully having been moved not far. All that had felt off was indeed off, just as instinct and insight suggested - these events were likely related, somehow and for some reason. Whatever it was, it drove the man to approach a situation he seemed ill prepared for.
After all, what good was a ragged unarmed commoner in the fray of armed cutthroats and blades?
Stepping through the threshold, he came to witness a brutish orc - covered in some soot from his place of work - crash to the ground and the head of his formerly fine mace clatter across the stonework floor while the man from earlier recovering from an apparent knee charge. Another two, armed thugs as it seemed, brandished blades and idled at the ready. They, along with the orc and the robed, staff bearing man, noted another approaching from the alleyway beside the blacksmith.
Green glare moving from the defenders to the attackers, the commoner brought up his dusted hands and shifted slightly to the edge of the doorway leading to the shopfront, barring a smooth approach. Initially the gesture, of but a meek man with hands raised as if to fight other armed men, would be laughable, but his positioning and grit to his rising focus seemed unnerving; one hand by his side beginning to move in a roiling manner, digits wavering in air, flexing.
Either the commoner was bluffing magical talent or the commoner was not truly a commoner at all...
@Shade@Gentlemanvaultboy
The orcish bellow, so loud as it was, spurred the tall robed man across the wooden counter with a surprising amount of dexterous spring; for his size and what he found himself clothed in the motion was fluid and he did not prove to slow even for a moment as he disappeared through the frame and into the back of the dwarven woman's smithy.
There was no doubt in the mind of the man, his palm calmly setting the raw, rough silver ore atop the others in an audible clack, that there was trouble afoot; the mysterious wagon had all but vanished no less, although truthfully having been moved not far. All that had felt off was indeed off, just as instinct and insight suggested - these events were likely related, somehow and for some reason. Whatever it was, it drove the man to approach a situation he seemed ill prepared for.
After all, what good was a ragged unarmed commoner in the fray of armed cutthroats and blades?
Stepping through the threshold, he came to witness a brutish orc - covered in some soot from his place of work - crash to the ground and the head of his formerly fine mace clatter across the stonework floor while the man from earlier recovering from an apparent knee charge. Another two, armed thugs as it seemed, brandished blades and idled at the ready. They, along with the orc and the robed, staff bearing man, noted another approaching from the alleyway beside the blacksmith.
Green glare moving from the defenders to the attackers, the commoner brought up his dusted hands and shifted slightly to the edge of the doorway leading to the shopfront, barring a smooth approach. Initially the gesture, of but a meek man with hands raised as if to fight other armed men, would be laughable, but his positioning and grit to his rising focus seemed unnerving; one hand by his side beginning to move in a roiling manner, digits wavering in air, flexing.
Either the commoner was bluffing magical talent or the commoner was not truly a commoner at all...
@Shade@Gentlemanvaultboy
This fight is much too mundane for the moment. Let me change that...
@Shade@King Tai@Gentlemanvaultboy
@Shade@King Tai@Gentlemanvaultboy
@ZayZe, I would say the answers to those questions would play out more interestingly in game.
@TaroMaster4, I do hope you realize spending fifty gold pieces to sharpen a knife is more or less the same as paying someone over a thousand dollars to do so. Even a silver piece is a pretty hefty sum for that sort of business.
<Snipped quote by Shade>
Take heed of this character
I am not entirely sure how we would even miss him.
The orcish man, pulling himself through the heavy wooden door of the dwarf's shop, seemed a bit wary of the world about him; not the sort of caution, but the sort of uncertainty. There was a clear purpose to him, yet it seemed as though it was not settled upon as to how to carry out that purpose. His attention seemed to shift when the other man, an elf with an exceptional build, went on about a mithril blade - going so far as to mention an item of legendary prospect.
It was to this the commoner smiled almost knowingly.
A truly magic weapon required a powerful arcanist at the very least, others too could suffice but they were a rarer thing; holy men typically only bestowed the blessing of their gods upon weapons crafted with a religious significance to exceptional members of their faith. Even minor arcanists could bestow an enchantment, but what this elven man made mention of was... simply no merely glinting blade that never wore.
Toying with the hefty silver ore in his palm, the commoner appeared to judge the stone as if he himself were familiar to the art. After all, a dwarf worth his weight in the ore could tell you which of the finest yield sat within this pile just by examining its more subtle features. The humble man, but human, seemed to hold a similar judgment - yet he paused in his assessment of the stone, eyes drawn up from its lightly glinting surface.
A sizable wagon of varied and old red and blue, accented with silver and gold, found itself blocking the dawning sun before the blacksmith's. With a faint tilt of his head, the man watched as it gave with subtle motion - someone departing it. This was not what struck him as strange, as what gave that impression was how the wagon was parked and where. It all appeared off... like an ill omen was beset upon them.
It was to this the commoner smiled almost knowingly.
A truly magic weapon required a powerful arcanist at the very least, others too could suffice but they were a rarer thing; holy men typically only bestowed the blessing of their gods upon weapons crafted with a religious significance to exceptional members of their faith. Even minor arcanists could bestow an enchantment, but what this elven man made mention of was... simply no merely glinting blade that never wore.
Toying with the hefty silver ore in his palm, the commoner appeared to judge the stone as if he himself were familiar to the art. After all, a dwarf worth his weight in the ore could tell you which of the finest yield sat within this pile just by examining its more subtle features. The humble man, but human, seemed to hold a similar judgment - yet he paused in his assessment of the stone, eyes drawn up from its lightly glinting surface.
A sizable wagon of varied and old red and blue, accented with silver and gold, found itself blocking the dawning sun before the blacksmith's. With a faint tilt of his head, the man watched as it gave with subtle motion - someone departing it. This was not what struck him as strange, as what gave that impression was how the wagon was parked and where. It all appeared off... like an ill omen was beset upon them.
I am sort of surprised by this combination of characters - the positive sort of surprise.
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