A Sweet Dream

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Milena Blackstar, Apr 20, 2012.

  1. In a land long forgotten, in a time far past knowing, lived two nameless heroes. Both human but far from the same, one a healer for a god unknown and the other a shadowdancer, bent on mischief and trickery. Two opposites but one equal, with love undying for eachother and their passions. They sung a song that takes two to sing, but it was heard by few. Those few, carried the tune of their happiness far and wide, until it happened. A powerful sorceror heard their song of happiness and love, filled with jealousy and spite. No one had ever sung to him like the two sang to eachother. With his eternal anger for all that was happy, all became sad and grey. The skies turned ashen and called for a sad song to be sung. But the heroes never lost their song, instead they thought they would sing a new one. A one of happiness that will be heard by all, and remembered by few. They wanted hope and peace, with little recognition. That was their exsitence, nameless and happy. Their journey was long and treacherous, not of the physical aspect, but one that threatened their love and the song they are fighting so hard to sing.

    When their song was first sung, it started in a little village called Fanghorn. Few lived here and fewer still thrived. Here is where our heroes lived, man and woman, faithful and tricky. Their goal lie in the Breaksteep Mountains, far off in the lands of Aurall, beyond the Evercreep Forest. Many dangers lay ahead and many more were behind them, waiting and following the song of happiness.

    Bleeding Crow Tavern

    Targas-Barkeep, one more ale over my way, please!
    Barkeep- *grunts*
    Targas (to Lacuna)- So my sweet, where does our song lead us next?

    Attached Files:

  2. Lacuna grinned, pulling her tankard of ale closer in a large arc that caused some of the beverage to spill out onto the counter. It didn't seem to bother her at all though, and she took a generous gulp, her bright eyes dancing around the tavern, drinking in all the sights. She liked this village. She liked this place. Even to the point where she was putting her trickster ways and tomfoolery behind her. Yes, this would be the place she would settle down, live and grow old.

    It amused her to think of how far she had come. An unnamed birthplace in a town best forgotten, an adventurous will and an unrelenting itch to plow onwards. She'd had - and caused - her fair share of trouble. A successful petty thief she was in the cities, a streetside con-artist who did not make the most of her gift at all. A luck that led her forward, an unknown force that guided each and every little movement, so that more often then not, she would always come out tops.

    And come out tops she had! She swivveled around on her stool to fixed her love with a bashful, pride-filled grin. Exactly how she'd found - and even caught the attention - of such a faithful healer she had no clue. He always walked in light, and well, she liked to dance between the shadows. Maybe that was why they suited each other so - like a deer caught in the headlights, she simply could not work her trickery ways on him. Every atom of her being was always on display in his eyes, and though the vulnerability was alien to her, their song held her with such warmth it was something she would willingly relent, time and again.

    Butterflies. How rediculous and out of place for her! And yet, Targas insited the same reaction consistantly. "You tell me! My luck may lead me onwards but it is your faith that we consult. Luck is a fickle lady, she comes and goes as she pleases, and causes wins and loses on a whim. Yet you, my dearest, have always been steadfast in your devotion. If your god has an answer, you will hear it."
  3. Targas beams a buzzed grin, a thin layer of ale foam nestled on his unshaven face. Grizzled and weary his face looked, but passion and commitment blazed like a fire in his eyes. A taller man, of six feet three and rounded out to two hundred poundsm larger built but lithe as well. Tattered vestments of his lost church and a symbol of unknown quality hang from his neck.

    Taking another drink of his ale, he looked to the one he learned to write a most beautiful song with.

    My dear, the gods have no say in the song that we are writting. They only care for the balance of life and its children. While we are their children, the children grow up and make life their own. So tell me, were does the song take us? It can go far and wide, or it can stay here. The choice is yours and Im content with any choice you make, so long as you are happy.
  4. Lacuna took a slender finger - good for picking locks, pockets and nimbly undoing the most tricky of knots - and tenderally wiped the foam away, coming to rest her head gently on his shoulder. The look in his eye had a habbit of knocking the wind out of her. A trait he had that she regarded with tenderness.

    She herself was quite a tall individual, but slight of frame and quick of foot. In many ways she resembled a fox, in nature and in appearance, although her shock of red hair was more fiery then orange. Even the bone-structure of her face referenced her animal counterpart, though she could appear as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth if she so chose.

    Except to Targas. Even now, a gentle smile played on her face. "I have always been a restless soul, my eyes always attune to the horizon, never able to appreciate what was here in front of me. Really, I want nothing more then to appreciate now."
  5. Targas smiled as he ran a hand gently through her enchantress' hair and rested his hand at the back of her neck, massaging at the base of the skull.

    Then, you and I shall have to focus on the here and now. And that now is you, my sweet.

    He puts his forehead to hers and smiles, her hair always smelled pure, even at the worst of times.

  6. A pleasant sigh escaped her lips as she listened quietly to his words. The here and now, such an enigmatic thing, often clouded by looking forward or back to things that were no more or may never be. To simply sit, here in this dark tavern, her lover tantalizingly close and a tankard of cool ale in her hand... what more could she possibly want? His warm breath on her hair, the electric touch of his hand... a bloodcurdling scream from out in the village, the sound of hooves and a loud wet THUNK against the thick hardwood door.

    It seemed so far away. Her head lifted a fraction and her gaze drifted to the door.

    Something was definitely going on outside. Something bad. Fanghorn was just a simple fishing village, what could possibly be going on? a raid? they were miles from anywhere, and besides, the cliffs that surrounded their quiant little home discouraged most from ever bothering with their home. Paticuarly horses - to take animals down the steep paths leading here was a trial in itself.

    A part of her was dissapointed. She was just settling in to a long cosy night with Targas, Lacuna nuzzled her head into his chest as if in defiance. But this was not something that could just be ignored. A burst of cold air from the doorway and a black silohette slumped through the doorway hitting the hardwood floor like a ragdoll, a bloody axe nestled between his shoulder blades.
  7. Targas immediately got up and rushed to the severely injured man and inspected the wounds with but a trained glance. Looking to Lacuna, he shook his head and drew the mace that he always carried with him and said a prayer over the dying man, a final goodbye.

    In the distance, something could be heard, something powerful and sinister.

    V'harthak tia Dk'ulti Marahadier Aku Klafi t'tklar!

    Targas mumbled to himself for a moment, translating it in his head and his face went deadpan.

    In the darkest night, a song will write death and chaos. I am Marahadier. We have a serious problem, one that will test us like no other. I will explain more after we stop the problems that are happening now. Atal m'yhad fthul, neekta fthul, sakee'tya fthul. Come my dear, we must make haste and rid the town of this problem!
  8. There was a pity in her eyes and a quiet understanding. That man was dead. Of course he was dead, he had a great beastly axe buried in his body. How odd. She'd seen the dead before, she'd glimpsed battle before, but she never expected to see any of that here. That was wrong. The rest of the world was far away from this place, why here? why now?

    Lacuna was feeling a little dizzy, although she'd never admit it. There was something about this whole incident that didn't sit well in her stomach. Targas's words filled her head, swimming around her thoughts like a shark examining it's prey. Hey eyes fixed on his expression, as the patrons cried out in alarm, people rushing this way and that.

    They'd be ok. Their song would carry them through. But what force would hold these simple fisherman's folk in protective arms? Targas was right, they must take action. Lacuna did not utter a sound, but a curt nod and a swift movement and suddenly she was beside him, hovering, a lethal rapier in each hand.

    Not exactly conventional. Neither was she.
  9. Targas walked outside, perplexed and cautious. Across the street, sat a man atop a horse. The man had midnight black armor with barbs and spikes protruding from it. His horse had similar barding. The heavy flail he carried had a skull with spikes where the ball would be sat in his right hand, and in his left, a longsword forged in the blackest of fires radiating with dark energies. He sat there, waiting and watching.

    Targas froze in place, unable to move.