Fallen Feathers

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Lonewolf888978, Mar 4, 2014.

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  1. The calm before the storm was peaceful. The small village of Oak Wood had much more visitors than normally, the tavern full of people, the blacksmith getting lots of sales, and the church getting alot of praying visitors. The sound of birds all in the tree's around the town chirped happily, but soon they all stopped. The wind stopped all together, and the sun was falling quicker. A large storm cloud hung over the forest, nearing the forest.

    (Location: Sarok, Oak Haven. Almost night time around 7 PM and the season is like spring.)

    Brother Kwah blessed the small child before him, and smiled at the family that thanked him and quickly hurried off. Picking up his hammer and shield propped on the wall, he finally noticed the uneasy silence. Stepping away from the church stairs, he made his way towards the East gate, where one of his close friends owned the horse stable. As he made his way towards the East gate, less and less people were on the road. As he neared the gate to turn the corner, he smelled fire. He laid a hand on his hammer and looked around, feeling cold eyes on him.

    Celthric sat in the tavern, laughing with an Orc and Dwarf. He had yet to remember their names, but he finished his cup of mead and stood up, said his good byes, and left the tavern. Turning out of the village, he pushed past an orcish woman making her way inside. Standing outside he smelt the fresh air outside the tavern, smelling a hint of smoke but thought nothing of it.
     
  2. Cirdan took a deep breath and stretched wearily, long arms reaching over the top of his head. He rolled his shoulders fluidly, briefly taking some of the strain from the heavy pack he wore off of his hips. His tall boots were covered in dust, and his wide brimmed hat was washed out from the sun.

    Cirdan had decided to resume his travels less than a month ago. He hadn't known what had drawn him away from his meditations in the Orc Jungles, but nor had he ever been one to object to the following of a whim. One never knew where whims might lead you, and for a man who sought adventure there was nothing better than a whim.

    This particular whim had led him far north, into the kingdom of Sarok, to a small village that would normally not have even caused him to pause. However, he felt his feet slow naturally, and turned his attention to scrutinize the small town. He stared in its general direction, eyes half-lidded, arms hanging limply by his side, before nodding, turning sharply, and heading into town. Compared to some of the cities in Sarok, it was nothing to boast about. The noise was contained to a reasonable level, which meant that there couldn't be too many people, and the dark walls were not so tall that they could not be scaled, free hand, with relative ease.

    Not that there was a need for such shenanigans. The gates were flung wide open, warmly inviting anyone who might wish to stop, rest, perhaps have a few, or a few too many, drinks at the local tavern. Cirdan nodded to the guard posted by one of the gates, tipping his hat back obligingly to allow the man to see his face. He heard the guard let out a surprised gasp, and the sound of his feet shuffling on the tight-packed dirt near the edge of the gate. Cirdan stopped affably, allowing the man to approach. It was not uncommon that he would be stopped by any guard worth his pay; people with a face as scarred as his were normally the ones who caused trouble.

    He was courteous to the guard, setting down his pack willingly to allow it to be searched. The guard pawed through the blanket, ropes, fabric, and other items stuffed inside, before turning his attention back to Cirdan. Cirdan, however, was staring rather vacantly at the other side of his pack. He heard the guard stand up, and promptly switched his attention to the proper location. He could feel the weight of the guards eyes across his face, before the man finally seemed to connect the scars, the strange, milky blue caliber to his eyes, and his apparently blank stare. The guard muttered a hasty something that could have almost been an apology, before finishing looking through the pack and offering it back. Cirdan took it with another smile, feeling absolutely no guilt for playing the guard a little bit. It was true that he was mostly blind, but nor did that mean he was as harmless as he was acting. He picked up his pack, swung it over his shoulders, and set off through the gates.

    He might spend a couple of days here, recover from the journey north. He was in no hurry, and the town seemed plesant enough. Besides, his desire to travel north seemed to have completely vacated him, and now that it was gone he could feel the aching in the soles of his feet and his back, begging for a night in a bed rather than on the ground, and a day where the only walking he might have to do was to the table for breakfast. He stretched his arms over his head and took another deep breath, before quickly wrinkling his nose. A bath wouldn't hurt either.

    He was waylaid on his way to an inn by the smell of freshly baked bread. He paused, biting the corner of his lip, before shrugging and changing course. The baker would not object to a customer, no matter how smelly.

    A few minutes later he was walking down the road again, a golden-brown and delightfully fluffy loaf of bread clasped lightly in one hand. He ripped off a mouthful, closing his eyes happily and navigating through the crowded street by sound and sense alone.

    The inn he finally stopped at was more than reasonable. A few coins later and he was settled into a room, a steaming tub of water next to the window. He grinned. eagerly dropping his pack and stripping, before sliding into the hot water. Sighing with pleasure, he sunk down until only his nose was poking out.

    One delightful hour later, and Cirdan was the cleanest he had been in months, and had left the water delightfully scuzzy. He turned to his pack, rooting through it until he felt a relatively clean set of clothes. He donned them hastily, tied a black sash about his waist, and firmly placed his hat over his head, leaving his pointed ears sticking aslant from the side of his head. He then swung his pack over one shoulder, departed his room, and descended the stairs. He sidestepped a serving girl who walked out backwards from the tavern portion of the inn and quickly made his way over to the door, which he departed through with no small measure of relief. After an extended stretch of solitude it was far too easy to forget how noisy most people got.

    With a crooked grin he set off into the city, determined to find and enjoy some of the finer attributes of civilization.
     
  3. Irah Shatterbone walked along the faded dirt path, the leaves brushing against her skin and the small animals scurrying out of her way. She had just come from a battle in a nearby village, some idiot had dared to challenge her, spouting nonsense about how orcs were nothing but mindless brutes who knew only violence and not strategy. She had soon beaten that opinion out of him.

    As she recounted the event in her mind, she grinned to herself and let out a loud belly laugh, startling a rabbit who had crept a bit too close to her.

    She knew not where she was headed at the moment, as she was really only trying to find a good inn where she could get some mead and maybe a bit of mutton before resting and then moving on. Any town or village would do really, just as long as no one bothered her.

    When she emerged from the forest, she found herself in front of the gates of a small village. Irah didn't recognize it, but she was sure that they had some form of resting place. She approached the guards, gazing steadily at them as they rifled through her only bag, which held a bit of cloth and a chunck of whetstone that she used to sharpen her spear and sickle blades.

    Ah, her blades. They tended to give people a fright. Especially none orcs and non fighters. When they saw those jagged blades and most likely imagined how such a thing would tear into flesh, they would shudder, drop their eyes and begin to distance themselves from Irah. She didn't mind of course, she found non orcs to be nothing short of irritating, and did her best to seem standoffish and unapproachable, so they didn't even try to get to know her.

    The guards grunted a "free to enter," and she strolled into the village, heading straight to the tavern, and ordering a jug of mead and a plate of mutton and began tearing into it. She hadn't eaten for days after all, save for a bit of water and some bread here and there.
     
  4. Zeke Falstin walked down the old cobblestone path. His plated boots clanking against the stone. His sword rested in its scabbard, clanking away against his hip. He was ordered to the small village, though he didn't know why. He dare not question his orders and set out immediately. The gates were in the distance as he continued his walk towards them, his old beat up bag was slung over his shoulder, his shield rested on his left arm loosely.

    He allowed the guard to search his bag, finding only a cloak, whetstone, pouch, and some cloth. The guard nodded as he allowed Zeke passage. He casually strolled into the town, heading towards the tavern for something to eat. He didn't remove his helmet though and a faded sigil rested on his shield of the Falstin family. He was a Paladin before a Noble and didn't indulge in bad tastes as other nobles.

    He ordered mutton and mead, though he didn't plan on drinking much of it. Just to help the mutton go down when he needed it. He removed his helmet, his face was unscarred. Atop his head was short blond hair and his eyes were as blue as the sky. Beginning to eat his food, he took note of everyone that was within the tavern. His jobs always consisted of hunting evil, and he hasn't seen any evil this entire journey. He was already beginning to think it was another bust like several other journeys.
     
  5. Draak sighed as he finished off his mug of mead. He was sitting at the bar on a stool in the tavern. Hey, why wouldn't he be there? A mercenary always found his best work in a dang tavern, but today was being quite unfruitiful. He sighed as he stood and dropped his money on the tabletop. He sighed again as he walked out of the tavern, pushing past all of the lo9ud and obnoious people in the tavern.

    He closed his eyes and sighed in content as a soft, warm breeze blew over his face as he eited the tavern. He was perfectly fine until he smelt a small tinge of smoke on the wind. "What the?" He sasked as he stood upright and began walking against the wind. "Hey, maybe I'll find some work." He said with a shrug as he began walking down the cobblestone paths, boots clicking against the stone on the ground.
     
  6. Cirdan wandered through the town quite at random, remarkably pleased with himself. He whistled slightly under his breath, almost certain he was the only one who could hear the sweet notes over the babble of the surrounding traffic. He turned down one street out of curiosity, only immediately to turn off of it again at the first alley to his left.

    It was quieter in the alley than almost anywhere he had been in the city so far. The tight walls seemed to block sound, and any echoes were carried up and out. He paused, leaning against a wall and letting out a soft breath. He was somewhat disappointed with himself right now. He had fought for his right to freedom among the orcs, survived countless bandit attacks convinced they could take on a lone wanderer, had meditated for two weeks on top of the tallest mountain in the Northern Badlands. And here he was, afraid of a large number of people.

    He might have been justified. While it was possible for him to track a single enemy in combat, the overwhelming tides of people crushed his usual sensing abilities, leaving him feeling as though he was floundering. Briefly he regretted not pursuing a method to heal his eyes, before shoving the thought out of his head. He tipped his hat down so that it covered his face, before standing upright and walking out of the alley. This was simply one more challenge he would have to overcome. With a deep breath, he brought all of his seventy years of training to bear, and stepped out among the tide, completely blind in sight, aware of the energies of everyone around him through pure willpower and skill.

    He wandered like this until he began to feel comfortable, and then sped up his pace, dodging left and right through the people rushing at him. Then, suddenly, he stopped quite by random, right in the middle of the road. The dwarf, hauling a rather large hand-drawn wagon, who had been following along behind him had to veer suddenly to the side.

    "Watch where you are going, idjit!" He bellowed with all of his considerable lung power. Cirdan would have laughed, as the comment could not have been more inappropriate, but the dwarf was already long gone. He laughed anyways, uncaring of the strange looks it would certainly draw. He then turned to the reason for his sudden halt, a small, neat tavern that had drawn his attention. He wandered in, rucksack swinging from one shoulder, before taking the first vacant chair he found.

    He knew that there was someone at the table with him, but with his hat pulled down all he knew for sure was that it was a warrior. He, however, appeared to external eyes completely oblivious to the fact that he was not alone in the room.
     
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  7. Dar sat in the center of the tavern, a crowd of people listening to his story about his encounter with one of the Triplets of the Night's servants. Most of it was made up, and in truth he just threw an empty bottle of ale at a wolf days before, but that wasn't much of a story. Dar was a regular, he recently started living in the upstairs room for a few weeks now, helping as an enforcer and doing various other task for the tavern keeper, an orc named S'Kara.

    "So there I was, a few months back guardn' a caravan for the King of Sarok himself! We were just leaving the Northen' Lands and suspected somethin' was following our trail, and the caravan stopped for tha' night. We waited for what seemed like hours, and finally tha' enemies attacked! A dire wolf and it's pack came at the dead of night, and we battled it till tha' stillness of morn'! I was the one who ended the creature, a lucky shot through it's fat throat! The thing bleed like a pig, and we left it there for the Triplets to know!"

    Some where from the back of the crowd, a man shouted "That story was as fake as yer aim Dar!" There were two things that Dar was proud of, his story skills and his shooting skills. Grunting angerly, he grabbed his crossbow and climbed onto the table and yelled back into the crowd, "I'll show yer how true me aim is you
    filthy coward!" There was no reply back, and finally S'Kara called out over the loud drunken men in the tavern "Off da' table Dar." Frowning, Dar obliged and sat back down replying "My bad S'Kara, how about I make it up to you and all these fine people! A round of drinks on me!"
     
  8. "Where are we... erm... h-headed sir?" Eovaine asked timidly, his bright green eyes filled with obedient fear to his master, a rich and powerful human noble who came to visit the small village of Oak Wood for inconspicuous reasons. He followed the salt-and-pepper haired noble, his feet shuffling behind the man, and his eyes cast down in shame. On his back he carried a small bag filled with jewels, though why he had to carry it he had no idea, perhaps his master was testing him? Though Eovaine saw no reason for that, he had been serving under his good master for the past several months, and none were more obedient than him.

    The nobleman turned sharply and laid a backhand slap on Eovaine's cheek, causing the elf to stumble to the floor. "Did I give you permission to talk, you ungrateful elf?"

    "N-no, sir. Apologies, sir," he said, pushing back tears and trying to stand up. Perhaps he wasn't so obedient after all, he said to himself. As he stood he noticed a number of the jewels had freed themselves from the confinement of the bag and he dropped to his knees and started picking them up with refined dexterity lest some commoner see his masters jewels and tries to rob the poor elf. That wouldn't be good, he'd end up being killed. Eovaine stood up, pushing the morbid thought of his untimely demise aside and followed behind his master with quick feet.

    After a while they found themselves in a tavern and he paused for half a second at it's entrance, his eyes taking in all the details within the building with practiced speed and skill before following his master once again. As they walked, he purposely bumped into a she-orc's table which had a tankard of mead and a bowl mutton, causing both to threaten to fall off due to his clumsiness.

    "M-my s-sincerest apologies, ugly-she-devil," he stammered, opting to use his master's term for the barbaric race the female before him belonged to. It had been such a boring day and a little spice wouldn't hurt, if she went and took the bait. And hoped she would, the past couple of months he had been serving this oaf of a master had been the most boring in his life, he honestly couldn't wait until he stuck a dagger in between the arrogant human's ribs. He shuffled past the orc and took a seat in front of the private booth where his master started talking to a woman. Check mate, Eovaine smiled to himself, the timid look he wore melting off of his face and replaced with his usual, charismatic and ever-so-slightly arrogant smirk.
     
  9. Irah was almost down to the bone of her mutton when some body made itself at home at her table. Not that it was her table really but why in the hell did the lump have to sit by her? Irah growled, setting her mutton down with a wet 'smack!' and sniffed in the direction of the intruder. Elf...That was the main smell, the others were surprising. He didn't have what Irah identified as they dainty smell that elves tended to have.

    Either way...His very presence at her table was becoming a nuisance. But before she could snap at him, another body bumped into her table, sending it teetering as well as her meal. She stuck out a hand to steady the table, and her food, but before she did a good amount of mead sloshed out of the jug. And what had that little beast called her?

    An ugly she-devil? She didn't take offense at the first other word. She may have appeared unsightly to the slave elf, but that did not matter. To her own people she was considered a strong a warrior, and many an orc had described her tusks as magnificent.
    It was the devil part that enraged her.

    "Devil? You dare call me a devil?" Irah roared, getting up quickly, the table flying forward with the force of her sudden movement. She didn't look back to see if she had injured the other elf who had sat at her table, as she thundered towards the slave elf. When she reached him, she leaned forward, her nostrils flaring and her tusks gleaming. "Do we know each other, elf?"
     
  10. Cirdan pushed back onto the hind legs of his chair only moments before the table went flying out from underneath him. He wobbled precariously for a moment, one wrong move from tipping over, before tucking his legs and sending the chair clattering back to four legs. Had he known the table was going to be uprooted from around him, he would have chosen a different table.

    He had deposited the pack on the ground next to the table before sitting down, and now it was trapped under one leg of the overturned table. He grabbed the leg, pulled up and slipped the pack out from where it was pinned with one clean swipe of his leg. Satisfied that it was now once more within easy reach, he considered sitting back down. At the same time, he was strongly considering intervening in the quickly deteriorating situation between a certain orc and an elf.

    Cirdan was no stranger to conflict. In fact, he was quite familiar with it. That did not mean that he held a belief in creating conflict unnecessarily. He scratched the bridge of his nose briefly, before standing up straight and walking towards the bristling orc. He pushed back the brim of his hat lazily, exposing the orcish tattoo inked into the skin on his left temple, ink that had once marked him as a slave, but now displayed his right to walk free.

    There was something he didn't trust about the apparently cowering elf. Something in the lines of his body that reminded him of his assassins training, from all those years ago. Every muscle in his body radiated a coiled spring energy, ready to burst free at a moments notice.

    "You know," he said conversationally to the back of the orc's head. "I'm not sure it is worth the coins the owner will probably demand for damages if you send him flying through the wall. Then again, he didn't insult me."
     
  11. Eovaine prepared to take a piece of parchment from his back and write down the conversation behind him when he heard something crash and instinctively looked up, his face a mix between confusion and mild shock. He saw it then and replaced his charismatic smile with that of a cowering slave elf with expert speed and tried moving as far back away as possible. Despite himself, the she-orc did instill a sense of fear in him, she was definitely someone he would never want to cross face to face; and truth be told, she could probably break him in two.

    But he had what the orc lacked. A magnificent mind. He could never deny there existed several orcs with minds that could outmatch his own, however, but those were the scholars and shamans, those who looked a lot less like the monster standing in front of him, and he could use that to his advantage by guiding the she-orc to molest his master instead of him. A poor slave elf, with no power and no will, it was risky and had the chance of back firing, but he doubted she would attack a slave, unless she was truly nasty - which could be a strong possibility for brutes like her, but if she did, he always had the unnaturally bulky elf to the orc's side to help him out, or if not that, he could use him as a distraction to escape.

    "M-my sincerest a-apologies, lady orc." Eovaine stammered. While he spoke, his right hand moved to the hidden blade in his back with expert subtlety, while his left tried to grab the attention of the orc by pointing to his master. "My master commands me to insult any orc I see or I get a beating and an insult in turn. Y-you truly wouldn't kill a slave for following the orders a cruel master would you?" Eovaine shifted back against the wall, loosening the blade just a tad in case this orc didn't go for the second bait and proved far more trouble than he could handle.

    If she was, however, the thrill would be astounding, he had to admit. A bit of short-lived action was always a treat, except in this case where he would probably be made by his master. No matter, he shrugged to himself. He already had incriminating evidence that the man was having an affair, and thus had this particular noble in his pocket, which meant the Council had him in their pockets. In any case, whichever way it turned out would be pleasurable.
     
  12. Irah narrowed her eyes at the slave elf, then turned her head to listen to the elf from back at her table and then back to the slave elf and where he was pointing. Truthfully she wanted to bash the slave's masters' head in, but the elf behind her was correct. She didn't have enough coins to replace a wall if his mangled body damaged it or if his bodily fluids stained it...She also wanted to finish her meal.

    Taking a deep breath she stepped back, and regarded the slave elf closely. "In my tribe we treat slaves who obey orders very well. I will not harm you for simply carrying out your orders. Your master is nothing but an ignorant whelp, but I cannot change that. However I will not accept such disrespect to me and my people. I will return to my meal finish it, then go outside. Tell your master that the ugly she devil will be waiting to teach him respect." She grunted and turned on her heel, but then stopped in her tracks.

    She hadn't been able to see the features of the elf at her table very well. But now that his hat wasn't covering his face, she saw the tattoo. She recognized it immediately. Many an elf, human and dwarf that had been enslaved by her people bore the mark. It was a sign that they had fought for a higher status and that their time of servitude was over and they were to be considered orcs. That must have been why he had smelled so peculiar.

    A feeling of happiness or kinship, perhaps, ignited inside her and she clasped a large hand on his shoulder. "Kin-man," She said, giving him a toothy smile, tusks included. "I did not recognize you at first, come eat with me." And with that she continued on to their abandoned table, leaving no room for protests.

    Some time during the conversation between her and the slave elf, their table had been righted possibly by the kins-man, and a new plate of mutton and a jug of mead sat a top it. Irah sat down, grabbing the jug and downing it in a few gulps, she set it down and pushed the plate to the elf's side. It was common practice in her tribe to share meals when reuniting with her people.
     
    #12 Mundane Monster, Mar 5, 2014
    Last edited: Mar 7, 2014
  13. Pandora Crosse traced a nimble finger on the edge of her tankard, watching the exchange between the Orcs and the Elven slave. She raised it to her lips, taking a gulp and continued to observe them discreetly.

    She had no idea what she was to do in Sarok. She simply followed a strange dream to come here. At the time, she was filled with such passionate hope that it meant something important. Now she was not quite sure.

    Being very impulsive, she left everything but her precious sword. It was a trophy from her first kill- the Elf she was betrothed to. Had he been kinder and not against Dwarves so much, he might still be alive as the owner of the sword. Al-papila itself chose her as well. It was a living sword that informed her of the presence of foes.

    No one in the tavern was a foe. No one was a friend either. But the small group had caught her interest. She looked away when she assumed the glanced.
     
  14. Dar set his crossbow aside, happy that he didn't have to waste a bolt on the slightly intimidating orc woman. The elf that tilted his hat easily calmed the female orc somehow, but as he tilted his hat he couldn't mind noticing the tattoo on his face. Smiling once again, he began drinking his ale happily. Standing again, he snatched up his crossbow and walked over to were the Orc sat with an Elven man that had a strangely familiar tattoo on his face. Perhaps it was just his mind failing him, or maybe the ale was finally getting to him. He leaned on the table, a wild smile on his face he said to the orc woman "As enforcer of this tavern, I would like to thank ye for keepin' these walls clean, because I'm tha' cleaner also! Please tell me if there is anyway I can repay you!" He winked at the female, and turned his attention to the elf saying "If ye don't mind a drunkin' dwarf like me askin' where ye' got that artwork on yer face?" Addressing both of them, he said alittle bit louder than he meant to "Almost for got to introduce me' name! Name's Dar Ironbolt tha' 3rd!"
     
  15. Cirdan nodded with some satisfaction as the orc turned away from her intended target. He could not necessarily say that things would have gotten out of control without his words, but there was always honor in being a peacemaker.

    When the orc turned around and suddenly moved her arm towards him, Cirdan almost reacted by instinct. He could not see the smile on her face, or the way her eyes had naturally locked onto the tattoo on his face that marked his completion of the Trial for Orc-Hood. All he knew was that someone who had been aggressive moments before was now swinging an arm at him.

    What had he done to enrage her? It was only then, when he realized that she hardly seem enraged, that he relaxed, teh grip on his shoulder warm and reassuring. He grinned at her, returning the gesture with a firm grip of his own, glad to have so easily made a friend. He followed her blindly back over to the table, which he righted before either of them sat down.

    He heard the plate sliding forward, and lightly walked his fingers forward on the counter until he found the plate. He pulled it towards himself, eagerly taking a few bites, before sliding it back in her general direction.

    When the dwarf approached the table, Cirdan turned his milky gaze in the general direction from which he had approached. The dwarf was almost certainly a warrior as well, although he too radiated friendly attentions. Cirdan smiled at him, nodding in greeting, causing his hat to tip slightly forward over his face.

    At the dwarf’s question, Cirdan unconsciously ran his hand up along the scars that crossed his face and right near his eyes, before tipping back his hat to better reveal the tattoo.

    “This marks me as a tribesman of the Orcs,” he replied, casually, a smile on his face. “When I was young and a lot more hot-headed than I was now, I got myself captured in the Jungles and became a slave. After a few weeks of physical labor and abuse I grew tired of the situation, and challenged my captor to combat. The first time he beat on me until I was unconscious. The second time I managed to hit him once before he knocked me out again. The third time... well, that time he wasn’t so lucky.” Cirdan grinned proudly, pleased with his boasting. It wasn’t really in his style, and if it wasn’t for his companion across the table he probably would have forgone with the tradition altogether.

    “When I won,” he said, tracing the tattoo lines inside of the circle on his temple, “They placed this over the brand of a slave, so that no orc would ever mistake me for a runaway. Eighty years later, I went back to the Jungle, and earned these.” His fingers switched immediately to the marks on the outside of the circle, which traveled up from his temple to the line of his hair. “Which denote a rank beyond that of a freed slave.”

    “Círdan Ancalimë,” he said warmly, sticking out a hand slightly to the right of the dwarf. “Very nice to meet you, Dar.”
     
  16. Eovaine watched the she-orc walk away with her companion in mild amusement, not only did he manage to save his own hide, but he also got someone to beat the living hell out of his master without so much as exposing his true nature. He couldn't help but smile at his small victory, but he couldn't fully celebrate yet, not until he saw the pompous prick of a man bleed.

    Returning the blade fully back into it's sheath with a barely audible click, Eoviane noticed a third member join the orc and the elf, a large, stunted, gruff fellow. Ignoring the group for the time being, he turned his gaze down towards the piece of paper and began writing the conversation behind him, he couldn't help but wonder the oddity of the anomaly that three seemingly well trained travelers were in the same tavern, however. Such a thing was not unheard of, but it wasn't all too common either; it always meant some noble or wealthy merchant wanted something done, or something of the sort. Glancing up once in a while as he scribbled on the parchment, he also noticed that besides those three, no other people in the tavern seemed to be of particular interest, they were either locals or travelers seeking to stay the night with nothing special about them. Those three however, they were peculiar and it bugged him a little. Shrugging it off as nothing more than paranoia from overworking his mind, he returned his full attention to the parchment.

    It was a while before his master finished his conversation, and by the time he did, Eovaine's parchment was written, packaged, and ready to be delivered back to the Council. He stood as his master stepped out of the booth. "M-master, a s-she orc wants to have a word with you outside the tavern," he said, his eyes downcast, his light brown hair covering the mischievous glint in them.

    "Whatever for?" The man asked more than slightly irritated.

    "She wouldn't say, sir. She said it was urgent."

    The human clicked his tongue in annoyance and shoved the elf out of the way with enough force to cause him to fall on his rump; Eoviane stood in mock humiliation and strode after the noble, moving a lock of hair from his face.
     
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  17. Ruthgar was, well, definitely NOT your 'typical' run of the mill Orc. He certainly loved to fight more than most any Orc did. But what garnered attention most--was his sheer size. Built seven feet tall, and as broad and powerful as any dwarven castle should be, his scarred greenish-gray complexion didn't hide the numerous scars any better than if he were white. Scars that some wouldn't consider survivable--much less keep fighting with an almost psychotic glee. Then there was his face of course. Orcs were never known for fair skin, or beautiful eyes and hair. But with jutting lower teeth, even HE could scare other Orcs just by looking at them a certain way.

    Not a creature of civility--what Orc was? He had been hunting, and in the process been lead straight near a neighboring township. Don't get him wrong or anything, he wasn't lost. Well, maybe in the thrill of the hunt he was. But he knew the general area very well.That said, the game he was hunting, had ventured this way. He was going to get his kill. That was all there was to it. Now, while he had an axe of tremendous size capable of cleaving a cow in twain--he refused to use it during this quarrel.

    He was a man of honor after all. He had told the brown bear he'd kill it with his bare hands and that's exactly what he intended to do. Ordinarily, most folk didn't mess with wild animals like wolves. Let alone poach bears with their bare, muscly hands. That was just freaking crazy! But no, not to Ruthgar. He was a proud warrior of Irontusk. And a proud member of the Orc race. If you had something to say about that, where would you like your gravestone to be placed again?

    Ruthgar scratched his thick, scraggly beard grunting. This was a habit. Most of the time it meant he was actually thinking. Most of the time. He ventured around the woodlands, looking this way and that grunting as he sniffed the air. Then he spotted one. A big male. Had to be at least seven and a half feet tall! It was drinking from a river. He unstrapped the axe upon his back, and rather than carry it into this fight--embedded in a tree stump. Which, by the way, was totally cleaved in two. Just saying.

    Venturing over as if he were walking up to any normal Orc, he continued scratching his chin.

    "Hey, you." He grunted nodding his head upwards. "Wanna fight? Winner takes all?"

    The bear let off a kind of heavy'breath' groaning sound. You know, the ones bears usually make when you walk up to them and challenge them to a fight.

    "Now, now. No needing to bring moms into this--" Ruthgar grumbled, still scratching his chin. Although the bear did seem to make some kind of communication. Ruthgar was now looking over to the side like he couldn't help but "agree" with a statement the animal had made. If any.

    Nevertheless, the bear reared up on its hind quarters. Being only marginally taller than Ruthgar himself was. Maybe an inch or two? Again, its a friggen bear. Moreover, it made that heavy grunting roar as it had before. Readying its massive paws.

    "I was gonna make this nice and simple, but now I'm gonna take my time!" Ruthgar roared back.

    How was he going to make it "nice and simple"? And who the the hell takes their time killing a mad bear? Oh wait, it's Ruthgar. Okay, continue.

    Ruthgar charged forward, tucking his head into those two mountains he called shoulders and lowering his torso to steady his center of gravity. His two massive gorilla-like arms swung out to the sides and arched, grappling the furry animal in a powerful hold. He drove the beast to the ground on its back where it it kicked at him with its back feet--talons slashing at his muscled belly. Ruthgar straddled the bear, rose up, only to drive his powerful fists that acted more like sledgehammers than hands into the creatures maw and snout dazing it.

    Ruthgar was very near that dangerous tipping point between his normal self, and the hulking frenzied monster he could be. However the creature escaped him, staggering away. When Ruthgar went after it, it attempted to bite down on Ruthgar's bicep. It had also slashed over one of his eyes. The sheer density of the muscle of Ruthgar's arm however, proved to be formidable against the bite power of the animal. With its mouth locked around his arm, Ruthgar used this to tangle its head in a sort of hold before viciously snapping its neck while stile knelt down on one knee.

    An hour and skinned bear later, Ruthgar sat happily at a campfire, gnawing the meat off some of the bones meanwhile, cloaked in the animal's thick hide. When he had eaten his fill, he kept the pelt and took his axe back up. He was venturing from the woods when he spotted the township he had before and figured--what that hell? He'd never really been in a walled city before. Wonder if they have wrestling there too?

    However, when coming upon the two guards. They started called him demon or something or other. It was because if his girth, the blood all over him and lets not forget the axe. But rather them seriously when they responded to him, he left them unconscious--courtesy of a hammer blow to each with his massive fist. He then entered this city, looking at its attractions--for some reason, many people stared at him though...
     
  18. Irah turned to the dwarf and grunted in response. She didn't know many dwarves and she didn't quite know how to respond to his friendly disposition. He had introduced himself however, it would only be respectful to do the same. After all she had no reason to disrespect him.

    "I am Irah ShatterBone." She stated, as she tore off a piece of mutton and then pushed the rest back to Cirdan. "Take the rest, I won't be able to beat that slave elf's master with a full stomach." She said, and switched her gaze to the elf in question who was striding away. Irah narrowed her eyes and began to gather her belongings. She cast her kinsman an apologetic smile, "I will return, but for now I must deal with some thing." She gave Dar Ironbolt a nod, and got up, hoisting her bag over her shoulder and exiting the tavern. She set her bag beside her and shook out her arms, readying for the oncoming fight. If the elf could even fight that is.

    She briefly considered her weapons. Should she make use of them? She doubted she'd be able to remain in the village if she killed some body. After a minute or two of consideration, she decided to solely use her fists. She stood in front of the tavern in a readying stance, her arms hanging loosely at her side, while she growled low, her nostrils flaring.

    "The ugly she devil is here!" She roared, her voice deep and guttural sounding. "Where is her opponent?"
     
  19. Cirdan smiled in response, taking the food without much complaint and digging in. Sharing food was a common tradition, and if he got the chance he would make sure to buy Irah a meal before he left town. If not, there would not be any hard feelings. The generosity would be passed on somewhere down the line. He turned his eyes to watch her looming shadow depart, before looking back at his food, wrinkling his brow.

    He could not help but wonder a bit about what Irah was going to find waiting for her outside the inn. He did not trust that slave elf's story, despite the honest tone in which he had spoken it. Besides, most people, human, elf, or dwarf, would not be so stupid as to have a slave insult orcs that they saw. He chewed absentmindedly on the mutton, wondering if it would be worthwhile to follow after her and try and explain the confusing details. It would almost certainly save the "master" some potentially deadly damage.

    He shrugged, deciding it wasn't worth it. There was a chance that Irah would see no reason to listen to him, and it was doubtful that whomever owned the elf would want to fight with an orc of her general intimidating stature. The confusion would be worked out one way or another, hopefully with few deaths.

    "Would you care to take a seat, Dar?"
     
  20. Eovaine's master had been getting impatient, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper with every passing second until the she-orc burst from the tavern and quite literally proclaimed her presence to the world. Subtle, that one, Eoviane thought to himself with slight amusement as he saw his master jump back with a yelp, nearly stumbling on a loose rock within the cobblestoned roads. "What in the bloody hell," his master cursed, red faced. "Are you the orc that wished to see me? Slave, what is this wretched thing?"

    "S-she said she wanted to see you, sir," Eovaine responded meekly.

    "I don't know who think you are, orc, but next time you want to see me, for whatever reason a barbarian like yourself would, clean yourself up and talk to my steward. I will not have my day ruined with such... atrociousness," the human spit the last word out and it took everything within Eovaine to keep himself from giggling with eager anticipation. The dolt of a human thought his status as a nobleman would protect him from any sort of harm. The man was a spoiled idiot, everything he wanted done was done and everything he didn't, wasn't. It would be marvelous to see this man beaten to a pulp, having suffered him this long was punishment enough, he didn't think he could take it another day without breaking the man himself.

    "M-master, I don't think that's wise," Eoviane tried to calm the human.

    "Keep your mouth shut, elf! Now you, whatever your blasted name is, go back inside and spare my dear eyes your looks," he said walking off and continued to mumble, "bloody wretched orcs, why the hell didn't we ever exterminate those ugly beasts?"
     
    #20 Torack, Mar 8, 2014
    Last edited: Mar 8, 2014
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