Into the grave

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Mid, Apr 13, 2012.

  1. The sun was out, beaming through the leaves upon their heads. One would say it was more than humid today and a few of the men sweltered under their armor however, it was not their job to complain. They were to escort what one would call Human Cargo or Prisoners, to the Valon wall.

    It wasn’t truly a wall, but a very long jailhouse that from the distance appeared to be a wall. Most folks that went in never came out unless it was in a coffin. No one has ever successfully escaped from this hell and many men feared what lies within these walls.

    Two men rode on horses while a driver steered two Stallions along the path, his wagon was built like a giant bird cage. Within it were two men, one old and the other a drunk, a young boy with a chipped tooth and a woman whose mane kept her face hidden.

    The drunk kept his hands clasped together and sang out of tune, his foot tapped to a nameless beat while the old man chatted with the teen about current events. The woman kept herself towards the far corner; her mess of hair touched her bare shoulders while her hands held tightly to each other, chained as they were. The clothes she wore would have made someone think she was once of high ranking, either that or a thief with all the dirt and tearing she was covered in.

    After a while the drunk stopped singing and the old man grew quiet, they sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Then the drunk turned to the woman, his face flushed, “Ey, you! Wha’s your story, love?” He questioned, inching closer to the female. “Didja hear me?” His voice rose slightly as she did not answer nor acknowledge his existence.

    “Murder.” The old man replied causing his male companions to look at him in shock. “She killed the Princess with her bare hands.” With a reserved look, he nodded in her direction. “That’s what they say anyways.”

    “B-but…” The teen’s jaw remained open as he pondered this news, “That would mean she’s—“The wagon jerked to a stop and there was a shout, a warning and then a yell. The drunk jumped up at the commotion, in an attempt to get a better view.

    “What’s going on, do you see something?” Standing up, the old man held his hands together nervously.

    It was a moment before he got a reply, “Yeah…someone in black is pointing to the sk—“He fell backwards, landing against the older man as an arrow stood proudly from his right eye socket. The young boy screamed, “Oh god we’re gonna die!!!” and shook the bars frantically as his older companion managed to stand again and attempted to calm the boy.

    The door creaked slightly as it opened and a tall figure stood before them, a black cloak covered the person’s face while a silver pendent rested against their breast.

    “I seek the one they call The Rose Killer.”

    And it was this that made her react. Standing up proudly, the blue eyed woman stared the hooded person down. “I am the one they call The Rose Killer. I strangled a nine year old girl with my bare hands and I would do it again.” With a grin, she titled her head, “I am Miranda De Love.”
  2. A murder of crows scattered in a hundred different directions as a gigantic stallion as dark as death itself galloped into the ring of onlookers with less regard for their safety than the very thing it recalled. It was a sweltering day, a fact that brought joy only to the millions of flies which darkened the air over the cemetery.

    The stench of rotting flesh and decomposition gases ought to have thinned the crowd as usual, but this was a special occasion. This was the interment of hope, the burial of prosperity, the funeral of happiness. Or at least that was what the commonfolk were colorfully calling it. To the dark rider upon his steed, it was merely a rather generous pay-day.

    Dismounting, the rider slowly made his way through the throng of beggars, craftsmen, whores, fishmongers, and orphans out to make their own profit off the gathered misers, up to the line of sweating and stinking yet very highly polished and shining knights.

    "Halt! This is as far as commoners are allowed to go. Pay your respects to the fallen star of Ishma from a distance, cur" called out one of the knights with a hand upon the pommel of his sword in warning.

    From beneath a black cowl masking his face from his nose up, the rider greeted the knight with a sardonic smile while turning slightly sideways to show off the notched but lethally sharp bastard sword hanging from his back.

    Before the knight and his brothers could pull their weapons and force him into killing he would not be paid for, the rider extracted a stoutly muscular armored arm from the folds of his traveling cloak, with the fist extended to clearly allow his signet ring to refract the sunlight glinting at their feet into a million crimson shafts.

    Without another word, a break in the line of knights opened. The two nearest knights to the rider visibly trembled as the now clearly towering dark figure slid between them. "W-was...was that...Him" whispered one of the knights to his compatriot with quick glance the receding mass of obscurity which terrified them so. "A....a-aye. That'd b-be...King Miristir's own...Ju-justice. D-devil they call him. They say even death is afeared of 'im..." muttered the other knight while making some religious signs over himself.

    Devil slowly made his way over to a smaller gathering of people, over a small grave that was just being fed it's last gulp of dirt. Amidst the throng of crying ladies and somber faced lords stood the High Chancellor of Ishma, the Knight-Captain of the Royal Guard, and their august majesties Queen Lurcenia and King Miristir. Ignoring the looks of disgust from the two leaders of the highest courts in Ishma, Devil bowed before his King and made a kissing motion over his Queen's outstretched hand. Immediately before he could speak his report, the High Chancellor bursts into protest.

    "My Liege! You must not do this! The trial is over! The verdict clear! What message would it send if the King defied his very justice and contradicted his elected chancellors? You must reconsider!" wheezed the old man while trying to cover his face with a perfumed handkerchief to dispel the stench of death surrounding him.

    "If we resort to these barbaric alternatives we risk--" "ENOUGH!" rang the powerful voice of King Miristir, silencing the objections of the High Chancellor.

    "Too far have I allowed this newfangled experiment at letting the masses punish themselves go. I make the justice in this realm, not you and your pack of crumbling ancient relics! Wisdom and civil unrest be damned! This experiment went too far. My daughter lies in that hole, and I will have revenge!" declared the monarch of the realm in a tone that brooked no argument before turning to his wife.

    "My lady...are you certain you wish to be present to hear this discussion?" whispered the king softly to his still sniffling wife. The woman gave him a harsh look before nodding.

    "Have you questioned the witnesses?" asked King Miristir of Devil. Devil only nodded, while staring at the red-faced High Chancellor. "Did you dispose of them after the interrogation?" asked the king, garnering another nod from Devil. "Do you have her trail?". Another nod. "Very well...I give you the authori--" started the king before Queen rushed forward and took Devil's armored hands.

    "Bring me her head, do you hear? Earn your namesake, kill them all and string them with their bowels, but bring me Miranda De Love's head!" proclaimed the queen in near hysterics.

    From beneath Devil's dark cowl came a hoarse, raspy, and throaty whisper which chilled the blood of nearly all present.

    "It shall be as ye command, my queen."

    An hour later, Devil and Death rode off into a blood stained horizon, in search of their latest mark.