The Clans of Raeym

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Moonlit Blade, Oct 21, 2010.

  1. Kyrienna cursed as she stepped out of the Ministry Hall, shielding her eyes from the light of the sun. It had taken forever for her to explain to the damned OverSeer that she had already sworn to the blasted King once, and that her Clan mates had died in a battle. Of course, having to explain what happened, without really explaining what happened was very annoying. And, once she had gotten through to the OverSeer that she had wanted to disown her old Clan and take on a new Clan name, she had to reswear the oaths that gave her the legality to lead a Clan.

    Clan Silverlight was officially no more.

    Clan Darksbane would be the Clan that would see her goals met.

    Kyrienna, or Kyrie, had already posted a notice for a new Clan at the local Guild Pub. As she maneuvered her way through the massive stream of people, she tried to rush without appearing to do so. She ignored the people who pointed her out to a friend, or the child staring up at her in awe. Kyrie was a legendary Clan Leader, and the death of her Clan had come as a massive shock to the public.

    Of course, no one was sure what exactly had happened, since Kyrie had been the only survivor of the incident. She didn't give much detail, aside from the fact that Clan Silverlight had come to a terrible end. Some, of course, believed that Kyrie had simply gotten rid of her Clan mates, killing them when they were asleep, or when their guard was down.

    Kyrie didn't disabuse the people of that notion. Better they think her dangerous than incompetent.

    She sighed, passing the High Tower of Light Magick. It was always an impressive sight, looking up at the Tower. With its gleaming golden walls, it looked like a solid cylinder of gold. No windows marred the gleaming beauty, even though it was intricately designed. But at night, the smooth surface would be dotted with countless lights, rooms lit with candles and gloworbs.

    Eventually, she made her way into the Guild bar. Moving through the crowd and ignoring the sounds of hushed whispers, she sat down at the bar, ordering a mug of dwarf spirits. Turning, she leaned against the bar, looking nowhere yet watching everything. Eventually, someone would approach her about her Clan posting on the bulletin board.
  2. "It's pretty, ain't it?" The calm, rather natural-sounding voice stated. "The tower, that is. Never been inside it, meself, but I think that much would be obvious." A man sat next to her at the bar, not bothering to hide his horrid mutations. Four horns sprouted from his head, and his shoulder-quills quivered - as if sensing the room. He held an empty shot-glass, playing upon it with his fingertips. "I'mma start this a little different than I should, 'cause I already know who you are - everyone does - so you needn't introduce yourself." A nod to confirm this admittance, he turned to look to her.

    "My name's Quadri-" He stops mid-word, shaking his head. "No, no. Not anymore. It's Leon now, as it as before." He winces as the rhyme passes his lips, as if it had hurt him on some deep, emotional level. He places the shot-glass down upon the bar gently. "...Sorry to hear about your clan. I don't think you did it, y'know? Kill'm all, that is. You haven't the... poise... of a murderer. 'Course, you could be without guilt, so I wouldn't know. I'm more used to murderers feeling sorry 'bout themselves, least where I come from."

    With a frown, as if a bad taste had entered his mouth, he taps at the bar to get the attention of the barkeep. The man nods, pouring an odd-looking liquid into it, which Leon downs. Fire licks at his lips as he chuckles, "All this and I still haven't told you what I want, yeah? Well... I'm Clanless. I want to help you with your deal, there." He indicates the posting on the bulletin board. His face is graced by a smile, though his hellish attributes make it less than peaceful (he tried, at least).

    The man's mutations truly came into view as his black-scaled tail swings behind him, quills similar to the ones on his shoulder quivering. He gives Kyrie an apologetic nod, "I assure you, I'm not after anyone. I'm... trying to make right. I figure, if I can help you... maybe some mercy will be found in this world. I'm no dragonfolk, Miss, but I feel I can help nonetheless." He nods, calling her by one of the many, many common-folk names of her race. Obviously, he was not of noble stock.
  3. The Usurper

    "Hither came Kroylrev Zsmertni, the Warlord of Mars, dark-haired, sullen-faced, sword in hand, a voyager, a vagabond, a barbarian, with an iron will and morbid determination, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his armour-plated feet."

    (OOC: Dohohohoho, bet you didn't see what I did there)


    They did not turn their heads to his presence, nor were eyes shifted from the glasses of intoxicants to his form. Yet there was an immensity to his character that all felt. He was not the most towering of men nor did he appear the most fearsome, yet there was something to his very presence that even the blind, deaf, and mute could feel. Clad in leather, spikes, torn denim, and steel, he seemed something else; more civilized than the common savage, yet too atavist to be a proffessional warrior. The symbols that adorned his vest seemed to speak of warfare, of mysticism, the esoeteric, the glorious, and the horrific. His face was sullen, harsh, and he may be of only 26 years, yet to some, he is already old and worn. Like some tall spirit, he strides across the room, his gait commanding and ruthless. Yet there is a strange grace to it, one born of a man who is both destroyer of kingdoms and seeker of truths. Upon his back, there was a device of some sort, wicked yet majestic. It seemed to have a long neck connected to a sharpened axe-like body, upon which a variety of strings, switches, gauges and such were built into. It was coloured dark black with a sort of snow white colour fleshing out its core. Another weapon could be seen, a great sword, cruel with its sharp, serrated teeth and unnatural; those near him felt something present with him, within the sword. Peraps it peered into their souls, or their souls peered into the blade and the mysteries it contained.

    He had travelled far and wide, coming here on a self-imposed voyage, to seek extreme forms of experience; to kill, to defend, to slay, to raise up kings, to bring down tyrants, to discover the ancient secrets of the world, to create new legends, but ultimately, to burn with life. He had seen the signs and heard the tales and the rumours whispered on cobbled streets and stone halls. Approaching them with skepticism, he brought himself before her.

    His face retained its grim and sullen expression, as he strode before her, warriors parting before him, looks of suspicion across their eyes. He stopped in front of the table, as if suddenly he could not bring himself to move. Taking a seat, he watched her closely, his smouldering and almost predatory like gaze settling upon hers, as if attempting to pick her apart, to reveal the secrets she hid within, physical and immaterial.

    The chatter of the bar continued; boasts of great feats, old friends, fierce battles, and other such tales over a deluge of alcohol. Yet there was a feeling of stillness to the conversations, the elaborations, and the exaggerations, as if everyone spoke of such fond memories in a hurry, as if some hidden force oppressed them. Eyes could be seen stealing quick glances from the corner of their sockets, and certain descriptions of warriors they had heard of before, those mysterious things often only encountered a few scant times in life, creeped into far more conventional stories of adventure and bravery.

    For a split second, it all stopped, as his voice seemed to intrude, like some otherworldly intrusion. Like a beast it was fierce, with sonic tinges of a growl and an unruliness to it. He articulated though, with the precision of one who was surprisingly calm and collected, yet brooding and calculating.

    "You've been wronged many times, but this is time it's personal. Whole battallions just don't dissappear in the night like that."

    His expression seemed to soften, the noble savage giving way to an understanding if firm man, simply watching her with eyes that burned with a similar fire as her own.

    "I don't ask for anything in return; the voyage I trust you'll take me on is more than enough."
  4. Michael left the tavern on the edge of town shaken. He'd been just behind the privy door and had heard the conversation with the woman and the strange man. His draconic nature growled at the idea that any one would kill on that scale, but his elven side was more logical. For each action, a reason exists. What that reason is, is the question. Still, he was shaken. In his heart his passive nature ruled strongly, but not so as to end his fighting permanently. Now, some prescient mote in him told him trouble was ahead. He headed for the forest, to him, the only predictable place in existence.

    Once there, he sat down on a rock and made camp. He though about what had happened to him. The battalion of elves had literally drummed him out of their midst. Not because he was a traitor, but because he'd looked at someone just a bit too long. Revenge wasn't a normal thing for him, so he had left everything he knew, and travelled among men. Now, the stories he'd heard bothered him. He knew however that someone would pay. He waited, and stoked the fire.
  5. Centuri moved through the town without turning a single glance, his brown cloak covered his body completely, and his mask was barely visible under its hood. Without closer examination he simply looked like a beggar, but it suited his needs for now. He continued to drift through the city until he reached his destination, the guild bar.

    Centuri opened the door quietly and drifted into the bar without turning a single head. Moving over to the bulletin board, the expressionless mask unmoving for what might have seemed an eternity to anyone that took the time to observe him. After the long time which he stood motionless he reached back with one arm and pulled a wrapped cube from his backpack and walked over to where Kyrie was seated. Sitting down he unwrapped the package, revealing a clay like substance within. Centuri then proceeded to mold the substance silently.