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Thread: By Rook, Wrath, and Ruin (Solo)

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  1. #1
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    Name
    Leopold Winchester
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    By Rook, Wrath, and Ruin (Solo)

    Prologue

    Present Day
    Berevar, Ahyark Pass

    There are not many places on Althanas where a woman can truly find peace. There are many where she may find respite, a brief glimpse of solitude, but never absolute, indefinite security of the mind. There are always people, places and callings to tend to. There are always errors to correct and lives to save. The eternal demand on the altruism and patience of a woman is both the driving force of her success, as well as her downfall.

    Lady Clarissa Montague was the one exception.

    Since a young age she had refused to let anyone rule her actions. People were her currency, and she traded their lives to keep them distant. In her vicious mercantile selfishness, she had carved out a sanctuary all of her own. She was by all measure of merit a highly successful woman. Her business, her political prowess, and her domineering spirit had driven her there and she had not relied on any other to reach her station.

    She had relied on nobody, except one man.

    Leopold Winchester…” The incitement of her age old adversary came with a lack of observing his proper title. “What the devil are you up to now?” she whispered, a pensive thought falling from her lips into the howling winds of Berevar’s tallest peaks.

    From her vantage point on the small cliff overlooking the pass, Clarissa counted the number of wagons trundling through the deep snow drift. After she reached eight, she stopped caring. She was not here to take the cargo; she was here for the drivers and the horses. They, in Berevar’s harsh tundra, were worth more than their weight in gold.

    “Jackson, I think we can begin.” She glanced over her shoulder at the huddled members of her Brigade. Her face remained expressionless as she counted them too. When she reached only eight, she vowed to account for the loss of one of the mercenaries at a later date, and to offer one of her slaves an opportunity to ‘further’ their career within her household. The snow of the wild lands had taken another investment from her.

    “Yes, my lady,” the moustached man jittered. He tightened the hood of his cloak over his head and unsheathed a cruel looking short sword. In the dusk light it reflected the moon that loomed ominously over the distant snow-capped peaks. The ring of steel thrilled him, and Lady Montague finally smiled at the prospect of striking a blow to her bitter rival’s enterprise.

    “See to it that you come from the rear, and have your associate Mr Whalen perform one of his…tricks from the outcrop to the east.” Without waiting to see the man’s enthusiasm for departing she looked back down the cliff.

    For three weeks the Montague Brigade had followed the caravans of the Winchester Rose Trading Company through the broken Salvar landscape. They had scattered in Knife’s Edge to watch from the side-lines, sneaking through the junket bazaars with eyes firmly set on their target. When the caravan had departed the city on the north side, to advance into the Ahyark Mountains, the Brigade had reformed and vanished into the cliffside maze that lined the flanks of the enclosed pass.

    Now, they were ready to put their burgeoning frustration to good measure. Clarissa had learnt that Thomas Jackson was anything but a patient man. She had subsequently learned how to exploit the mercenaries’ peculiar talents by plying anxiety to every waking moment of his life. He had become an excellent tool in her armoury in no time at all.

    As the Brigade shuffled along the cliff face, clinging to the iced granite for dear lives, their benefactor checked her bandoleer. Satisfied that she had brought enough vials for the poison she required to ply to her betrayers’ lips, she adjusted the spider silk of her gloves and flicked her hair back behind her ears. The blonde strands shone with a charismatic and spurious glamour in the moonlight.

    “<Salshan minnari!>” she roared.

    The power in the syllables of her words shot across the canyon with the force of a thunderbolt.

    “Whatever it is my old friend,” she said, dropping her eyes from the distant peaks to the wagon at the head of the caravan. She remained deep in thought for several prolonged and awkward moments before she cleared her mind. “It will not save you from my wrath.”

    When the echo of her incantation returned to the cliff face, bouncing off the distance rock wall of the pass, she smiled.

    The members of the Montague Brigade had come to fear two things in the service of Lady Clarissa. The first was her wrath. When she was angered you ran, pure and simple. The last man to test her patience had ended up suspended from the walls of St. Denebriel’s Cathedral. This was made all the more endearing by the fact he was naked and suspended by his genitals and his feet. People had spoken about that particular incident for months.

    The second thing to fear was the rook that kept itself to the rafters and rooftops of the Montague residence. Its eyes, its beak and its feathers were totems for paranoia. They were portent and doom to anyone who dared to try and claim more than their fair share of the Brigade’s fortunes. They said that the rook had a mind of its own, that it knew if you were stealing.

    Lady Clarissa spread her arms when she felt a swell of power rise from the pit of her stomach to the temple of her highbrow. A cry left her lips as her spine elongated and her eyes sharpened in the twilight. The delayed reaction of her metamorphosis made her doubt her ability to act quickly in the blasted chill. It was long rumoured that what the rook saw, Montague saw.

    She fell forwards into the dark, the howl of the wind drowning out the last notes of a melodic shriek. Just as the Brigade and Jackson screamed out from the swirl of heavy snow and assaulted the rear of the caravan, from above, a great black rook descended.
    Last edited by Leopold; 07-20-13 at 06:52 PM.

  2. #2
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    Leopold Winchester
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    By Rook, Wrath & Ruin


    Dark_Lady__s_Chosen_by_OmeN2501.jpg

    Love! How so fickle?
    It is trick and treat combined,
    The losing and gaining hurts in just measure.
    Wanted, rejected, obtained, collected Love,
    I give up fighting your spiralling pull.

    Love! How so secretive?
    It is collusion given form,
    The mind’s sedation so taught and sickened.
    Permanent, unsolvable, invisible, endless Love,
    How I long for it’s unrequited kick.

    Love! How so fallible?
    Such broken illusion,
    The heart’s repose it forms delusion.
    Twisted, vengeful, fruitful, hateful Love,
    I’m partial to it’s malcontent way.

    Cydney Oliver
    Last edited by Mordelain; 07-21-13 at 02:18 PM.

  3. #3
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    Leopold's Avatar

    Name
    Leopold Winchester
    Age
    4000+ (appears 30)
    Race
    Human
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    Male
    Hair Color
    Brown
    Eye Color
    Brown
    Build
    5'10"/140lbs
    Job
    Merchant

    Present Day
    Berevar, The Ahyark Pass

    The exact same moment the Brigade burst into the proximity of the caravan, Leopold rose from his seat on the lead carriage and cocked back Isabella. The white gold pistol found itself forcibly loaded in silence. The caravan stopped, the driver to Winchester’s right whipping the reins with the sort of expression that said ‘ready for anything’.

    “Leopold, shall I raise the alarm?” Wilfred said without trepidation.

    Winchester glanced down at the old man’s glasses, to check that he was being quite serious. He was very glad to have his butler by his side in these troubled times, but sometimes, he was a nuisance he would rather be without. His severity and his immensity was a constant elephant in the room.

    “There is no need Wilfred, I have this perfectly un-” the shriek from above knocked Winchester back into his seat and all the confidence from his chest.

    “What was that, sir?” the old man asked with a reassured smile.

    “Okay, alright, maybe I do not have it under control.” Winchester adjusted the brim of his hat which had fallen askew in his sudden descent. The noise of gunfire, swords clashing and men barking commands grew louder from the rear of the caravan.

    They were being attacked. In Berevar, that meant one thing.

    Slavers…

    At the head of the caravan Leopold was at a distinct disadvantage as far as intelligence went. He leant around the red cloth canopy that covered the wooden frame of the wagon to try and catch a glimpse of the rear of the column. The darkness and the snow did away with any hopes he might have had.

    “I did not expect her to make a personal appearance…,” he grumbled, leaning back into the cover of the carriage.

    Lady Clarissa, though one of Leopold’s prominent rivals, had only ever sent her Brigade to raid his caravans. The attacks on his investments had become so frequent of late he had been called to oversee this particular cargo personally. It was not one he could afford to have stolen, especially not from right under his nose. It was not a loss he thought he could stomach if she had personally pulled the coin from his golden threaded pockets.

    “When life gives you lemons sir,” the butler took a breath, but when he saw his Lord’s expression he cut it short. It was a look that could shatter rock without much trouble. It was a look the butler knew too well.

    The old adage right from Ruby’s mouth grated up Leopold’s spine. He let the anger remind him of the urgency of their situation and clicked back the barrel of his gun. It was a play on words from an old wives' tale that a bard in Scara Brae had made his own.

    “When life gives you lemons, Wilfred, you shall indeed paint many things gold.” He leant out from the canopy again. The strain on his stomach and wide girth caused him to wheeze. “At this point in time,” he raised, eyes still fixated on the gloom, “I would rather paint those things red.”

    A blackened sky cracked apart in the wake of a peal of thunder. Winchester did not flinch. He had heard the shriek; he expected the spectacle would soon follow.

    “Shall I relinquish Jacqueline from her bondage then, sir?” Wilfred’s voice started to waver, uncertainty creeping into the usual wisdom of his endearing accent. The spectacles started to gather snowflakes as he too tried to catch a glimpse of their attackers.

    Winchester smiled.

    “Yes, that would be most appropriate. I have not seen the old girl in quite a long time.” He set Isabella firmly forwards, taking hold of the canopy’s frame to prevent his heavy weight from an ungracious fall. “It is quite criminal, really,” he added as an afterthought.

    A second peal of thunder cracked the air, breaking the sudden swell of activity from the rear of the caravan. The rumble echoed up the length of the pass, shaking the rock and drift to the very foundations of the Ahyark range. A second shriek from the overhead gloom sent another ripple down Winchester’s spine. Though he had come to defend his future from his adversary, he was starting to very much doubt his ability to do so.

    He heard a click from over his shoulder. Suddenly, he was reminded that the answer to a man’s problem was always a strong woman.

    Isabella, though lightweight, accurate and portable, was half the woman Jacqueline was. Winchester dropped back into the shelter of the wagon’s canopy and watched Wilfred load the long rifle with a silver bullet. Her body was lithe, well-formed and clad in leather bonds. Leopold had acquired Jacqueline from a successful chain of trades in Alerar, but could never quite bring himself to fire it. Each bullet cost the equivalent of a day’s pay for one his workers, which in these hard times was a small fortune.

    He frowned at Isabella, patted her, and then set her onto the worn pine bench. Today was not to be her day.

    “She will forgive you if you buy her a glass of claret,” Wilfred chuckled. He readied the butt of the rifle with a kiss and then handed the weapon across the rein hooks to its patron’s waiting, shaking, eager arms.

    “Oh do not worry,” Leopold took the rifle. He nearly dropped it as its weight dropped his hands to the wood. He had forgotten just how heavy she was. “It will be a vintage, the finest,” he lifted it with a grunt.

    He locked and loaded the silver bullet into the barrel and raised the brass scope to his eye. He pierced the gloom that lay ahead of the caravan and made a mock sound of a gunshot. There was nothing Leopold liked more than a fine woman, strong wine, and a bit of game hunting.
    Last edited by Leopold; 07-20-13 at 06:52 PM.

  4. #4
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    Leopold Winchester
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    Jackson did not waste any time removing any opposition that got in his way. The first carriage, as Mr Wilhelm had correctly assumed, was full of guards. His sword had pierced the canopy of the wagon and severed the captain’s aorta before any of them could reach for their axes. Even though they had screamed as they had burst into view, they had apparently caught the caravan off guard.

    The gargle of blood had injected adrenaline into the veins of the entire Brigade as they readied themselves. The warm and dark crimson sloshed to the carriage floor and splattered onto the snow. It steamed. When the guards burst out of the rear of the wagon the sound of bows drawing and arrows darting through the cold night was their welcoming.

    “Gentlemen, we mean you immense harm! If you would kindly put down your weapons we can get the inevitable over with.” The man’s moustache and cloak concealed the malefic smile plastered over his face as he spiralled about the edge of the wagon. With a swift strike he cut his sword back over a young lad’s throat. He burst from the shelter of the wagon and crashed into the flank of the Winchester House Guard with zeal and murder in his eyes. His youthful corpse fell forwards into the white cloud like flakes.

    Several guards dropped with unceremonious flops to the drift, arrows in their necks, pain in their eyes frozen permanently onto their faces.

    “Do not disappoint me gentlemen,” Jackson resumed his soliloquy; quite undeterred by the advance of two more able looking but utterly terrified individuals. One was a woman who had striking red hair beneath her helmet. The other was a woman of dark skin and a cheeky disposition. For Jackson, there was no distinction between age, gender or race.

    If Lady Montague told him to kill, then that is exactly what he did.

    “I am neither a gentlemen, nor am I one to idly disappoint,” the red head roared. It took Jackson several seconds to process the information before him. He levelled his sword down to the ground, its bloodied tip marking his territory onto the wheel marked snow. “The only inevitable thing, good sir, is your comeuppance.” The woman smiled.

    An arrow whistled through the night and struck Jackson in the chest. It darted through the shadows from up on the cliff tops. The two women frowned as the man’s body fell to the floor. His corpse joined their comrades unceremoniously and without applause. Though the red head did not disappoint readily, Jackson, it seemed, had disappointed someone with a cold heart. They looked at one another re-assuredly before they turned in the snow, heavy boots flattening the growing drift.

    The remaining seven members of the Brigade had thrown down their bows and drawn an array of blades. The red head picked out a khaddar, a falchion and a great sword. There was a menagerie of culture before them, and no doubt an array of skill behind each length of metal from across the globe.

    “To me, men, to me!” she roared. Her sword, a single edged curved blade, flashed in the dark as she waved it overhead. It acted as a standard for the distraught and breaking ranks of the caravan guard. They swiftly gathered in a half circle around the rear of the wagon, nine in all, eleven total with the two women.

    “Do not let them reach the cargo. Do not let them take your family’s food from their table!”

    The blonde guards woman took a sterner approach, holding nothing back and keeping kindness in the depths of the frozen pass where she thought it belonged. Her jade eyes pierced the nearest adversary from beneath the ridge of her helmet’s nose guard.

    The Brigade charged out from the shadows proper, and the two battle lines clashed together with as much gusto as arrows and words had.
    Last edited by Leopold; 07-20-13 at 06:54 PM.

  5. #5
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    Name
    Leopold Winchester
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    Brown
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    Brown
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    5'10"/140lbs
    Job
    Merchant

    One Year Ago
    Scara Brae, House of Master Bigstar

    Each month the council members of the Merchant Guild of Scara Brae took part in an ancient rite. It had been known by many names in its long history, but now it was referred to as the Van Degalion. It was a ‘gathering of masters’ seeking to steep themselves in a provincial communion of ideas. Its many laws and bylaws bring together the ruling bodies of all the guilds to discuss and address any presiding matters relating to business and development. This ancient ritual has been practised for centuries and it is steeped in as much mystery as the guilds themselves. Though shrouded in intrigue and often debated by the lower levels of the many circles of the Scara Brae guilds-man circle, what the Van Degalion actually amounts to is a chest and brow beating drinking session.

    The juxtaposition was precisely why Leopold Winchester loved attending.

    “What did people say to get away for this meeting this time?” he asked the others wryly, half uninterested but asking out of conformity.

    At the Van Degalion, he could be debonair with his wife about attending urgent matters in the under belly of the city’s mercantile elite. He could then spend the evening discussing her under garments and the latest political events to embrace the island without fear of reprisal. The other men and women sat around the large oaken table all thought the exact same thing. They jolly well enjoyed this tradition, though they never let on for weeks before the event.

    “My wife still thinks I come to these meetings to audit trade records,” Magnus Tarred chuckled.

    He was a man with a particularly large forehead and olive green doublet that Leopold had no particular feeling for. The man’s comment made him smile however, and he made a note to keep an eye on the brash and arrogant fish monger’s progress.

    “I tell Damian the exact same thing,” chipped in Lady Montague. She was a headstrong woman who was both the most active member and the long standing matriarch of the Seamstress Guild. She was a young entrepreneur that had successfully developed a machine to hem stitch durable underwear for the hard working woman of the docklands. To say that she was responsible for much of the female ‘support’ in the city was an understatement, and a constant source of belittling for the proud, blonde haired adventuress.

    “What about you, Leopold?” Magnus enquired, setting his tankard down onto the well-worn surface of the meeting chamber’s solitary table. It had witnessed far too many raunchy exchanges, clandestine trades and back handed dealings to be bothered by another ale stain on its history tarnished veneer.
    Last edited by Leopold; 07-20-13 at 06:57 PM.

  6. #6
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    Leopold Winchester
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    Hair Color
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    Eye Color
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    5'10"/140lbs
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    With a slow rise from a slouch to a rigid and regal position in his wingback chair, Leopold carefully considered how best to respond. Though the air of secrecy afforded them all a respite from their spouse’s prying eyes and well-tuned ears, you could never be sure just what got back to them through the grapevine. Some things he knew Ruby could forgive him for saying. She even said she expected him to vent when she was not there…but others would result in a swift kick to the ground and an assault with scissors on his formal wardrobe.

    The thought did not bear observing.

    “Ruby is part of my trade and business as much as the nails tacking together the crates. She knows where I am, and most likely knows exactly what we all get up to.” He wrinkled his lips and then stroked his beard with wise, stubby fingers. “I tell her I am attending the Van Degalion and she dutifully nods, kisses me on the cheek and hands me my hat.” She did it with far too much relish for the admission to be comfortable for Leopold.

    For all Leopold knew she was having just as much fun at home with her sewing circle as he was with his fellow tradesmen. If Lillith had not been away on an anarchic assignment to Akashima, he would have been certain to return to a dishevelled looking and angered housekeeper. The amount of times he had been shouted at by Rose about ‘the mistresses’ behaviour’ had gone into three digits.

    The six members of the council, Leopold included, all nodded glumly.

    “Indeed,” they mumbled together in a slumbering chorus.

    They sipped their drinks and sent spirals of cigar and cigarrete smoke up into the dark rafters of the store room in silence. Each month, the Van Degalion took place in one of the council’s own homes. For the first month of spring they had commenced proceedings in Master Bigstar’s mansion on the edge of the docklands. He was a churlish baker who ran a large chain of franchises across Scara Brae, with a penchant for cake and the moist baps on offer in the city’s red light district.

    This evening he was nowhere to be seen.

    The manservant had opened the door and seen them in to the back room; much to the suspicious glances of Mrs Bigstar’s piercing hazel eyes. Behind the heavy oak door that separated the makeshift meeting room from the large industrial kitchen they commenced their gossip with hushed voices until they grew confident and drunk enough to not care.

    “It is true what they say then, I take it?” Magnus chuckled, his ego taking centre stage and casting the large piles of crates and stacks of wine bottles in their dust racks into obscurity. He half seemed eager to jump onto the table and start swaying back and forth with his tankard held high.

    “Behind every good man there is”…Lady Montague tapped him on the shoulder and he stopped mid-sentence.
    Last edited by Leopold; 07-20-13 at 06:56 PM.

  7. #7
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    Leopold Winchester
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    “We will have less of that if you do not mind Magnus. We have not even begun to address the items on the agenda, and you are already teetering dangerously close to sounding like the chauvinist pig we all know you to be.” She dropped her gaze and her warning digit back to her knitting needles. With a strange focus and continuance she continued to weave magic into the ochre and fuchsia wool.

    Leopold developed a sudden adoration for the woman. He vowed to show her a respect the other members of the council would have to work considerably harder to obtain.

    “How da,” Magnus realised he was in the minority in his shock. The other members of the council all stared at him sternly. He slouched in his chair.

    “Drinking does it to the best of us,” Lady Montague continued under her breath. Leopold wondered how the she managed to stay sober after four double measures of Salvar vodka. The ice had tinkled in her glass too many times for him to remain without suspicion.

    He had to hand it to the women of Scara Brae. Unlike their counterparts in Radasanth, the Scara Braen queens and princesses took no prisoners, took no nonsense and did not fanny about with time wasters. With a quick flick of the wrist he knocked back the last dregs of his first long iced tea and set the tall glass onto the table top. He smacked his lips and adjusted himself to get comfortable.

    If he did not get a move on, they were going to run out of vodka.

    “As this is going to be a rather long evening by all accounts I am inclined to agree with Lady Montague,” Leopold took on a stern accent that was devoid of any hint of intoxication.

    Despite the laid back nature of the guild’s proceedings, there was still business to be done. “Since it is painfully clear that Master Bigstar is not only neglecting his wife but his station this evening, let us make our declarations and begin,” she continued, smiling at Leopold before finally setting her knitting down onto the table top.

    “Would you like to begin Mr Winchester?” she raised an eyebrow in his general direction. With her hands now free, she topped up her cut glass tumbler from a hip flask she produced from her undergarments.

    The declarations were the simple introductions of each council member to the rest of the group. It carried tradition with it, but also security. A man’s ledgers were said to be his legacy and through knowing them off by heart you could hold sway over his empire. To declare a profit from them to the guild was as good as buying their trust.

    “My name is Leopold Winchester, director of The Winchester Rose Trading Company. This month, I made three hundred gold net profits over my last period. This is an increase of four per cent over the same time last year. My trade with Fallien has increased, with spice returning monthly now on time and without interference from the Ruuya Bedouin.” He thought for a moment, as if he were trying to recollect one final piece of information vital to his cause. “The war in Corone has seen to it that my profits are drained by the Royal Household, and my declaration this month, is to see to it that the guild hampers the involvement of Scara Brae with that conflict.”

    He tapped the desk and leant back into his chair to let the next person speak.
    Last edited by Leopold; 07-20-13 at 06:58 PM.

  8. #8
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    Leopold's Avatar

    Name
    Leopold Winchester
    Age
    4000+ (appears 30)
    Race
    Human
    Gender
    Male
    Hair Color
    Brown
    Eye Color
    Brown
    Build
    5'10"/140lbs
    Job
    Merchant

    Present Day
    Berevar, The Ahyark Pass

    At the front of the caravan, despite the fact that his confidence was bolstered by Jacqueline’s unveiling, Leopold frowned. The second eruption of shouts and the sound of swords clashing once more brought doubt to his mind.

    “I do hope the true lady in life worth getting into bed with at night will be alright…” he bit his lip.

    “Worry not sir, Mrs Winchester is quite capable of holding her own.” Wilfred did not for one second doubt Ruby’s sword arm. It was as legendary in Scara Brae as the force of her boot to an untended groin.

    Leopold chuckled. Wilfred was right on the money.

    “I think we have something bigger to worry about on our hands right now…” Leopold mused. The shriek and the thunderclaps meant that somewhere overhead, in the gloom that cut off the sky, she was swooping back and forth.

    “I daresay sir, she is going to quite the extent to put this caravan out of business, wouldn’t you say?” Wilfred lifted up Isabella, being the only man allowed to do so without losing a limb and raised it to the sky overhead. There was a brief silence, in which only the soft landing of sow flakes on red noses dared speak out against the heavily weighted question of the butler.

    Lady Montague never pulled her punches.

    “She is not after the caravan Wilfred, you know that.” Leopold glanced down at the old man, rifle still raised, scope till primed, heart still racing. He was not sure if it was his fear or his stamina that was failing him. He started to wish he had only one helping of pork at dinner before departing Knife’s Edge.

    “Quite right sir. I was trying to avoid thinking about what our fate will be if we do not,” he wrinkled his lips. With a dry, hoarse, doubtful smile he added, “Shall we say, do our mercantile duty?”

    There was another shriek overhead that was considerably closer than last time.

    “That will suffice Wilfred, quite good enough I should say.” Leopold looked back through the scope with baited breath.

    With pistol cocked to the dark sky, the moonlight barely breeching the front of the caravan, Wilfred made a brave show of trying to look like he knew how to aim. Leopold, a little better off in the fire arm department watched through the swirl of snow fall for the tell-tale signs that would mark his target out. The moonlight could not help but catch the polished black wings of the Lady Rook if she continued to so boldly declare her presence.

    Overhead, swooping back and forth with relish Lady Clarissa Montague examined the caravan up close. On her third pass, her wingspan skimming the cliff face either side of the gulley she opened her beak above the lead caravan. The shriek she let out the third time coincided with a third peal of thunder. A flash of lightning lit the sky, and in that split second two things happened.

    A rifle, somewhere below, loosed a shot.

    A woman with red hair lashed out with her sword, and as she drew it back blood steaming on its blade she flinched.

    Two birds felt the cold thrust of silver into their flesh in unison.

    Lady Montague and Lady Winchester both screamed in the shadows of Berevar’s inhospitable welcome.
    Last edited by Leopold; 07-20-13 at 06:59 PM.

  9. #9
    Member
    EXP: 20,122, Level: 6
    Level completed: 2%, EXP required for next level: 6,878
    Level completed: 2%,
    EXP required for next level: 6,878
    GP
    655
    Leopold's Avatar

    Name
    Leopold Winchester
    Age
    4000+ (appears 30)
    Race
    Human
    Gender
    Male
    Hair Color
    Brown
    Eye Color
    Brown
    Build
    5'10"/140lbs
    Job
    Merchant

    The rook screamed with an inhuman outburst. There was a thud in the air over the caravan as it beat its wings and began to fly upwards, desperate to avoid a follow up shot. It’s survival instinct caused a reflex to try and be free of the claustrophobia of the pass. The soft snowfall swirled behind each ascent, the avian advance kicking up a storm as it climbed and climbed and…fell.

    Clarissa’s rook form was heavily weighted in the middle, a great, puffy chest with plumes several feet long. It dropped first, bending her wings and tail feathers behind her. Her head snapped back, feathers flapping, beak opening and turning to the side with another shriek. A trickle of blood rose like a rose of blood into the sickly sky.

    CRASH!

    The ground all along the pass shook, though many were too enthralled by the need to survive to notice. The horses whinnied and shuffled their hooves nervously at the head of the caravan. Icicles and miniature avalanches dropped their weight into the darkness, small changes to an ever transforming landscape.

    “It has been a while…” she whispered, the snow dust rising about her fallen corpse.

    Lady Montague had been shot at many a time, it was part and parcel of being a slaver. What had not happened before, however, was being hit by one of those shots. Alongside the searing pain in her chest, she felt a burning agony in her ego. It was a humbling moment for a woman who was used to totalitarian power amongst her peers.

    By the time the snow settled, like the innards of a snow globe about a resin rook she had transformed back into her erudite human self. Her small body remained face down and prone amid a large bird shaped crater. Her arms were bent awkwardly in the same position as the great swathes where her wings had been.

    She groaned, spat, and rolled over.

    Her spider silk stitched tunic and silk cloak were speckled with clumps of white, packed snow. Her nose, turned red by the exposure to the frozen floor of the pass was running, and the vials on her chest were glowing. The proximity to the trickle of blood running down her bosom was inciting a reaction.

    “I owe you twice for that Winchester,” she snarled. She patted herself down, back arced, legs stretched, muscles all over aching.

    After several recovery breaths she pushed herself upright and stared through the gloom towards the head of the caravan. Her button nose wrinkled, resisting her attempt to warm it with her gloved fingers. Realising the futility of her actions she knocked the effort square on the head. There were more pressing matters to attend to asides limbs and skin she could easily regrow.

    “<Humman lemark, ill devus shar!>”

    The peal of thunder that followed her incantation dropped down into the pass and echoed the life out of the air in the crater. Lady Montague shook violently as if a bolt of lightning had hit her. Her skin started to hiss with steam as the snow melted from her and the patches of water evaporated into nothingness. The lost magic of the necromancers of Raiaera was not so lost in the dark of Berevar. To the worshippers of the old gods, it was a way of life, a talent to be pandered to in the service of the unforgotten names.

    “<Ill shanka devus,>” the second line was softer, and darted through the dark towards the direction she guessed the lead wagon was.

    What could piously give life, could also sickly take it away.
    Last edited by Leopold; 07-20-13 at 07:00 PM.

  10. #10
    Member
    EXP: 20,122, Level: 6
    Level completed: 2%, EXP required for next level: 6,878
    Level completed: 2%,
    EXP required for next level: 6,878
    GP
    655
    Leopold's Avatar

    Name
    Leopold Winchester
    Age
    4000+ (appears 30)
    Race
    Human
    Gender
    Male
    Hair Color
    Brown
    Eye Color
    Brown
    Build
    5'10"/140lbs
    Job
    Merchant

    Lady Montague wheezed as she clicked her spine back into place and rolled the stiffness in the muscles of her neck. It took her a few seconds to compose herself before she started trudging forwards, climbing out of the bird shaped drift with sluggish advances. The tip of her sword scabbard left a long line as she scrabbled most undignified on her hands and knees. The look on her face could have dropped a man to his knees at twenty paces, though for all the wrong reasons.

    When she staggered through the fog into view of the caravan she clutched the wound on her chest, slipped a vial from her bandoleer with her free hand and pulled the stopper with her teeth. As she spat the cork into the drift, she glared daggers at Leopold Winchester. He was stood lofty and several feet abreast than when she had last seen him on the front of the wagon, rifle still cocked to his chest, eyes gauging the threat in the skies.

    "You always did have your head in the clouds Leopold!" she roared.

    The second the rifle dropped to aim at Lady Montague, the vial rose towards Leopold. The spell bounced back towards her, ricocheting from the steep rock face of the pass and struck the red liquid. A shock wave erupted from the slaver and washed down the wagon train in a swirling, rolling fire storm.

    "Tut, guns are so undignified." There was vibrancy in her words that seemed to echo in Leopold’s mind.

    The flintlock mechanism of Jacqueline burst into flame, leaving Leopold with little choice but to drop the heavy rifle to the drift. It struck the reins and wheel shaft, leaving a dent in her Liviol form like a woman scorned. Leopold scowled and Wilfred, keen not to lose a hand dropped Isabella very quickly. He did not expect the woman feared a small trinket of war like the pistol, but he loosed her from his grip just in case.

    "Fight me like a real man," she challenged, dropping the empty glass tube with the same impulse to draw her steel rapier.

    Leopold Winchester, never one to let a woman with a bigger ego than his wife get the better of him leapt with a grunt from the wagon. His heavy boots thudded to the dirt and crushed the snow beneath his bulk with little resistance. Wilfred rose, hesitant for his Lord's safety.

    "I do not think this is a," when Leopold rose his hand in protestation, the butler sat down in a blunt and sudden silence.

    "Worry not, Wilfred, I will only be a moment. Be a good sport and put the kettle on would you?" he moved over towards the beckoning and delicate wrist that called for his attention. Wilfred shook his head as he dissipated into the canopy of the wagon, pulling the red canopy closed behind him as he went. His instincts as a man servant took over his instincts as a friend and protector. Tea would heal any woes suffered by his Lord, as long as he had remembered to pack the milk.

    "Clarissa my dear, if you wanted an audience with me, you really need not have gone to such trouble." For the first time in Leopold Winchester's short life he approached a woman with less than good intentions. He drew the length of steel he kept on his hip quite often just for show. He rubbed the leather handle between forefinger and thumb to keen its grip in his hand and levelled its tip at the woman's throat. "An appointment really would not have been needed."

    Lady Montague cut a cross in the air, the pain in her chest draining any sanity and etiquette from her mind.

    "Consider this an impromptu and off the cuff business opportunity," she snarled.

    Leopold bowed, "an appropriate sentiment."

    She charged through the snow in a trail of feathers. Remnants of her transformation bloodied and useless fell behind her in a flurry of shadowy plumes. Her sword caught the moonlight as it cleaved forwards into Leopold's defence, and they set their cards on the proverbial table.
    Last edited by Leopold; 07-20-13 at 07:02 PM.

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