Results 1 to 10 of 29

Thread: Quest For The Lyre Of Orphaeo

Threaded View

Previous Post Previous Post   Next Post Next Post
  1. #21
    Lyre-Bearer
    EXP: 55,279, Level: 10
    Level completed: 12%, EXP required for next level: 9,721
    Level completed: 12%,
    EXP required for next level: 9,721

    AP
    56
    GP
    6,470
    Philomel's Avatar

    Name
    Philomel van der Aart (+ Veridian)
    Age
    28
    Race
    faun
    Gender
    female
    Hair Color
    violet (dyed)
    Eye Color
    grey
    Build
    6ft / 156kg
    Job
    Assassin-Whore, Matriarch (Gilded Lily), Master of Secrets (Crimson Hand)

    View Profile
    "Well," Philomel said after his harmless moment of laughter. The sounds of his merry chortling still rung about her ears. Strangely, it was a pleasant sound, and neother mocking nor irritating. In fact she seemed to grasp some hnour and pride out of the fact he found her funny - even though her egoism caused her not to comment on this fact, or even show it in her expression.

    "Well," she repeated, a couple of seconds later, for the effect of not seeming easily impressed. "Shall we continue on our way?"

    Breaker paused and looked rather pointedly at her unconcious beast of burden. Pursing her lips, Philomel had to confess he had a point, and so simply nodded, and sat right down where she was.

    "We shall go when he wakes then?" she suggested, but really ordered. After all, her furry rear-end was already on the soft earth.

    The maul-slayer inclined his head and agreed, taking his time to sit opposite her. It was done in a graceful way, and the faun could not help but be impressed by this god-favoured being. Certainly, he had the air of glory about him, a feeling of strength diginity. In her pleased heart she quietly contemplated him, his figure and demaneour, quite taken by him - but by no means taken aback. Rather, it was a joyous thrill to watch him - watch the bend of the knightly knee, the exquisite fold of the nimble hand. As her lips pursed and the faun lost herself in the measure of percieving him, Veridian chose the time to sidle up beside her.

    Yes, he is very pretty, he muttered, somewhat in a sickened tone, into her head.

    Softly, she blinked, and pushed away his pointed muzzle from where it gestured to her. Meanwhile did she never take her eyes off Breaker's seated form.

    You can be quiet now, replied she, but in a high-strung, non-chalant tone.

    Veridian snickered away. Brushing his tail against her knee he moved his head away from her, choosing instead to curl up near her hoof. In this position he was between her and the mighty horned head of the sleeping tera'k, purposeful to come to guard when the animal awoke. Likely to hefty bellows and copious thrashes.

    ~*~

    Not too far to the north, hidden away in a chamber beneath the forest's darkness, there sat a man and a woman. Her face was half hidden in shadow, for the fabric of a cowl was thrown over it. He himself had little to hide his identity besides a mass of wild hair framing a strong-jawed face. Whilst she was thumbing the ridge of a maple elf-made bow, he dug the end of the shaft of a mattock into the ground. Across from each other they were positioned, between them nothing but a space of earth and small stones.

    "So," said he in a very low, husky, but booming voice. "We are 'ere."

    His accent, an urban backstreet one by the best of guesses, rolled into the gloom of the cave and tickled the curving, upwards entrance. A few mindless mites were sent scattering by the volume.

    It caused the female archer to arch an eyebrow before she replied.

    "Indeed we are," her voice was far more proper. Born and raised in a noble house it only made sense. "We finally meet."

    "I am Feardon."

    "And I am No-One," she quickly responded, the bright flashes beneath her hood that were eyes glaring at the man. "And that is what I am, and that is what you will know me as."

    For a moment the man was tempted to burst into laughter, but something of the way she stared, and something of the way she fingered her bow and the nearness of her full quiver told her it would be a mistake. Pride placed aside, he inclined his head.

    "Fine, then No-One ye'are, and no one ye shall be. 'Tis a pleasure to meet ye."

    "And you too, I suppose," No-One raised her chin slightly, using her spare hand to scratch underneath it, eyes though never leaving him. "There is a lot I have been told, and a lot I am expecting."

    Feardon smiled a small bit - or perhaps it was more of a smirk. His massive hands ran down the shaft of his mattock and hit the cold steel edge of the metal heads.

    "Well it takes a lo' to be in service to a demon-god," he said in a sort of testingly idle way. At the sound of his frustratingly loud, irating tone No-one siezed, and it took more willpower for Feardon not to burst into laughter. Quickly, he continued his sentence to avoid her wrath. "... So I am guessin' you are rather expectan' of many people. Tell me, 'ave you ever worked with a professional barbarian before?"

    "No, but I have killed your kind before," she said with no hesitation, "And I will do again, if you get in my way."

    "But-" pointed out he, fast, before she could even begin to be tempted, "If ye do, then you will be alone in this. And the reports say there are two of them searchin' fer the lyre."

    "The lyre which we will get to before," No-One said, her chin jutting up in pride. "Which we will take and track before they do."

    "To use fer your god's purposes I suppose?"

    Her head bobbed once, a decline and an incline to signify her acception of the question. "All for his purposes. As soon as my temple received word the whereabouts of Orphaeo's tomb has possibly been discovered, we knew we had to act. I was sent here, to work with you, my hired help, in order to get it before any others do."

    "I am yer hired help am I?" Feardon raised a brow.

    No-One pointed in a direct manner to the large, heavy pouch at his belt. The barbarian chortled somewhat, finally for a legitimate reason, as he cupped the clinking bag of coin with a hand.

    "I guess I am," his grin spread across his magnificent, scarred face, "I guess I am then."
    Last edited by Philomel; 04-03-17 at 04:52 PM.
    "Tol. Mela. Othor." "Versh. Sai. Memnae." Come. Love. Conquer. - Philomel in Tolkein Sindarin, Faunish and Tradespeak

    Very grateful winner of 2015 Althies Awards: Friendliest Member, Mrs Althanas, Best IC Rivalry (with Doge), Best Judge and Most Helpful/Friendly Mod and Admin Award of Moderator of the Year.

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •