Whisper
04-01-07, 04:56 PM
Closed to Jericho. If anyone else is interested, send a PM to myself or Jericho and we will send you the quest details and see if your character/idea fits.
Josen laid four of his last coins on the counter and accepted the small metal tin which was passed to him. The clerk began fishing out coppers for change. "Keep it," said Josen, knowing he couldn't really afford to but above all, not caring. He wasn't sure what had made him purchase the grease in the first place other than habit, but as he sat down near the steps of the supplier, he was suddenly inspired to be grateful for that habit.
He'd forgotten how sore he was. Every inch and muscle of him ached right down to his toe bones as he pulled off first one boot, then the other. They collapsed onto the dirt in much the same manner he would like to. A small plume of dust rose to greet his kneecaps. Josen slapped it away, reminding himself that he'd just had a bath - in Niema's frigid waters, no less - and didn't need to be making a subsequent trip necessary, not that his dulled senses couldn't reuse the jarring. That had been the reason behind the last one, and already, its effects were fading swiftly. All his body wanted to do was fall over on its back into oblivion, but Josen knew what that oblivion held so he grasped his boot then the grease can, moistened his rag, and continued to do what militant breeding had taught him to do every sixth day of each week, since he'd been of age to hold his first training wand.
The cracks were few, but the patterns in the leather were many. Josen was used to see the faces in them, hearing their names buzz silently, consistently, in his head. The constant void of loss, though, was a sensation his insides were weary of. They grew tired of holding up shields, and so he did them the kind favor of intermittently closing his eyes, inviting only a different form of visions that were sometimes or sometimes not gentler than the more lucid ones of his dreams.
He must have dozed, because a rough kick, and a matching voice from above, jarred him.
"No sleeping in the streets," it said.
"I'm not." Josen flexed his hand and opened his eyes to see that he was indeed lying. Shielding his eyes from the glare of a setting sun, he focused fuzzily on a boot as it kicked his tin can down the steps.
"Right," said the boot's occupant. "And might be my name is Sally. Best get on with yourself. We ain't in need of any beggars here in this town."
Beggar?
Josen snapped his head up, retort burnt on his tongue, but he pressed the wit quick into his teeth, keeping them shut. The mass hovering over him was near twice his size, and held a blood hungry gaze punctuated by a jagged pink line trailing down weathered facial planes to disect his black beard into two.
Rethinking himself, Josen spoke slowly. "Might be a traveler just needs a few minutes before he continues...sir."
The man gleamed. His arms were bent into an ominous, lookin-for-trouble fold, one marked with an impatient, twitching thumb, but the pose held. Whatever weapon was strapped to his back remained there. After a long enough span that his gaze had chomped on his victim, chewed, and spit him out twice, he apparently decided Josen's humility was enough and stepped back.
"Make sure those minutes are short."
"Will do," promised Josen, quite sincerely, and sitting up straight for the delivery. He retrieved the grease tin as the local stalked away, spending only a second's eyesight on his shadow, flanked by two others, before returning to his task and the memories which accompanied him.
* * *
He shouldn't have, but he did so anyway. The Lizard's Belly was where he was, or so the sign said told, and on its farthest bench from the door, somewhere near the kitchen, was where Josen attempted to nurse his fifth mead. Either the harpist was grand or the conversation engaging, because the tankard he currently held possessed the same consistency of its four brothers before it: water. Momentarily wondering if that was because they watered their drink down, Josen decided the best method of finding out was to consume a thorough intake and taste.
A thump interrupted his chugging. The bench jostled, and then a heavy hand thwacked on his back. His new buddy and drinking partner, whom he couldn't currently name, was leaving. "Unlike you, I've got a missus at home-"
Josen cringed, but mastered the expression into a crinkling smile. "Never let a good conversation keep a man from his wedding bed."
"Indeed." The nameless one laid coppers on the table. "For your next round."
"My gratuities." Once, Josen would have been prideful. Tonight he just lifted his mug. First in salute, then in one long pull to counter the sobriety befalling to assault him now that he was alone.
Four days since he had left - or fled, more accurately - Radasanth's gates, and he had not yet outgained a step from the demons pursuing him. This was because they were in his own head, of course, and one could not outrun their own thoughts. They could be outdrunk, however, and he rose from the table to prove it. His tankard was empty, he'd discovered, but that was a blasphemy remedied easily enough. Forgetting nameless's copper gift, he made his semi unsteady way toward the front of the room (and more importantly, the barrels and the mugs to put them in), and was concentrating so hard on counting his money that it didn't even occur to him to apologize for the occasional strange back he brushed upon.
"Thought you was leaving."
Josen turned his head and saw a familiar scar with lips attached, pursed in dissatisfaction. "Pardon me," he said, as politely as he insincerely could, and began to continue to the all important counter with the more important, busy barkeep behind. He stopped only because there was now a foot in his path, and because he wasn't yet drunk enough to fall over it. Still, there was some disorientation as his peripheral vision slid by to focus again on the over burly local who had greeted him so friendly-like at the supplier's.
He'd had his bright moments before but this probably wasn't one of them; Josen adopted a very wide, and very stupidly engaging, false grin.
"You didn't answer me," the scar reminded him. Firmly.
"Thought I might stay for a while." It wasn't a lie. A town run more by the civilians than military would be perfect for him - if only it wasn't so near Radasanth.
Scar grunted. Even through liquor, Josen recognized the decision being made. Now would be a good time for him to make his apologies and amends, but something else spoke, a voice that said 'what the heck, anyway?', and Josen instead stepped aside, placing his hand mid on his scabbard, and made to proceed.
The foot slid back. Or rather, it began to slide back. What happened was that the leg came jutting out at the same instant a ready hand pushed reflexively down. Leather covered steel met essentially unprotected shin bone, and curses erupted, wood scraped flooring, then silmultaneous weapons hissied free of their sheaths.
Oh boy, said another voice within Josen before it slipped deep into hiding.
Josen laid four of his last coins on the counter and accepted the small metal tin which was passed to him. The clerk began fishing out coppers for change. "Keep it," said Josen, knowing he couldn't really afford to but above all, not caring. He wasn't sure what had made him purchase the grease in the first place other than habit, but as he sat down near the steps of the supplier, he was suddenly inspired to be grateful for that habit.
He'd forgotten how sore he was. Every inch and muscle of him ached right down to his toe bones as he pulled off first one boot, then the other. They collapsed onto the dirt in much the same manner he would like to. A small plume of dust rose to greet his kneecaps. Josen slapped it away, reminding himself that he'd just had a bath - in Niema's frigid waters, no less - and didn't need to be making a subsequent trip necessary, not that his dulled senses couldn't reuse the jarring. That had been the reason behind the last one, and already, its effects were fading swiftly. All his body wanted to do was fall over on its back into oblivion, but Josen knew what that oblivion held so he grasped his boot then the grease can, moistened his rag, and continued to do what militant breeding had taught him to do every sixth day of each week, since he'd been of age to hold his first training wand.
The cracks were few, but the patterns in the leather were many. Josen was used to see the faces in them, hearing their names buzz silently, consistently, in his head. The constant void of loss, though, was a sensation his insides were weary of. They grew tired of holding up shields, and so he did them the kind favor of intermittently closing his eyes, inviting only a different form of visions that were sometimes or sometimes not gentler than the more lucid ones of his dreams.
He must have dozed, because a rough kick, and a matching voice from above, jarred him.
"No sleeping in the streets," it said.
"I'm not." Josen flexed his hand and opened his eyes to see that he was indeed lying. Shielding his eyes from the glare of a setting sun, he focused fuzzily on a boot as it kicked his tin can down the steps.
"Right," said the boot's occupant. "And might be my name is Sally. Best get on with yourself. We ain't in need of any beggars here in this town."
Beggar?
Josen snapped his head up, retort burnt on his tongue, but he pressed the wit quick into his teeth, keeping them shut. The mass hovering over him was near twice his size, and held a blood hungry gaze punctuated by a jagged pink line trailing down weathered facial planes to disect his black beard into two.
Rethinking himself, Josen spoke slowly. "Might be a traveler just needs a few minutes before he continues...sir."
The man gleamed. His arms were bent into an ominous, lookin-for-trouble fold, one marked with an impatient, twitching thumb, but the pose held. Whatever weapon was strapped to his back remained there. After a long enough span that his gaze had chomped on his victim, chewed, and spit him out twice, he apparently decided Josen's humility was enough and stepped back.
"Make sure those minutes are short."
"Will do," promised Josen, quite sincerely, and sitting up straight for the delivery. He retrieved the grease tin as the local stalked away, spending only a second's eyesight on his shadow, flanked by two others, before returning to his task and the memories which accompanied him.
* * *
He shouldn't have, but he did so anyway. The Lizard's Belly was where he was, or so the sign said told, and on its farthest bench from the door, somewhere near the kitchen, was where Josen attempted to nurse his fifth mead. Either the harpist was grand or the conversation engaging, because the tankard he currently held possessed the same consistency of its four brothers before it: water. Momentarily wondering if that was because they watered their drink down, Josen decided the best method of finding out was to consume a thorough intake and taste.
A thump interrupted his chugging. The bench jostled, and then a heavy hand thwacked on his back. His new buddy and drinking partner, whom he couldn't currently name, was leaving. "Unlike you, I've got a missus at home-"
Josen cringed, but mastered the expression into a crinkling smile. "Never let a good conversation keep a man from his wedding bed."
"Indeed." The nameless one laid coppers on the table. "For your next round."
"My gratuities." Once, Josen would have been prideful. Tonight he just lifted his mug. First in salute, then in one long pull to counter the sobriety befalling to assault him now that he was alone.
Four days since he had left - or fled, more accurately - Radasanth's gates, and he had not yet outgained a step from the demons pursuing him. This was because they were in his own head, of course, and one could not outrun their own thoughts. They could be outdrunk, however, and he rose from the table to prove it. His tankard was empty, he'd discovered, but that was a blasphemy remedied easily enough. Forgetting nameless's copper gift, he made his semi unsteady way toward the front of the room (and more importantly, the barrels and the mugs to put them in), and was concentrating so hard on counting his money that it didn't even occur to him to apologize for the occasional strange back he brushed upon.
"Thought you was leaving."
Josen turned his head and saw a familiar scar with lips attached, pursed in dissatisfaction. "Pardon me," he said, as politely as he insincerely could, and began to continue to the all important counter with the more important, busy barkeep behind. He stopped only because there was now a foot in his path, and because he wasn't yet drunk enough to fall over it. Still, there was some disorientation as his peripheral vision slid by to focus again on the over burly local who had greeted him so friendly-like at the supplier's.
He'd had his bright moments before but this probably wasn't one of them; Josen adopted a very wide, and very stupidly engaging, false grin.
"You didn't answer me," the scar reminded him. Firmly.
"Thought I might stay for a while." It wasn't a lie. A town run more by the civilians than military would be perfect for him - if only it wasn't so near Radasanth.
Scar grunted. Even through liquor, Josen recognized the decision being made. Now would be a good time for him to make his apologies and amends, but something else spoke, a voice that said 'what the heck, anyway?', and Josen instead stepped aside, placing his hand mid on his scabbard, and made to proceed.
The foot slid back. Or rather, it began to slide back. What happened was that the leg came jutting out at the same instant a ready hand pushed reflexively down. Leather covered steel met essentially unprotected shin bone, and curses erupted, wood scraped flooring, then silmultaneous weapons hissied free of their sheaths.
Oh boy, said another voice within Josen before it slipped deep into hiding.