Nero
04-09-07, 05:34 AM
Closed, and is a plotline based on "Little People".
The gloaming lights of the sun setting behind the Kildare Country Club beamed amongst a looming darkness, some barbaric form of fluorescent bulbs each seeming eager to prove themselves more important than the next.
Nero, personally found it annoying, rubbing his stinging eyes as they attempted to adjust. He allowed the greeter to usher him into the bar/restaurant and took an inconspicuous seat to the side. Taking a moment, he glanced around at the other occupants. A red faced man, and a child presumed to be his son, as well as a scruffy looking man who seemed to be having his last drink before he went about another meaningless day.
Consequently, our hero had known better. Harold, that was the drunkard’s name, was probably the dirtiest of men that Nero had the privelage of knowing. This of course was due to the stench that Harold gave off and the lack of a bath, but Harold had also known things that most people cared not to know. This, among a few other reasons, was why Nero continued to be subjected to his company. Luckily for him, Harold didnt appear to have had too much to drink quite yet.
“I fit right in,” Harold grumbled as he polished off his pint and slammed it on the oak tabletop infront of him.
“Expecting pity from that statement?” A quick retort followed by an arrogant snort led Harold’s vision to the side, where a meticulously dressed man stood tall. “The world has bigger issues than your self-confidence.” Nero quickly added.
Harold’s hazel eyes grew wide as he stared up at the man, the calm façade causing a shiver to tremble down his spine. He coughed into his hand, and rested his back against the countertop behind him. “What brings you here, Praetorian?”
“I can’t visit an old friend? Sad days,” Nero shifted, and drew back one of the chairs, sitting across the table from Harold. He lifted a calloused right hand, and signaled to a waiter. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
“Visit an old friend, eh? What’s the catch?” Harold arched a brow, a skeptical look replacing his previous fit of surprise. He raised his own hand, gesturing to the same waiter, “Make that two.”
“Well, I want to take another vacation involving some particular traders,” Nero started, resting an elbow on the table. His cautious raven eyes darted to the side as the waiter returned with a pair of chilled pints of house brew on a wooden platter in one hand and set them infront of them.
“Another vacation? You just retuned from your last. you’re a madman,” Harold scoffed, and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest and extending his lower lip audaciously. “Are you ill, Aran’ Rohak?”
A very slight click could be heard from under the table, as Nero shifted his blade from it’s sheath with the pad of his thumb, a smug grin sliding across his face. “I’ll let you be the judge. Choose your disposition carefully.”
Harold froze, feeling heat rising into his face; he racked his brain for the right words, as he forced a smile onto his face. “Okay, okay. It isn’t any of my business anyways. Consider these on me, and let the matter fall dead between us. Now that I think about it, we do seem to have important things to discuss.”
Nero eased the pommel back, and nodded. Lifting one of the mugs to his lips and took a sip, setting it back down. “Not too bad.”
“Can’t you reconsider though? Like, the idea of a job this calibur doesn’t seem to suit either of us well,” Harold sighed and picked up his napkin, wiping the sweat off of his face. He set it on the table, and picked his pint back up.
“Don’t be stupid, Harold. I need some information. Information on some unlawful trading,” Nero’s face grew stern as he took another sip of the bitter ale. “Let’s not get started on that little incident in Corone, eh?”
“That’s low, even for you,” Harold said with a combonation of embarassment and resentment, “Why get involved in something like this? Politics has never been your thing.”
Nero leaned back in his chair, resting one leg over table. “I’ve got personal interest,” Nero responded liesurely, taking another gulp of his ale. “So, what do you have for me?”
“Fine. Forget it.” Harold grumbled as he scooted closer to Nero. He had thought about asking our hero if he could have been compensated for the financially useful information, but that foolish question could’ve very well ended this conversation in bloodshed. Nevertheless, Harold revealed mounds of tasteful information like many times before.
-----
Nero’s individuality stood out with prominence as he stood defiantly amidst bodies strew haphazardly along one of many roads that connected Kachuk to Ettermire; a cool evening breeze washing away the stench of blood and bodily fluids. The Praetorian rolled his broad shoulders as he stepped forward, towering over one of many dwarven tradesman that had fallen victim to his blade; this particular fool still clinging to the small ounce of life in his lungs. The dwarf coughed heavily, spewing a puddle of blood onto his chest before desperately reaching for his sword that lay beside him. Nero firmly planted his left foot on the halfling's wrist in response and brandished his spear, laying more weight on the dying dwarf’s arm.
“The queen will have your head for this. Scoundrels like you don’t live long in Alerar,” the halfling claimed.
“I find that strange,” Nero responded, craning his neck to the left and spitting on the ground, “when it’s her law that I’ve sacked your caravan to begin with.”
“Lies! You’re nothing more than a trade-route bandit. You won’t see-”
“Choose your words carefully, dog, and tell me where you were heading,” Nero interrupted the short man mid-sentence.
The dwarf staggered for an answer, arrested by the wound to his chest. Patiently, Nero waited for a response, but that would last only a couple of moments before he noticed that the only covered wagon had caught fire and it’s contents would go damaged if not rescued quickly. Turning back to the halfling at his feet, Nero’s cold stare met with the fearful dwarf’s.
“Please, be merciful,” the dwarf pleaded. “Take what you wish.”
“I planned on it,” our Hero responded pretentiously. Quickly thereafter, the Praetorian raised his spear above him before driving it through the chest of the dwarf, finalizing his blow with a twisting motion that sounded the cracking of the halfling’s chest cavity. Just as promptly he retracted the weapon as he stepped off of the dead body and hastily made his way to the wagon before it had been completely engulfed in flame.
It’s contents proved to be rather disappointing after liberating them, however. A couple chests full of linens, some crates of breads and an assortment of wines. The only apparent cargo of any value had been a small box that contained 50 gold coins which had probably been toll of some sort. Apparently Harold's information had proven false or he'd sacked a caravan of innocent traders, but the thought wouldn't cross his mind a second time. Innocent or not, they were dwarves; that kind of scum wasn't deserving of life regardless of purpose. Sighing heavily, Nero plunged his spear into the ground, laid his shield against it and removed his helmet. Disappointed, Nero snatched a bottle of wine from one of the crates and popped the cork, figuring that he’d drink while he planned his next course of action.
“Atleast the liquor is worthwhile,” he mused as he wiped his chin.
The gloaming lights of the sun setting behind the Kildare Country Club beamed amongst a looming darkness, some barbaric form of fluorescent bulbs each seeming eager to prove themselves more important than the next.
Nero, personally found it annoying, rubbing his stinging eyes as they attempted to adjust. He allowed the greeter to usher him into the bar/restaurant and took an inconspicuous seat to the side. Taking a moment, he glanced around at the other occupants. A red faced man, and a child presumed to be his son, as well as a scruffy looking man who seemed to be having his last drink before he went about another meaningless day.
Consequently, our hero had known better. Harold, that was the drunkard’s name, was probably the dirtiest of men that Nero had the privelage of knowing. This of course was due to the stench that Harold gave off and the lack of a bath, but Harold had also known things that most people cared not to know. This, among a few other reasons, was why Nero continued to be subjected to his company. Luckily for him, Harold didnt appear to have had too much to drink quite yet.
“I fit right in,” Harold grumbled as he polished off his pint and slammed it on the oak tabletop infront of him.
“Expecting pity from that statement?” A quick retort followed by an arrogant snort led Harold’s vision to the side, where a meticulously dressed man stood tall. “The world has bigger issues than your self-confidence.” Nero quickly added.
Harold’s hazel eyes grew wide as he stared up at the man, the calm façade causing a shiver to tremble down his spine. He coughed into his hand, and rested his back against the countertop behind him. “What brings you here, Praetorian?”
“I can’t visit an old friend? Sad days,” Nero shifted, and drew back one of the chairs, sitting across the table from Harold. He lifted a calloused right hand, and signaled to a waiter. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
“Visit an old friend, eh? What’s the catch?” Harold arched a brow, a skeptical look replacing his previous fit of surprise. He raised his own hand, gesturing to the same waiter, “Make that two.”
“Well, I want to take another vacation involving some particular traders,” Nero started, resting an elbow on the table. His cautious raven eyes darted to the side as the waiter returned with a pair of chilled pints of house brew on a wooden platter in one hand and set them infront of them.
“Another vacation? You just retuned from your last. you’re a madman,” Harold scoffed, and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest and extending his lower lip audaciously. “Are you ill, Aran’ Rohak?”
A very slight click could be heard from under the table, as Nero shifted his blade from it’s sheath with the pad of his thumb, a smug grin sliding across his face. “I’ll let you be the judge. Choose your disposition carefully.”
Harold froze, feeling heat rising into his face; he racked his brain for the right words, as he forced a smile onto his face. “Okay, okay. It isn’t any of my business anyways. Consider these on me, and let the matter fall dead between us. Now that I think about it, we do seem to have important things to discuss.”
Nero eased the pommel back, and nodded. Lifting one of the mugs to his lips and took a sip, setting it back down. “Not too bad.”
“Can’t you reconsider though? Like, the idea of a job this calibur doesn’t seem to suit either of us well,” Harold sighed and picked up his napkin, wiping the sweat off of his face. He set it on the table, and picked his pint back up.
“Don’t be stupid, Harold. I need some information. Information on some unlawful trading,” Nero’s face grew stern as he took another sip of the bitter ale. “Let’s not get started on that little incident in Corone, eh?”
“That’s low, even for you,” Harold said with a combonation of embarassment and resentment, “Why get involved in something like this? Politics has never been your thing.”
Nero leaned back in his chair, resting one leg over table. “I’ve got personal interest,” Nero responded liesurely, taking another gulp of his ale. “So, what do you have for me?”
“Fine. Forget it.” Harold grumbled as he scooted closer to Nero. He had thought about asking our hero if he could have been compensated for the financially useful information, but that foolish question could’ve very well ended this conversation in bloodshed. Nevertheless, Harold revealed mounds of tasteful information like many times before.
-----
Nero’s individuality stood out with prominence as he stood defiantly amidst bodies strew haphazardly along one of many roads that connected Kachuk to Ettermire; a cool evening breeze washing away the stench of blood and bodily fluids. The Praetorian rolled his broad shoulders as he stepped forward, towering over one of many dwarven tradesman that had fallen victim to his blade; this particular fool still clinging to the small ounce of life in his lungs. The dwarf coughed heavily, spewing a puddle of blood onto his chest before desperately reaching for his sword that lay beside him. Nero firmly planted his left foot on the halfling's wrist in response and brandished his spear, laying more weight on the dying dwarf’s arm.
“The queen will have your head for this. Scoundrels like you don’t live long in Alerar,” the halfling claimed.
“I find that strange,” Nero responded, craning his neck to the left and spitting on the ground, “when it’s her law that I’ve sacked your caravan to begin with.”
“Lies! You’re nothing more than a trade-route bandit. You won’t see-”
“Choose your words carefully, dog, and tell me where you were heading,” Nero interrupted the short man mid-sentence.
The dwarf staggered for an answer, arrested by the wound to his chest. Patiently, Nero waited for a response, but that would last only a couple of moments before he noticed that the only covered wagon had caught fire and it’s contents would go damaged if not rescued quickly. Turning back to the halfling at his feet, Nero’s cold stare met with the fearful dwarf’s.
“Please, be merciful,” the dwarf pleaded. “Take what you wish.”
“I planned on it,” our Hero responded pretentiously. Quickly thereafter, the Praetorian raised his spear above him before driving it through the chest of the dwarf, finalizing his blow with a twisting motion that sounded the cracking of the halfling’s chest cavity. Just as promptly he retracted the weapon as he stepped off of the dead body and hastily made his way to the wagon before it had been completely engulfed in flame.
It’s contents proved to be rather disappointing after liberating them, however. A couple chests full of linens, some crates of breads and an assortment of wines. The only apparent cargo of any value had been a small box that contained 50 gold coins which had probably been toll of some sort. Apparently Harold's information had proven false or he'd sacked a caravan of innocent traders, but the thought wouldn't cross his mind a second time. Innocent or not, they were dwarves; that kind of scum wasn't deserving of life regardless of purpose. Sighing heavily, Nero plunged his spear into the ground, laid his shield against it and removed his helmet. Disappointed, Nero snatched a bottle of wine from one of the crates and popped the cork, figuring that he’d drink while he planned his next course of action.
“Atleast the liquor is worthwhile,” he mused as he wiped his chin.