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Meanwhile, in Triskellian...

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  • #31
    But what does it do...really

    She crawled quietly from the bed, slipping gently to the floor. The sun was rising and she could hear a few rising from their beds. She nabbed her boots and lightly minced toward the door, slipping out without a sound.

    Settling in for a few hours in the library she found herself distracted, still allowing her mind to work over the nights events, the conversations, the sensation of lightness in her belly, that warm and exhilarating undertone that gave her even now reason to pause and smile.

    She continued to pore over the books, scribbling bts of scripture here and there, snippets of poems written a thousand years before. SHe gathered the pages together and swept the books from the librarians desk, splaying her chart neatly over the frame of the poorly sized top. She weighted the chart with her goblet and a chunk of cheese, and started to work over the words.

    The words slowly began to change, letters into numbers, a turn of a phrase becomes a reference to a reef, a quip found scrawled in the corner of an old book of limericks pinpoints the final destination.

    She quickly drew her misericorde and thrust the tip deep into the chart and the wood of the desk underneath. twisting it lightly she impressed it once again, X, ironically marking the spot.

    Someone shuffled in through the front doors of the library, she could hear the faint chatter as she gathered her chart and made for the door flashing the librarian a quick grin as she slipped out

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    • #32
      Update!

      More story stuff.

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      • #33
        An artist's touch

        She forced the smile, as well as her swift reply ,"I'm fine, I promise dear girl, don't worry yourself so much over the likes of me." Her hand tightened under the cloak that showered over her body like a large,velvet curtain. Her hidden cheeks grew pale as another wave of nausea hit her like a stone wall. Hoping the woman didn't notice, she fought against her own body. She could hear her heart beat, she could see the 'fireworks' that enlightened the girl before her. She wanted so badly to touch the fireworks, have them as her own, for she was so dead inside, so empty and colorless. Each passing day she grew weaker, more fragile. The need ate at her, at night she walked the city's alleys like a lingering soul. The need kept her awake, kept her starving. He left her with the need, and she couldn't give into the appetite. Where was he? Why did he forsake her? After setting upon her like prey of a sort, he left her with the same speed he had hunted her. The curse drifted through her veins, poisoning her organs. Another wave of pain, her fur shivered. The woman looked over her twice ,"Are you sure?" She swayed, stepped once toward the girl. Her eyes danced, golden discs tainted with crimson infection. Would she make this girl suffer the same fate as her own?....The fireworks soon faded, leaving behind nothing but a canvas smeared with red.
        Madalina Blue and Saruno

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        • #34
          Watching her sleep

          Niven watched as Rosaline gently exhaled in her sleep and smiled. Every little detail counted, the way she lay on her side and had a hand tucked under her cheek, The way her small delicate body was all curled up. The way her other hand was sitting inbetween them, palm up, inviting him to hold it. Even the way her waist length cerise-streaked auburn hair would sometimes cascde over her shoulder and fall over her face.
          He brushed the hair away from her cheek with his index finger and contently sighed. He didnt want to leave such a sight, but even though he wasnt getting any business as a blacksmith his determination to be successful ruled.
          His feet hit the floor and he quickly turned his gaze to her shifting body, hoping he didn't wake her. She had changed her position and now had her small delicate body spread over the whole bed in a starfish pose. After a moment of watching her he felt it safe enough and reached down to find his boots. Gently, he raised himself from the bed and pulled his tunic over his head. He then tiptoed to the door and managed to ease himself out, closing the door behind him.

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          • #35
            A Crimson Ship on the horizon

            The tide rolled in, and the air was still, the morning seemed to bite at her fingers as she leaned exhausted over the wheel. A mixture of dread and joy mingled within her as Triskellian came into view. How long had it been really? She couldnt remember. Maybe it had been forever, perhaps it was only a dream, a nightmare, or maybe she was coming home.

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            • #36
              Perfection

              Thick white paint covered her ginger-kissed fingertips. She loved the smell of the wax and oil mixture, loved the cool feeling of the paint as she smeared it over her cheeks one after another. Her face was her canvas, and each night it she made it into a beautiful masterpiece. Gazing at herself in her makeshift mirror she smiled at her reflection, finding it sad that she recognized herself more with this mask than that of her own face. She then lowered her fingers into a small brown jar, temporarily dying her fingers deep raven. Drawing a sideways eight-shaped figure over her eyes, she looked back at her perfection. Her favorite part was the glitter she would then add to her eyelashes. They were beautiful without the shimmering decor, long, sultry lashes she had been born with, but with the added texture her eyes burst with imagination. Her eyes, in her own opinion,were her only flaw. One the color of the grass after a spring shower, the other the color of a buttercup. She hated her eyes, they shattered her symmetric system. She snapped her eyes from her mirror, refocusing on a small container of thick, deep crimson paint. She pursed her lips, applying the paint first to her upper lip, then her lower. "Muah!" Purrrr-fection. Giggling at herself for being so spunky, she stepped back from her mirror, closely examining the finished project..........

              .........In another place, Raff practiced her juggling with Jonny the Devil and Billy the Kidd. As she moved gracefully, the bells to her hat chimed and jingled musically. Her hands smoothly tossed each of the burning balls one after the other from hand to hand in a circular direction. Suddenly, she threw each ball into the air at an angle as high, and hard as she could. The yellow X on the floor several feet in front of her was to be her landing pad. As soon as the last flaming ball left her finger tips, her hands met the floor and she backflipped and cartwheeled agilely until her feet shockingly met the X. Standing up right, she caught each extinguished ball as it fell from its flight, all but one, which hit her right on her face. WHACK. "Owww, aweee! My makeup! She is going to -kill- me."
              Billy the Kidd and Jonny the Devil allowed their jaws to hit the floor. She could have been burned on the face, had the ball not lost it's fire, but instead she was worried about her makeup and what her missing-in-action sister would think about it?! They glanced at each other, simultaneously shaking their heads. WOMEN, ugh.

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              • #37
                Alas, the sea did spit and curse

                Finding it indelicate to put to rest any of her crew that were "Lost" Omen finds herself limping back, so to speak, to Trisk, the smells, the bustle and the noise an almost welcome intrusion into the din of her own recklessly distracted mind.

                Here she arrives, evidently being hunted or stalked or in the least watched...by whom?

                She discovers it much the same if only the addition of a few new faces, some evidently old and some very fresh. In particular discovering that her previous contact and confidant within the Bisclavet is missing or gone or left or ...something

                A new and or old fox lord has entered the landscape as has a rather large and curious wolf lad.

                She thought if for a moment she caught sight of Virendra out of the corner of her eye, but she may well be mad from too many months at sea and now sits rather confused and nearing full inebriation within the Turret, having found no solice in her books.

                "This will not be a banner evening" She commented to the tender before sinking into another glass.

                And what did that cost me, that trip, this return, but a crew and near my own life. Slander and Curses, but at least its not hot out

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                • #38
                  The evident rise in her temperature made Omen sick, she waited to the side of the commons for a while, meandered in and out of buildings, even lay on the couch in the boarding house for a while hoping to see who else would wander out. The Return of Kirin had stirred her, made her anxious to see more of the crew, holding wild revels in the bowels of the ship again or just lounge about in reckless and various stages of undress. She had missed them all. These were her family. The city seems cold even now as she goes about the preparations for Molly's funeral. She neatly scrubbed down each of the chairs to be set out for those who come in observation. The flowers having been ordered and her own pressing need to make it perfect, to remind people of the great light that had been stolen away to soon.

                  She now sprawled on her floor, staring up at her ceiling wondering."Where are you Mols...whats it like"

                  She drug herself from the floor and reached for the nearest drink, dumping part of it on the floor beside her. "Chicker, Mate".
                  She smile faintly, downing the remainder of the glass of whiskey and headed toward the door.

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                  • #39
                    Harken Zeiss jerked himself awake, sweat matting his fur to his face and chest. His hair was a disheveled mess, strewn about by the tossing and turning of his fitful sleep. He threw the covers from his body and weakly cursed the warmth of the summer morning. He sat up, cupping his face in his palms.

                    "That same damn nightmare again."

                    He could see her face even then as he closed his eyes. "Leah..."

                    Though his hands were on his face, he could feel only her head, could almost hear the snap of her neck. It had been more than one life he had ruined in that single action.

                    But above and beyond the feeling and sound, it was the look on her face that had most stuck with him. That most haunted him; disturbed him. Not a look of fear, which he had seen on many of those he had killed. No, she was not afraid of him, nor of death. It was not a look of anger, one he had grown accustomed to seeing leveled at him.

                    Her eyes were sorrowful. She had looked on him in disappointment in those final moments. It was that look which he had seen in the nightmare, this night and countless nights before. The look, and her final words; just one simple phrase.

                    "I forgive you."

                    A chill shot across his flesh, he could almost hear her saying it now. "I'm sorry." He said.

                    "I cannot take it back, and I cannot make up for it. But I am sorry."

                    He pulled himself from the bed and began to dress for the early morning. Sleep would not come to him again this night.
                    Last edited by Zeiss; 06-29-2011, 05:10 PM. Reason: fixed spelling errors, d'oh
                    OOC -- Doctor Hush says, "he eats blackholes"

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                    • #40
                      The stone masons worked all night, while Fips tended and painstakingly assembled each funeral bouquet. Bekka spent hours and hours gathering all the right flowers for the service, while Omen sat and carefully refitted a lonely blue leather eyepatch.

                      The service ran long, an the songs of fiddlers green could be heard through the streets of newtown.

                      The small band of sailors and friends parted ways and moved out into the city again. United if not but for a moment.

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                      • #41
                        She wakes. Kafka has belched in his sleep again, probably ridding his stomach of noxious gasses as noxious as he is. It's a wonder he hasn't dissolved from the vile concoction that is he.

                        A sigh escapes her snapdragon lips as the throbbing pain returns to the forefront of her mind. It occurs to her the whiskey has worn off in her fitful sleep and the bandage has come loose; but, with the inspection from her involuntary palm to the head, she determines the stitches remain firm.

                        The sigh turns into a groan, then an outright curse, *Why th'fuck does 'e 'ave t'pick on me?!"

                        The Nurse, hearing the commotion, shuffles over for a brief examination and makes about rearranging and changing the bandaging keeping the fractured skull in place. All the while she clucks her tongue in wordless admonishment.

                        Zaria purses her lips, the Nurse has fastened the bandage much too tight, but should she complain the healers of the infirmary would flock on her like an angry hoard insisting it remain firm. This deepens the furrow permanently etched into her forehead. I always hated infirmaries.

                        As soon as the Nurse is satisfied she bustles off to focus her plucky fingers on Kafka's numerous injuries and allows Zaria a sigh of relief.

                        Reluctantly, she realises she's going to be in for a long, boring stay in the infirmary. Not again!

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                        • #42
                          Sighing throatily she sinks her short, little body into the steaming water. Leaning her head back on the lip of the tub she tries to relax all the kinks in her neck, from her overnight stay in the infirmary. A hard desk is hardly her ideal bed mate.

                          As she scrubs her blood caked hands and forearms, turning the bathwater and ugly red, she thinks back to the previous night. I really hope whatever caused Kafka's foaming at the mouth, wasn't rabies. Chewing her lower lip she cant help but worry as she thinks about the many pin-pricks her fingertips received as reward for all their hard work at sewing.

                          Should I consult a healer?

                          Whatever the eventual price, she was glad she had stepped in and gotten Zaria away from the fight. The poor girl was barely standing her own feet by the time Dahlia got there. She had helped,... in some small way at least. Even if the night did end with her wrist-deep in an idiotic tyrant's wounds.
                          Last edited by Dollface; 06-30-2011, 11:43 AM. Reason: .

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                          • #43
                            meanwhile.....

                            How very selfish and pathetic he felt as he lifted his bow and aimed for the target again. Memories flooded back to him in a wave of dispair and lonliness. The word "alone" always seemed to appear in his mind but was he really? he had friends, friends that were there for him in every way possible.
                            So why did he feel anger, jealousy, and doubt?
                            With his betrothed away Kesari was feeling even more unrational and moody than he normally was and it seemed, everyone around him noticed. Everytime that happened he would feel embarrassed and distance himself, feeling that he was not welcome due to his unmeaningful temper tantrums.
                            At other times he felt translucent, like his passing was just the wind blowing. The occasional interest in his music and the occasional applaud was there but he felt as if he, the proclaimed "self muse" was nothing but a self muse. His friends and very few he barely knew would boast that he was great but he had doubts as not many others would seem to care. He was nothing like his muse and artist friends, not as charming and witty as they, maybe thats where he went wrong.
                            Anger welled up in him as he released his bow and watched it hit the bullsye, another memory hit him of his betrothed, standing beside him and laughing the one time he had hit that same bullseye four times in a row. Luck, he said to her but she didnt seem convinced.

                            "You can stop being so good now"

                            He nocked another arrow and as he let go, it limply fell to the floor and he remembered it happening to him that same day. She laughed at him and he chuckled along,

                            "See"

                            He lowered his bow as the memory faded and tried to shake off the feeling of de-ja-vu. He tried desperately to compose himself, rubbing his face with a trembling hand.

                            "Do not cry, do -not- cry"

                            but telling himself to not cry was useless and tears spilled from his eyes anyway. He quickly collected his fallen arrow at his feet and made his way out of the archery range and towards the inn, making sure noone saw his tear streaked cheeks.
                            He entered the inn and moved quickly, stepping past the busy concierge and a group of people to the stairs. He swiftly entered his room and threw his bow and quiver aside at the door. He then flopped onto his bed and proceeding to once again cry himself to sleep.

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                            • #44
                              Almost a master. but so far away.

                              A blacksmith offers his iron rod to you.

                              This will cost you 10 denarii.

                              You pay a blacksmith 10 denarii with your cotton money pouch.
                              You take an iron rod from a blacksmith.

                              You examine your iron rod.
                              A long length of iron rod to be heated in the forge until it glows a bright red and white. A piece of stained thick canvas is wrapped around the end, to hold it by. There appears to be about 10 feet remaining.
                              The iron rod appears to be of terrible quality.

                              You curse colorfully at a blacksmith.

                              You poke your tongue out at a blacksmith.

                              You huff
                              Natalie Kerke

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                              • #45
                                Portend spotted rounding the Corsairs.

                                The ship lurched, the exhausted members of the crew stagger about tending to wounded under Achly's direction. Eiryk stands stalwart at the wheel, the sky grey behind him, the wind dying and rising again as though attempting to urge the ship on, pushing it bleakly toward Triskellian.

                                Kegan makes his rounds, checking on prisoners, and survivors alike, uttering a few words to passing men, smoothing over conflicts before they start. He checks on Eiryk, pours over the charts for a moment while Eiryk explains the route. Kegan makes his way below, checking with a guard as he pulls a door open, peering in on the odd man they found with Proof of Portend membership. Presumably another prisoner.

                                In the Captains quarters, the floor stained in blood, bandages gather in a small heap beside the bed. Omen sleeps, occasionally stirring to glimpse at Achlys blearily before passing out again.

                                Somewhere in the thickened mists of her mind she knew they were heading home. She could almost smell it, and it brought dreams, fair dreams, foul dreams...

                                A dagger being lowered to her face, her own voice bleeding through the din of so many bustling men. A scream, she had never heard herself emit such a sound, nor believe she was capable.

                                She stirs again, a swab bringing in fresh linens, gathering up the blood soaked bandages. Kegan standing stark against the lushly furnished backdrop.

                                Deeper into her dreams. A face peering up at her, a painful, but kindly look as Kegan reaches for her, her wrists are no longer heavy, the rope is cut. She can smell the battle on him.

                                A jumble of images, men fighting, fires burning, the scent of gunpowder on the air, acrid and rich.

                                Achlys wrapping her, unwrapping her. The smell of blood and rot.

                                Her mind clears for a moment, and there's calm. The waves rolling past her, the water carrying her to safety she feels it, it whispers and sings to her, lulls her back to sleep. Tells her to ignore the pain. Ignore the weakness in her limbs.

                                The noises of the ship. The sound of home. Gentle creaking , quiet lapping, the sea brushing its knuckles soothingly against the hull.

                                And then there's blackness again. Cool and calm. Soothing nothingness as she sleeps . Her mind at ease.


                                (@ooc Ship due to return today for anyone wanting to rp with crew)

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