• Open • [Open | Mature] Don't Cry Over Spilt Beer

Hop in whenever, wherever, however. Open thread.

Atop a stony plateau overlooking the lands of central Idalos, and growing wealthy from the gem stones pulled from the rocky soil, Etzos is a bastion of independence; firm in its belief that man should rule Idalos, not be servants of the vain Immortals who nearly destroyed it. But can the many factions set aside their conflicting agendas and see this through?

Moderator: Maltruism

Post Reply
User avatar
Carver
Approved Character
Posts: 241
Joined: Sun Apr 19, 2020 4:43 am
Race: Human
Profession: uɐɯ ɹǝdɐǝɹ
Renown: +80
Character Sheet
Character Wiki
Plot Notes
Partner
Templates
Letters
Wealth Tier: Tier 4
Medal count: 6

Milestones

RP Medals

[Open | Mature] Don't Cry Over Spilt Beer

Wed Oct 14, 2020 4:21 pm

Image

Night, 15 Vhalar, Arc 720
A Tavern in Outer Perimeter
┗━━━━━ ☆ ━━━━━┛
Disclaimers: Mature themes. Drinking. Drug usage. Language. Violence.

Carver sat alone at the bar of a tavern. Clinks of glass against glass, glass against wood, against the thirsty lips of the lowest of the low in Etzos. Whether known for such seedy patrons or one of the newer establishments born from the ashes of a wounded population, Carver didn't know. Nor did he care. All that mattered, if anything, was that it was dark and open. The candlelight kept far away from the stretch of bar that earlier in the evening, he had settled at, and hadn't left.

Blackened fingers, made filthy by dirt and poor hygiene, Carver left a smudged mess of prints behind on the tall glass that he kept close. A strong beer, mixed with a shot of liquor, and the... how many had it been? He hadn't paid close attention, and he supposed it didn't matter anyway. Enough that he didn't care about the noisy group of mercenaries who'd set up at the table behind him. Didn't care, but his head had started to pound in a pressure around his skull.

The Grafter's dilated eyes scanned the dimly lit establishment once, twice, then he returned to stare ahead at nothingness. It looked like he stared at the rack of bottles behind the bar, but the human just zoned out instead. His dirty fingers tapped against his glass before he gripped tight and tilted it up to take another drowsy sip.

How long he'd have to wait? He didn't know. Carver glanced in another survey of his surroundings. The seat next to him had been empty since the man before had taken off about a break ago. He scratched at his mess of matted dyed-auburn hair, then pulled the hood of his cowl up. With the shadow from the hood, it was even darker and his mutated eyes appreciated the change.

From his pocket, he dug out a small leather envelope. Carver set it just under the counter, in his lap, and unwrapped the twine to unfold the leather. He took out one of the cigarettes, first, and set the smoke between his lips. The buzzed human tapped his fingertip on the small packet of the fine grains of powdered green sand. Folded in a thin rice-like material, the packet wasn't much bigger than his thumbnail. In a swift motion, he placed it in his mouth and then took a swig of his boilermaker drink. He folded the leather again, then returned it to one of the inner pockets of his vest.

Carver went to attend to his cigarette, then realized it hadn't gotten lit yet. A grumble, then he glanced around. The nearest candle rested the entire length of the bar away, at the corner, and the closest other was the candle on the table with the boisterous mercenaries. He glanced over his shoulder at them, then started to search his vest pockets for a match. His eyebrow twitched, while his headache worsened, and the mercs kept laughing and talking and sounding like they were having far too good of a time.
word count: 547
User avatar
Woe
Approved Character
Posts: 882
Joined: Sun Feb 05, 2017 6:46 am
Race: Mortal Born
Profession: Guild of Hospitality Liaison
Renown: +420
Character Sheet
Character Wiki
Secrets
Plot Notes
Templates
Letters
Point Bank Thread
Wealth Tier: Tier 5
Medal count: 5

Milestones

RP Medals

Re: [Open | Mature] Don't Cry Over Spilt Beer

Wed Oct 14, 2020 5:33 pm

Image
Image

Woe had slipped off the Ring of Paradigm about three days ago. Given the general acceptance of mages in Etzos and having lost his battle of wills with himself, he found himself longing to wield that power again, and so through those three days, enduring the mutations without the power, in isolation as it were in his home in the Citadel, Woe slowly came back to the monstrosity he'd crafted over a long arc.

But now, he was drawn outward from the Citadel, to the Outer Perimeter. He remembered it well, having lived there for several seasons before. There were good memories there, some not so good. His mind drifted through the familiar streets and alleyways as his foot dragged behind him in a limp. Eventually he found himself at a watering hole, where the beer promised to be sour and bitter. Woe didn't mind, having a pallate that could appreciate those notes of distaste.

His hand idly lifted from the hilt of his cat-o-nine that hung from a loop in his belt, to his throat. There he began tracing the rune of savoring, in anticipation of the meal and drink, and whatever else this place had to offer.

He heard the loud boisterous laughter from outside the tavern, and it gave him pause. He didn't want a repeat of the incident that precipitated his meeting Fleaface. There having been challenged to a duel against some oaf, and being beaten half to death. Of course, the outcome now would be very different. Woe was stronger in his ways, in his magic and in the use of the implements of pain. Such an oaf as he faced before would crumble beneath his attention. So at the last moment he pushed his way through the tavern, his long white hair trailing behind him.

He limped up to the bar, followed by a merc that thought it was amusing to mimic his gait disorder as he made his way. Woe slid up to the bar, and took a seat, there swiftly followed by the fool who'd just made a mockery of his limp. An abrogative mutation that he'd acquired.

Woe ignored him for the moment, tapping the bar and nodding to the barman, "Ale." He said, and then activated with a touch the rune of savoring on his throat. He wanted to feel every bit of the sour bitterness of that drink. It'd bring him back to more interesting, if depressing times.

He did note the man the next stool over. With his auburn hair and dilated eyes, taking a cigarette and seemingly minding his own business. Woe looked at him only a moment, before receiving his drink. There, he sat for a few moments, ignoring the idiotic sounds coming out of the merc's mouth next to him. He took a sip, and let the ale burn a trail of bitterness down his throat.


word count: 497
Ulric
Approved Character
Posts: 142
Joined: Tue Feb 12, 2019 6:13 pm
Race: Undead (Ghost)
Profession: Avenger
Renown: +105
Character Sheet
Character Wiki
Wealth Tier: Tier 5

Re: [Open | Mature] Don't Cry Over Spilt Beer

Sat Oct 17, 2020 5:51 pm

Image Image Image

20 Vhalar 720 | Ulric | A Tavern in Outer Perimeter
Life was strange and a lot less pleasant than Ulric remembered it being. He didn't remember his feet getting sore so often and he certainly didn't miss needing to use the bathroom. He'd forgotten all of the little things that came with being alive. The little pains and the little joys. He wasn't entirely alive- at least he didn't think he was. He could still reduce his flesh down to ectoplasm to use certain powers he'd become proficient at. He still had power... and now he had even more. When he was dead, Sintra's mark could only be used in a living host. Now he could learn to use it himself... then again he wasn't sure that was the best idea. He'd taken something from her and hidden it while his mind was... not entirely put together.

Well... he didn't hide it. He lied to someone and now they were unknowingly hiding it for him. He hoped. He'd been alive for a while now but he had not done much. He'd been hiding most of the last season while his body mended. It took him half a season to realize that the threat on his life he was concerned with (Arlain's) was entirely moot. She was dead. Sintra had killed her for her betrayal. With his mind more or less stitched back together Ulric set out to get a drink. He hadn't been properly drunk since he was resurrected and he really needed it. He heard Alex's voice in his dreams and in his laugh. He hadn't laughed much in fear of hearing that voice again. He thought a good drink could solve that problem.

He hadn't used his real name in a while either but he wasn't a good enough liar to come up with a whole life. So he was West, the sellsword, or he was Alexios, the sellsword, or he was Marcus, the sellsword. The name changed practically every trial but his profession and life remained more or less the same. He didn't know what he wanted to be called but he knew Ulric had a lot of enemies and fortunately he was wearing a new face now so he didn't have to be Ulric... in fact it was probably better not to be for the moment. He'd hidden the chest with his armor and the iron sword that had once been his anchor but he kept the ghost metal blade with him because he figured he would need something to defend himself. So he walked into the tavern wearing black with a ghost metal longsword on his hip. He didn't really know what looked good on his new body so he'd decided to keep to dark colors for the time being.

The first thing Ulric noticed was the group of men, seemingly mercenaries, having too good of a time on one end of the bar. He decided quickly that he did not want to sit with them. Then he noticed one of the mercenaries imitating a strange looking man's limp and while Ulric thought about saying something, he decided it would be better not to cause a scene. Ulric's eyes scanned the bar for a spot he could sit where he would be alone but there wasn't really a large enough gap between people so he settled for sitting in one of the stools between the man with auburn hair and the mercenary group. "Uh... what ever is good." Ulric fumbled through the order. There was still a lot he didn't have a great grasp on. Drinking was one of those things. All the same he had a mug of ale in front of him a moment later and he drank from it slowly. The strange and bitter taste washing down his throat caused him to cough but he quickly pulled himself together.

Drinking. It was good to be alive again.
word count: 681
User avatar
Carver
Approved Character
Posts: 241
Joined: Sun Apr 19, 2020 4:43 am
Race: Human
Profession: uɐɯ ɹǝdɐǝɹ
Renown: +80
Character Sheet
Character Wiki
Plot Notes
Partner
Templates
Letters
Wealth Tier: Tier 4
Medal count: 6

Milestones

RP Medals

Re: [Open | Mature] Don't Cry Over Spilt Beer

Sun Oct 18, 2020 7:05 am

Image

The counter whorled with shadows while Carver stared at it. His hands continued their search for matches, but a faint blush had risen to his face. His heart had leapt to attention, while the green sand dissolved into his system, and he sharply breathed to manage the sudden rush of adrenaline. He started to search, a bit more frantic, through the pockets of his vest. What was he looking for, again? He forgot. He forgot. What was it? What was he looking for, again? He forgot. What was it? He forgot. What was he looking for? Again? What was he looking for? He forgot.

His long, dirty fingers skittered and left smudges behind on his simple clothing. While his pupils had already been dilated, the whites of his eyes reddened slightly in a gradual bloodshot.

Long white hair. He noticed the white color, though it was dim in the tavern. White hair. So pale, like the- like something. Something like that. Something pale. Carver tapped his fingers over a pocket, and felt the brass knuckles kept there, then he continued to search for a - was it a match?

One of the boisterous mercs made fun of the newcomer. It was to be expected, with a limp like that. Carver turned back to look forward instead. He placed his cigarette between his lips, or had it been there already, and now he had two cigarettes in his lips. Both unlit.

Ale.

He didn't pay much attention to the rest of the tavern, though he kept glancing as if he did. Carver grabbed his glass, only to find that he'd finished his drink. Where had it gone? Wait, wasn't he looking for something? Carver returned to his search of his pockets. But he was so thirsty, too. The human looked up and waved with a gesture of two fingers for another serving of the boilermaker drink... but the bartender didn't notice him, too busy attending to the other man who'd taken the seat beside him.

Where had he come from!?! Carver hadn't seen Ulric approach, let alone sit next to him. When had that happened? The human rubbed at one of his bloodshot dark eyes. His dilated gaze glanced at the longsword. That was... a big sword. Carver hurriedly looked away and grabbed onto the empty glass of his already finished drink. He brought it to his lips, tilted it, and sipped at whatever foam dripped into his mouth.

Carver frowned slightly, at the sight of two drinks served to the other men, but his wave had gone ignored. He had waved, hadn't he? What was he looking for, again? Something in his vest, right? Why wasn't his cigarette lit? He needed a flame, fire... fire... he glanced at the candle past the other men.

"Oy," he spoke up to get the pale man's attention. Voice raspy, scratched with the damage of harsh smoke, and he bluntly asked Woe, "Y' pass me 'at candle, mate?"

Restless, Carver's knee bounced while he repetitively tapped the heel of his boot against the stand of the stool. His dark eyes scurried his gaze away from the pale man. He felt a wave of nausea, then he slammed his hand flat onto the countertop surface. It was loud, but hardly anything compared to the din from the mercenary group at the nearby table.

Ulric beside him, and Woe beside Ulric, Carver wondered if the two men had come together or not. They had arrived together? No, he didn't remember the one arriving. Had he always been there? Carver couldn't remember what the last guy looked like, maybe it was him. He scratched at the back of his neck, then up and onto the stubble along the underside of his jaw. His two cigarettes rolled to the other corner of his mouth while he desperately tried to inhale but no embers dragged the much-desired smoke into his lungs.

"Dammit!" he shouted, with another bang of his hand against the counter, and his chapped lips stretched into a wide and brilliant grin. The cigarettes held between his canine teeth, paper bent under the force. "Thirsty as a whore in the desert! Oy, y' hear me, y'- I need a- Can I- Just- oy- yeh don't mind, do y', buddy?"

With that little said, Carver reached over to swipe Ulric's drink away from the man. He didn't get very far though, before he looked into it and then surrendered the attempt with a wave of his hand.

"Ale? Fuckin' y' come here to drink ale? Why don't y' just order piss while y' at it?" his words slurred while he insulted Ulric's choice of drink; the slurred speech more than indicative of the multiple drinks Carver'd already had. Though Carver wasn't drunk. Nope, not even close. He was as good as- as- something. Good as something. Not sober, not drunk. Somewhere in between. And damn, was he thirsty and his heart kept racing in his chest. He brought up a dirty thumb, and rubbed at the green-tinged gums of his canines. So thirsty, he needed a drink. Where had his drink gone? What had he been searching for, again? He started to look through the pockets of his vest again. He found his brass knuckles again, then slid the grave gold weapon onto his fingers.

Carver turned toward the counter. He cracked his neck to one side, then punched the underside to test the brass knuckles against the wood. A faint crack of a splinter sounded from the punch. He nodded, as if in approval of the weapon, then lifted to look at what was... a new beer? He lifted the glass, but nope, it was still the empty one. He held it upside down and some watery foam dripped onto the countertop. He swore in mutters under his breath.
word count: 999
User avatar
Woe
Approved Character
Posts: 882
Joined: Sun Feb 05, 2017 6:46 am
Race: Mortal Born
Profession: Guild of Hospitality Liaison
Renown: +420
Character Sheet
Character Wiki
Secrets
Plot Notes
Templates
Letters
Point Bank Thread
Wealth Tier: Tier 5
Medal count: 5

Milestones

RP Medals

Re: [Open | Mature] Don't Cry Over Spilt Beer

Sun Oct 18, 2020 8:31 pm

Image
Image



Ale was an easy enough request and one that was prompt if rude, fulfilled with a slamming down of the tankard in front of Woe. The mortalborn took the cup in his hand and brought it to his mouth. The rune of savoring activated as he did so, causing his white hair to suddenly develop highlights in shadowy whorls and tendrils that drifted between each light strand.

He could practically taste the ale before it ever hit his tongue, and it wasn't at all pleasant. He placed it down before tasting it. He thought he heard the man next to him muttering something about a candle. Whatever that was about, Woe shook his head, not quite understanding. Was it that dark in here? Whatever the case, perhaps the other man would oblige him, for now, Woe went down the line toward where the tender had gone, "Know what, forget the ale. A round for the house of your finest drinks, tender. Gin if you have it, Yaralon Purple Whiskey if you don't." It'd been some time since Woe tried the purple whiskey, but he remembered it'd been Balthazar's favorite drink.

"Courtesy of The Queen of Arachnids." Woe began, and went further, "And to the brave warriors who brought the Plague Mother to heel!"

There was some grumbling at the mention of Sintra, yet at the mention of those who had brought Lisirra low, there was more in the way of cheers. It seemed as if little more could be done to rouse the spirits of this dreary crowd, but the sudden influx of fine liquor and beer and drinks of all kinds certainly topped the list of reasons to cheer, as the servers made the rounds.

Woe took a pitcher of gin from the tray and brought it to Carver, and Ulric. "Let's share some drinks then... You there," Woe said, pointing to Ulric and then Carver. "This man needs a light. Grab that candle."

Woe filled three glasses with the gin, not bothering to water it down at all. One drink would probably put him under the bar, So he activated an endurance rune on his abdomen, which powered his internal resistance to the alcohol. His hand traced the rune along his belly and then activated it immediately. More shadowy whorls whirled around his ivory strands. Then he began taking the drink.

It wasn't as terrible as the ale, true enough...
Wealth Deduction
Woe subtracted 5 wp from his ledger to buy some luxury alcohol. I figure a season's worth for one person is enough for one night for an entire tavern."
word count: 447
User avatar
Maltruism
General Staff
Posts: 2358
Joined: Thu Feb 26, 2015 10:57 pm
Race: Prophet
Profession: "Mastermind"
Renown: 0
Plot Notes
Player Review
Personal Journal
Templates
Point Bank Thread
Wealth Tier: Tier 1
Medal count: 25

Featured

Contribution

Milestones

RP Medals

Staff

Miscellaneous

Events

Re: [Open | Mature] Don't Cry Over Spilt Beer

Sun Oct 18, 2020 10:11 pm

MOD BOMB!!


Image
"You're a damned lair, Scrobbs! I was in Rynmere a few arcs back, when one o' those sessbitch demons tore the place apart! Royal Guards to boot! There's no sarding way a sarding crew on a sarding BRIG could've taken 'im out! You got what? fifteen, twenty? In their little cotton tunics, when plated warriors couldn't stop 'im? I lost friends there an' I won't have you disrepectin' their memory with such crap!"

Even the tattoos on the speaker's skin seemed to bulge in outrage, his topknot near standing on end like the fur of an angry cat. But Scrobbs had friends too, and they hadn't died in Rynmere. They were at the table with him. One of them, a young but white-haired tough they called 'Mokie', pounded the table in borderline hostility. "Back Down, Dopric. If you'd listen instead o' just waitin' for a pause to go off like a schoolteacher, you'd a' heard Scrobbs say it wasn't the crew that took out the fiend. It w-..."

"Yeah, right. I heard." the tatooed man cut in, eyes rolling to extremes, "It was a damned Sea Dragon! Oh sure! Always good luck to have one of those save yer sorry ass. You actually believe that shit? Two o' the worst bastards in the world, facing off over a crew o' twenty at most. And everyone survives to tell about it? It's a load of piss, just like you!" In fairness, the scorn with which he delivered his comeback mirrored the scorn he had endured all his life with a last name like Dopric.

Scrobbs, The one trying to tell the tale, inadvisably demonstrated this very dynamic with his next comment. "If you'd shut yer damn mouth for two bits, Dope-Prick, you'd get the point of what I'm leadi-..." he got no further as the table flew up into his face, riding Dopric's knee. There might have been rough laughter in sympathy for a man who'd had his name used against him one time too many, had the table not taken everyone's drinks with it.

But Dopric had not lost every friend in Rynmere either. The violence split three ways, with Mokie and Dopric forced to deal with sidekicks, but exchanging frequent looks that promised they would settle with each other personally when they were finished with the stooges they were presently engaged with.

Doprick looked like he would finish off Scrobbs first. By raising his side of the table with his knee that way, it put his leg in perfect to position to kick out with his foot into Scrobbs' gut. Scrobbs went down atop a broken chair, the busted-off leg now serving Dopric as a suitable club. Scrobbs' best efforts only served to prevent the strokes from striking more solid hits, but blood from a lacerated scalp was about to blind him.

Fortunately Mokie was choosing to strangle his current adversary into unconsciousness, which left him able to speak coherently, if not with a bit of a snarl. "Don't kill him, you dumb-ass! I've heard this story before and I know he was just getting the point where the fiend comes back as a human and tells about how he found treasure in a cave in the Hiveys! They ain't all that far from here, you ungrateful shithead! We were going to include you in the hunt!"

It was not a sure thing if the fight immediately embroiled the entire bar. Nor was it a sure thing that Dopric would relinquish his vengeance on Scrobbs' name-shaming. It was entirely possible that he assumed he'd now be excluded from any part of any treasure hunt. If that were to be the case, he was of a mind to ruin it for everyone else too. Scrobbs was clearly disoriented from multiple hits to the head. His eyes swam as he looked up to see Dopric reset his position and aim to a more lethal dynamic.
 ! Message from: maltruism
Not taking over the thread guys. It's just an offer of something else to do this season, if you feel like it.
And it is not too late for anyone else to decide that they were at the bar that night... 8-)
word count: 734
User avatar
Kasoria
Approved Character
Posts: 1394
Joined: Sun Apr 24, 2016 3:34 am
Race: Human
Profession: Horrible Bastard
Renown: +935
Character Sheet
Secrets
Plot Notes
Templates
Wealth Tier: Tier 5
Medal count: 7

Contribution

RP Medals

Re: [Open | Mature] Don't Cry Over Spilt Beer

Sun Oct 18, 2020 11:56 pm

Image


He couldn't hide in the shadows forever. Well, no, he could. He knew that because he'd met plenty of men that did. Burrowed so deep and for so long that when they came back to the cobbles their skin was parchment-white and their eyes burned in the glare of the twin suns. There was a whole world in the Underground, with a society, economy, and culture to go with it. The invasion and the siege had just... changed it. Made it more wild and rambunctious (if emptier) by the end of it. He'd become reacquainted with it over the last season. Learning what he'd missed while in Rharne. Catching up on the recent history of Etzos, the Web Guard, the riots and the martial law and the new... mistress, of the city.

Not fucking likely.

The little man huffed through his nose as he opened the door to the tavern. At once a dozen smells and sounds assailed him. Ranging from pungent and enticing to rank and sickening. Most of them belonged to livings beings. Cloaked and hooded, the little man shuffled his way through the throng, using his natural diminutiveness to his advantage. People so often let men like him pass literally beneath notice. No threat and no excitement, so no bother. Just another grey face that wouldn't stick in the memory too much. Alas, he soon realized that wasn't entirely working. Not anymore.

"Raggedy Man... Raggedy Man..."

He heard snatches of the name, not the title entire. A syllable here and there, but when he turned to see the speaker, the words would vanish, along with the lips and voice attached. Only a handful of times, fearful drops in a roiling ocean of indifferent, strutting, boozing brigands. His black eyes snapped to the large table where a crew of sellswords were carousing their way through stories and flagons in equal measure. Fame was something of a curse, he'd found. He'd much preferred it when his legend was known and his face was a mystery. But across the seasons and cycles and arcs, the natural, evolving grapevine of Etzos had put the two together. Buggered if he knew how, but now when he strode the streets openly, he could see recognition in a handful of faces.

The black eyes and eternal wind about you probably don't fucking help.

"Make it sharpish, love."

The barmaid was thankfully too rushed to notice him. Just another sad little punter taking a corner table, and she had a whole platoon of handsy drunks to deal with. He slid back his hood and felt strangely exposed for a moment, even back in a quiet, shadowy corner like this. He was still without his cowl, without that reassuring feel of cloth about his face, the shadows falling across his features. He looked up and his black eyes seemed to make her pause for a moment. Then a call went out from across the bar, another order, babbling and half-drunk and complex. She swore under her breath and looked pointedly at him.

"Stout anna' shot'll do me."

"Aye, over to yeh when I can..."

She tottered off and Kasoria watched her go, half-smiling. Good worker, that. Not easily put off by scary folk and oh, my, quite a slap to her going by the palm she just put across the cheek of an overly-presumptuous sellsword. He went flying back in shock into the arms of his laughing comrades, held back by him as he turned red with anger, and she? She faltered not a step. Kasoria chuckled and delved under his cloak. Hands roving over the lethal objects strapped and slung about him. He'd left little in his hidey-hole, knowing how dangerous the city could be. But his bow, his ax? Those were absent. They seemed excessive, given his destination. He pulled a rough old pipe and a bag of tobacco. Fastidiously packed the one with the other, eyes focused elsewhere.

It was an old ritual. His hands knew the way without his eyes. Besides, the scenery was... more interesting.

He saw faces that he recognized. Men he'd assumed dead or vanished, for in his profession the two were often the same. For every man known to be slain or brought to "justice", close by or far from home, there were others who simply... stopped being talked about. The siege had done much to think the ranks of those he knew. But now he saw a familiar face, and his own soured immediately. Of course that cockroach would still be alive. In a city held hostage by that bitch he worshipped, oh, he was probably doing well for himself. Still, it might have been fortuitous. He was, after all, looking to keep his ear to the ground, after all. Keep his fingers on the pulse. Nowhere did gossip, rumor, facts, stories, and news congeal so freely than in places like this. Kasoria noted the man and then moved on to-

"Courtesy of The Queen of Arachnids."

Aye, and youse can know where to shove that, don't you?

He bit back the words. Hid his disgust by spitting out a scrap of wander baccy onto the floorboards. A few curious faces turned his way oh-so-discreetly, seeing what the Raggedy Man would do. But not wrath was forthcoming; no righteous anger directed at the Morty-lover. Going soft, was he? Given up? Well... they might well think that. Kasoria would prefer it, anyway. Better he be known as an indifferent, defeated relic than an active threat, prompting all sort of unwanted, persistent, spidery attention. His drinks arrived a moment later, and he washed the taste of Woe's words away with his shot at once.

Another face soon arrested him. This one... the same, but not as it had been. He recalled a man skilled with a sword, but still learning... or learning as much as a ghost could, anyway. A few arcs ago, Kasoria would have shirked away from even talking with one of them. Bad omen. Worse luck. But Rhakros, the invasion, the service those shades had done them... he couldn't forget it. To be honest, he'd become used to them. Some places they outnumbered the living, and Fates, wasn't that a sorry state all by itself? But at least he was better disposed to the ghost than he was the spider-lover. Yet even as he watched, Kasoria's face crumpled into a frown. He looked... different. The texture of him, seemed more solid. Like a true body, not the form his will and etheral substance could create. He grimaced for a moment. Very curious.

Have to ask. In a while.

He'd half-raised the ale to his mouth when it kicked off. Like it was always liable to in an Oh'Pee tavern. Walk into any pub or watering hole and there was a good chance that charged atmosphere would be there. That thick, pregnant, crackling feeling one got just before dogs launched at each other. One populated almost exclusively by men who seemed to swing steel for a living? Good odds. Kasoria had hoped he'd at least have had a chance to properly drain his cup before it happened. But before he could even set it down a table was flying and men were punching and kicking and battering each other. Steel was still in sheaths, but should it go on too long, he knew that would change. The real question was would it engulf the rest of the bar. That would be problematic.

He believed that. Pragmatically, practically, he knew it. But oh... it had been so long since he'd had a proper bar brawl.

As wood smacked into bone and knuckles got bruised, Kasoria took a proper sip and sucked at his pipe. He heard something snarled in the melee. Something about treasure. Hmm. Interesting. And important, if it brooked being spoken in the middle of a brawl. He could make out two clear factions - Scrobbs and... Doughy Prick? - but already it was becoming bedlam. Men were striking whatever came close, and there was enough savage skill and stubborn muscle to make it an even contest, if not even numbers. At his corner table, in the path of whatever violence may spring to life yet he was not overly-worried about, Kasoria watched, and waited, and listened.
word count: 1419

Appearance

  • Habitually dressed in boots, breeches, tunic, with a plain cloak.
  • Long hair down to the shoulders, usually left swept back or in a rough ponytail
  • Rarely clean-shaven, preferring a trimmed beard

Mutations

  • Star-shaped scar on each palm.
  • Air around him seems to thicken and become more turbulent the closer a person gets to him.
  • Pitch black eyes, from tear ducts to the pupils.
  • Arms from shoulder to palms appear as if heavy chains are wrapped around them.
  • Wisps of black smoke constantly drifts around his body, forming the rough outline of a cloak. The more agitated he becomes, the thicker the layers get.
    Note: the torch-motif medallion Kasoria wears negates the visible effects of this mutation.
  • Roughly circular pattern across breastbone, constantly transforming, and resettling
  • Sunken, closed eyes in the back of hands; they open when stared at
  • Skin takes on the tone and quality of whatever material he's just Transmuted
Ulric
Approved Character
Posts: 142
Joined: Tue Feb 12, 2019 6:13 pm
Race: Undead (Ghost)
Profession: Avenger
Renown: +105
Character Sheet
Character Wiki
Wealth Tier: Tier 5

Re: [Open | Mature] Don't Cry Over Spilt Beer

Mon Oct 19, 2020 10:57 pm

Image Image Image

20 Vhalar 720 | Ulric | A Tavern in Outer Perimeter
There was something wrong with the man next to Ulric but the recently resurrected man had no idea what it was. Instinct that he'd developed as a ghost told him to try and syphon the man to find out but he remembered he didn't know if he had such powers anymore. He'd learned the hard way that he could no longer strengthen his body but he could still use other facets of the ability he'd mastered in death. Not that it would help him figure out why the man beside him seemed so strange. Most people could settle with one but he had two cigarettes in his mouth now and neither were lit. He asked the pale one for help getting a match and got angry when it wasn't promptly brought to him. He banged his hand on the counter twice, though the noise was nothing compared to the noise the mercenaries were making.

It seemed the bartender had been ignoring him and so he thought it a good idea to steal Ulric's drink instead. Only it seemed Ulric's drink was not good enough for the man with two cigarettes in his mouth. How about a fist? Ulric hasn't been as angry when he was alive before. He'd had much more of a level head in those trials, but ever since his resurrection he'd felt a building rage he had to keep bottled up. The rage poked at Ulric when it should have. The man with two cigarettes was clearly not well and Ulric should have ignore him, but instead his fist curled and he had his violent thoughts. Ulric banged his hand on the counter rather than Carver's head.

He couldn't do anything stupid.

"Someone get this man something better than ale." Ulric said in a level tone with a look around for the barkeep.

When the toast to Sintra went up, something Ulric was sure would be unpopular, he raised his cup just enough that it would be said he had toasted. He had to. He felt deeply that at the very least she deserved the toast. She'd brought him back to life despite the horrible way she'd done it. She'd helped them stop the plague... well... it wasn't that simple anymore. Ulric found it harder and harder to defend her but he couldn't deny her the toast. At the pale man's request, Ulric stood and moved across the bar to retrieve a candle for the man with two cigarettes. He thought about using a tendril but decided against it. Human. Be human.

It was on his way to grab the candle that Ulric saw the man from long ago. The Raggedy Man. Shit. That was probably what most people thought when they saw him. Yet Ulric was only afraid of being recognized by the man so he kept his head down and grabbed the candle. He did not remember how he knew the man, only the feeling that he needed to hide something from him. He often forgot this body looked nothing like his old one and he did not sound the same. He could hide in plain sight... as long as he didn't wear any of his old things... like his ghost metal sword. Which he was wearing. He was not good at hiding. Ulric brought the candle back to the would be smoker and set it down so he could take the glass of gin in hand.

"To the brave." He took a sip of the round of gin and shuttered at the taste before grabbing his ale and drinking it. He had been hoping to replace the strong and strange taste with something good and had instead replaced it with something... well... not as good. A strange sensation was taking over his body and he didn't like it. No, that's not true. He liked it, but he was definitely not in a place where he should have been feeling it. He felt looser and his arms moved a little more sluggishly. Then the fighting began and Ulric, with far worse judgement than a bit ago turned to see what had caused the commotion. He couldn't quite make out everything they were saying over the noise but he heard the word treasure and that was certainly interesting.Treasure in the cave in the Hiveys. Hiveys... what's that? He'd also heard something about a fiend and he wasn't quite sure what that meant but it wasn't enough to deter him. Before the gin, it would have been.

He was going to do something stupid.

Ulric lumbered out of his chair with his cup of ale in hand and he hurled it at the back of Doprick's head. His aim was shit and the cup flew wide of Doprick but the ale splashed out onto him. "Get off him!" Ulric shouted as he grabbed the glass of gin, poured what was left back into the pitcher, and then hurled the glass at Doprick as well because the man had not yet stopped.
word count: 871
User avatar
Carver
Approved Character
Posts: 241
Joined: Sun Apr 19, 2020 4:43 am
Race: Human
Profession: uɐɯ ɹǝdɐǝɹ
Renown: +80
Character Sheet
Character Wiki
Plot Notes
Partner
Templates
Letters
Wealth Tier: Tier 4
Medal count: 6

Milestones

RP Medals

Re: [Open | Mature] Don't Cry Over Spilt Beer

Sun Oct 25, 2020 6:34 am

ImageImageImage

The two fellows, who had taken the seats beside him, seemed more than willing to have a good time. For Carver, it was the sort of situation where someone might call it a win-win; for if the men took offense, then he’d have cause to swing a fist or two – and if not, well… a sly grin twitched on Carver’s scarred lips while the pale man ordered a round for the entire tavern. Well off, in this sort of place? Unusual, until he heard the toast to the ‘Queen of Arachnids’, and it made more sense then.

Carver didn’t know much about the whole thing in Etzos involving Sintra. And he cared even less. Immortals weren't exactly something known or expected for him, still. He'd lived a blurry and mostly forgotten life of unseen gods, not... whatever it was in Idalos. Sintra was just some name to him, more than anyone or anything of significance. Immortals remained distant, mysterious things to him. Gods that people worshipped and aligned themselves with, and apparently… as he’d realized during his time in Etzos… actual individuals who could be seen, touched, and conversed with.

Before he got too far lost in such thoughts (or so he believed), he felt some warmth and the flicker of heat and light that stung his sensitive eyes. A candle? A candle! Carver squinted at the flame. He picked it up and started both his cigarettes. The orange glow of the cherries at the ashen ends flared and burnt away the ruddy brown parchment that the bugberry-laced tobacco had been rolled up in. One of the smokes had broken between his teeth enough that it crumpled. He let it fall to the counter, then slapped his palm to stop the ember from burning farther.

Just the one smoke would have to do.

He laughed, just a chuckle, when he heard the various toasts while the gin made its round to the patrons. Carver took a glass, though, more than happy to pretend a toast to whatever if it meant some liquor. With a rough nudge of his elbow against Ulric’s arm, he said, “Gin tastes like grandma’s spit, but any spit is better than piss, ain’t it?”

His dark dilated eyes glanced at the ghost metal sword, but only a glance, before he leaned away. He took a swig of the gin. His cigarette returned to between his lips. It settled over a pale scar that crossed over the lower lip and onto his chin, as if the scar had been set there to remind him where to rest his lit cigarette.

The mercenaries proceeded to get louder and louder, and this time, it didn't sound like all of them were having a good time anymore. With the flipped table, Carver glanced over.

“Fucking finally,” he muttered. He downed another swig of gin, then set it on the counter. The young man moved away from the spot at the counter. His dark eyes surveyed the area quick – where the furniture was, who was involved, how it was evolving by the trill… Carver never thought he’d have to wait this long for a damn brawl to break out.

A flagon flew past, ale streaking through on its way and then landed past Dopric.

Now, Carver didn’t care about whatever reasons had caused the brawl. He didn’t much care what was being said either. He only cared that men were swinging fists. Chaos escalated while some fought and some shouted – those who wanted it to stop and those who wanted to encourage the hostile men to tear each other apart.

The tobacco smoke curled around the edges of his raised hood while he cracked his neck, then rolled his shoulders back. Along the floor, a sticky mess of various liquors puddled the ground. Carver grinned slightly. While everyone was oh-so-busy with their bar brawl, they had neglected the mess created by such spontaneous bouts of violence. As much alcohol spread over the floor as was in any decent molotov cocktail.

Acutely aware of this, Carver wandered closer while fists and legs and shoulders and chairs and table legs crisscrossed in flurried aggression. Seemed he wasn't the only one of the tavern's crowd waiting for a chance either. He ducked from the swing of a chair that went wayward, off its target who promptly slammed a fist into the chair-holder's jaw.

Carver pivoted, without warning, on the back of his heel and swung his own fist to double up on the stranger's punch. A crack sounded. Because Carver didn't just punch. He punched with his trusty brass knuckles affixed to his fingers. The bone gave way in shattered form, and left the chair-holder on the alcohol-soaked floor in a daze.

That was about all it took for Carver to start into a momentum. He took no side. His only side was the side of sheer violence. While the three sects raged against each other, in the spreading brawl, Carver gave equal opportunity for his brutal fists to hit whoever. He wanted to break bones, hear tendons snap, and leave sprays of blood behind in his wake. An uncountable few kicks and elbows landed against him, but he accepted the sharp and blunt pains in favor to continue his own indiscriminate blows.

After a spin around in the heart of the brawl, Carver returned to the counter with a bloody cut along his cheek. Blood that wasn't his own dappled his face, too, as if splashed in red. Yet his cigarette remained, half-smoked, between his lips. His knuckles, now both adorned with grave-gold metal, dripped with various colors of fresh blood. He picked up the glass of gin that he'd left behind, the blood smudged along it, and the metal clinked against the glass. Carver took another swig, then a deep inhale of his cigarette, before he looked to the other men and said, “Y' gonna just sit 'round like ladies? Missin' out!"

Something hit him in the back of the head. By all the glass that shattered down around him, Carver suspected it had been a bottle of some sort. Pain bloomed along his skull, and stars danced in his dilated eyes. A loud, angry string of curses escaped from him. He grabbed onto the candle, his fingers clenched around the wax, then he threw it while he jumped onto the counter. The swift change in elevation, Carver surveyed the dimly lit tavern from the new vantage point.

The burning candle landed on the floor, and rolled toward a wide puddle of liquor.
word count: 1127
Post Reply

Return to “Etzos”