• Memory • Pretenders (Doran)

The capital city of the of Rynmere, here is seated the only King in Idalos.

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Maeve
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Joined: Thu May 18, 2017 3:06 am
Race: Lotharro
Profession: Smuggler
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Pretenders (Doran)

Thu Jun 01, 2017 9:11 am

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Zi'da 14th 715
Night.

"Another one."

The clamor of tankards and raucious laughter filled the rank tavern with a background noise that was difficult to ignore. It was easy to get lost in such places, and the naerikk was more than appreciative of that.

"You sure about that lil' lady? You've already had six." The man eyed her with a raised, ragged brow, and if it wasn't for his rather gloriously curled mustache, she might have socked him right in his pout-y mouth.

"I said another," she slammed her tankard down and slid it toward him with a look in her amber eyes that broached no argument. There was a smirk on her lips as he shook his head and proceeded to fill it to the brim, the foam dripping down the sides. With a fluid movement that could only come from a seasoned fighter, she brought it to her lips and drank. Watered down drivel but it was good enough. "Call me lil' lady again and you won't have a mouth to frame that mustache on."

She disliked Andaris. It's tiered system and maze like streets, while a haven for someone in her line of work, afforded her no luxury of anonymity. It seemed the people all knew each other practically by name and while she could sometimes get away with concealing her Naerikk nature, many still mistake her for an Aukari, which, in itself, was perhaps the worst option.

The door slammed open in an instant, causing a momentary lull in the conversation. Maeve barely turned her head, eyeing the newcomer with a narrowed gaze as the hulking man raised a piece of parchment high, depicting an image of a woman with wild hair. "Anyone seen this Naerikk?"

Shit.

"Thanks for the piss water," Maeve threw coins onto the counter and moved quickly, before anyone could have a chance to notice she was there. Slipping through the low window near the entrance to the tavern, she broke out into a run. Mentally cursing herself, the urgency of her boots kicked up dirt on the winding roads. Can't even lose a hunter in this fucking maze. The Naerikk glanced over her shoulder and saw the stampeding form of the man coming straight for her.

NOT today. The smuggler turned down a narrow winding road between a set of long, looming buildings. She hoped that the low light and sharp corners could make her lose her pursuer, but if he could track her down to an inconspicuous tavern, what hope did she have? Her efforts took her past Mid-Town, into the Crown itself, where she sought the refuge of the residencies. Yet, when she paused, catching her breath at the corner of a tall, modest establishment, barking sounds were heard in the distance.

Of course he's using a dog. She drew air as her lungs sought to catch up, and she noticed, in that moment that she had reached a dead end. With walls closing in on either side, and the ominous barks growing louder, the Naerikk scoured the buildings for anything. There was no way she would let herself be clapped in irons; not today.

It was a flicker of a light that drew her eye to a window that was cracked open. Climbing had not been her specialty, but sheer self-preservation fueled her movements as she gripped and hauled herself up. Fortunately, the climb wasn't substantial, and though she nearly slipped several times, momentum kept her going, until she forced the window the rest of the way and tumbled unceremoniously into the dimly lit room.

With gulps of air, the naerikk stood, her eyes adjusting easily to the lack of solid light, revealing the furnishings and decorations that denoted a bedroom. The bed, however, was empty, which brought the smuggler momentary ease as she kept an ear toward the window, listening to the distant barks of that blasted dog. Her amber gaze wandered back toward the room when she was satisfied that the hunter had momentarily lost her trail. Her curiosity wandered toward the shelves and the books that occupied them, one long, slender finger running across the well-worn backs. Home of a reader? What were the chances they'd remember something was missing? Her lips quirked into a smirk as she eyed the baubles and minor items of note in the room. A quick change for the trouble of being chased. At least, that was her relative thinking as she reached for the particularly lovely quill resting on the writing desk.


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word count: 775
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Doran
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Pretenders (Doran)

Sun Jun 04, 2017 6:18 pm

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The Mortalborn’s business had taken a lot longer than he had thought it would – he had met with an acquaintance of his, Luther Verran, a fellow alchemist, to talk about a matter that they were both interested in. By the time that he was on his way home, the sky was already darkening rapidly, and he quickened his pace. He wanted to work on some of his more private research projects before the trial was over. He had just moved into Midtown and into the street where his home was located when he noticed something.

He stopped abruptly and looked up at the window, furrowing his brow slightly as he did so. It was open wide which, he was sure of it, had not been the case when he had left. That allowed only one possible conclusion. Somebody had been there, a thief or, maybe, somebody that had found out what he had done in Viden two or three arcs before and tracked him down – although he considered the likelihood of that to be comparatively small.

He stored a few potent reagents in his home. While he didn’t particularly care about some imbecile accidentally alchemically killing themselves, he didn’t want to have to do all the work of gathering those reagents again as the majority of them were not easily available in Rynmere.

He briefly looked around to see if he could detect any signs of movements, but the street was as quiet as it had been before. With any luck the intruder would still be inside, and he would be able to catch them red-handed. He moved towards the door quietly and carefully and unlocked it. The hallway was shrouded in twilight, but such a thing mattered little to him. The darkness was his domain, he ruled over it, and if it was necessary, he would be able to steal the light from the streetlamps outside so that he would see his surroundings clearly which gave him an advantage over most of those mortals.

As he moved towards the living area where he kept his most valuable possessions, his hand went to the sword at his side, the same sword that he would eventually wound an Immortal with. He could see her now, standing in front of his desk, inspecting the things on it.

He stepped into the room, sword drawn. Just as Maeve reached for the quill, she could hear a deep voice calmly and coolly order her, “Raise your hands so that I can see them and turn around – slowly.”
word count: 434
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Maeve
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Posts: 25
Joined: Thu May 18, 2017 3:06 am
Race: Lotharro
Profession: Smuggler
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Wealth Tier: Tier 1

Pretenders (Doran)

Sun Jun 18, 2017 8:54 am

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In her momentary reprieve, she'd forgotten to extend her senses beyond the gloom of the room. Being a creature of darkness, she was never unsettled by the lack of light herself, but the creak of footsteps still sent her on edge, almost as though she believed, after all these years, that she was being hunted.

And perhaps she was.

But the voice that broke the space between them was no voice of any Naerikk she knew. On the contrary, it was masculine, deep, and somewhat menacing. Maeve's lips twitched into a wry smile as her lingering hand paused inches from the quill. Just my luck.

The Naerikk obeyed, however, raising her hands slowly, straightening until she could meet the gaze of the man who threatened her. "I take it this is your house? Sorry, must have gotten the wrong address." Dark amber eyes glanced at the sword held aloft, wondering just how quickly she could dart out of the window before he swung that thing at her. The odds were not in her favor.

"Listen, I just needed a place to lay low for a bit. I didn't take anything, I promise, if that even means anything to you." Promises meant nothing to the smuggler. Actions spoke louder than words, though even she tried to stay true to her words as best as she could manage.

Maeve intentionally left out the bounty hunter; her cynical mind came to the conclusion that any bastard citizen would be more than happy to turn her in. Whether this man had any intention to or not was lost on the naerikk. For how long she scrutinized his features, handsome as they were, he was a shrouded enigma.

Maeve glanced back out the window, where the faint howls of dogs echoed. She inched her way toward the window, step by measured step. "Looks like the threats gone... Now I'll just go on my merry way and you can go back to playing with your... beakers. Sound good?"
word count: 343
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Doran
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Pretenders (Doran)

Thu Jul 20, 2017 5:58 am

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The woman was, the Mortalborn had to admit that much, quite stunning, but that didn’t change anything about the fact that she was a criminal and had broken into his home – which was something that he didn’t appreciate in spite of what he would do in a few arcs’ time.

“And which house were you looking for? My neighbours’ house?” he asked in a cool tone. “They are in their seventies and likely don’t own anything of value.” He made a step towards her, still holding the sword in his hand. He did not believe her. At all. Was she even aware of just how great a mistake she had made when she had come here?

He was likely one of the most skilled swordsmen in the entire kingdom – if not the most skilled one.

She had not lied though. A quick look confirmed that all of his potions and his precious reagents were still where they should be which was why he decided not kill her nor drag her out of the house and hand her over to the guards – for now. Instead he looked at her thoughtfully. Perhaps there was something to be gained from this here after all …

“I don’t think so”, he informed her in a matter-of-fact tone. One step, two, and then he was standing in front of the window and abruptly slammed it shut. He had noticed how she had looked at it, as if she had been thinking about leaving the same way that she had come. “Besides, the guards might return. They don’t give up easily.”

“Perhaps”,
he continued and moved a bit closer to the door again. “You could tell me why exactly you are in trouble and what you were looking for instead. Who knows, maybe I’m in a favourable mood today …”
word count: 317
User avatar
Maeve
Approved Character
Posts: 25
Joined: Thu May 18, 2017 3:06 am
Race: Lotharro
Profession: Smuggler
Renown: 0
Character Sheet
Secrets
Wealth Tier: Tier 1

Pretenders (Doran)

Fri Aug 04, 2017 6:07 am

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"Hey... Hey," She brought her hands up at his approach with the sword still, unfortunately, held aloft. It would have been such a shame to fall here and now, without so much as a chance to see her goal to fruition. This couldn't be the end. "I'm not a thief," she reiterated, as she glanced from the window again then back at him. Gods, he did have a pretty face though. What a shame. "I'm above that." By perhaps one peg, or two. Criminal ranks were never something to boast about, after all.

She watched in alarm as he moved toward the very window she'd been focusing her sights on, and promptly slammed it shut. The sound made the walls tremble as though they were groaning, and the air suddenly felt starkly stale. She disliked such enclosed spaces, and out of instinct, she moved toward the door, only to find it blocked by him as well.

There was a prickle up the back of her neck, as though she expected the man to suddenly assault her. With her luck, she could have stumbled into the lair of a handsome serial killer, bent on wearing her flesh as a coat, or some sick crossdressing fantasy. The idea, no matter how morbid, made her lips curl in a smirk. The Naerikk shook her head and kept a measure of distance between them, hands still raised in surrender.

"If you must know," she began, keeping a trained eye on his weapon. "I'm a smuggler. I was smuggling some spices, but it went south, my partner was caught, and he snitched, shall we say." Her lips pursed in disapproval at the reminder. Gods Jason, you could have at least offed yourself.

"What do you want, hmm? Money? A favor? A quick fuck?" Maeve demanded, her hands folded over her chest. "I can't say I'll be great at any of those but I can say I try to keep my promises." She half wondered if the man knew just what she was. The darkness still ebbed around them, a constant, sinister thing that called to her every night, like a mother's wail.
word count: 372
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