• Open • Cats in the Crate-le

Mastemyr opens up shop.

A city thrust in a land of magical corruption, where survival isn't taken for granted, Yaralon is a jewel on Eastern Idalos. It is world renown for its mercenary companies, for their spiritual culture that appears a bit backwards and counter intuitive to more "civilized" types. Yaralon is where the strong go to discover that they are anything but, and mercenaries learn that only Yari mercs are true mercs.

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Cats in the Crate-le

Tue Apr 16, 2019 6:52 pm


23 Vhalar 719

It was raining, but that didn’t stop the mad cat.

Mastemyr was hunched over in his human form, teeth gritted. Unlike the usual black, his hair was completely silver, damp and slicked back over his crown. He tried to dig his bare feet into the mud as he dragged the oversized crates to a small opening at the dreary bazaar. The container was empty but made with sturdy foreign wood and smelled of dried hay. Tiny meows sounded from the sack hanging from his neck as he used his arms to heft one crate alongside trader’s tents, the bloody bandages tied around his calf quickly getting soaked. He was covered in scratches and the licentious bitemarks of vermin, on display across his bare torso. He lifted his head at the first mercenary to walk by his display and grinned, leaning against the crate and using his weight to knock it over on its side. He used his claws to pry away the lid and slipped his body inside, a rogue rat squeaking at the disturbance.

He detected it before he fully knew where it was, snatching into the dark and grabbing it harshly by the belly. It gave a shrill cry before a crunch sounded and Mastemyr’s face poked back out into bazaar. His eyes were mischievous orange, and his jaw moved before a dark mass shot from his mouth and rolled across the mud, sinking into the sludge. Rat head. He rolled the limp body between his fingers, feeling the rodent’s fur grow sticky and warm.

Blood coated his shining lips and he grinned again, pulling back into the recesses of the darkened crate, peering through the boards, “Hello,” he purred at the first patron that passed, peeking outward from the dry box as he maneuvered into a comfortable position alongside his shield, “Mastemyr has wares if you have cooooin.”

word count: 325
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Re: Cats in the Crate-le

Fri Apr 19, 2019 2:00 am


They were riding out through the burhos, despite of the rain. Kisaik had nevertheless left his armor and fancy underarmor clothing at home, so it wouldn't need to be meddled with. Alaiwa would be washing the armor and making sure it was up to snuff. He felt strange without his gear, having worn it for almost three tentrials. Like he wasn't a knight anymore, even though he still felt like it. He debated the idea of fitting Slate with his barding. The cat seemed to enjoy the feeling of the armor, almost as comfortable as any cat bed. Nevertheless, he wanted to give the cat a chance to move without the armor.

He could feel the cat's reflexes and strength as he rode along. For all the carrying an armored tunawa on his back and the barding into the bargain, the cat had grown strong over the past trials. And their bond had grown as well. Every day Kisaik felt more confident astride Slate, better able to direct his cat's movements. He was a better rider overall.

A mewl sounded from somewhere nearby, as they approached the bazaar. Even audible above the usual din of the crowds. Actually a chorus of mewls. Kisaik lifted his head, listening closely to the sound of the cat noises. "Do you hear that?" He asked Slate in Tree talk.

Then, without warning, Slate gave Kisaik a sampling of his newfound strength and prowess. It began bounding with all speed toward the bazaar. "Woah! Slate, heel! No Slate! Slate?" But the cat wouldn't hear it, impetuous as it was.

It finally stopped in front of an interesting looking man who was flanked by several crates, from which had come the apparent mewling. Kisaik meanwhile righted himself, and dropped off of Slate's saddle, approaching the strange man while ignoring the rat head that Slate was chomping down on. "Really, Slate. Manners! That's the man's rat head."

Having chastised his own cat, Kisaik bowed before the man. He introduced himself in heavily accented common, "I am Kisaik, or maybe you've heard of the up and coming knight, Mädärä Ciuruọrun?" Kisaik looked at Mastemyr quizically, "At any rate, it looks like a fine batch of cats you've got there... but um, what are you selling?"
word count: 397
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