• 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.
2 posts • Page 1 of 1
- Approved Character
- Posts: 67
- Joined: Fri Jan 18, 2019 4:58 pm
- Race: Tunawa
- Profession: Treeknight
- Renown: 0
- Character Sheet
- Plot Notes
- Wealth Tier: Tier 2
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?"
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