• Mature • Mission: Implausible

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The capital city of the of Rynmere, here is seated the only King in Idalos.
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Peake
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80th of Ashan
22th Break
What a disgrace. Sometimes, being with the Knights meant nothing but a frown or a sense of self-loathing like what Peake was currently feeling. They leeched his time, made him follow orders from lowlifes, and, just like tonight, embark on tasks he didn’t really appreciate. Furthermore, his rank of Steward often meant babysitting a bunch of goofs, teaching them how to chew on their porridge or how to fuck a woman. After the death of half of his squad, the Knights below him immediately asked for a transfer, wishing to work with someone that ‘didn’t act as rash’ as him. Weaklings, that’s what they were. The worst of it is that the new guys, freshly knighted individuals that knew nothing else but how to swing a sword around or remove armor from their years as squire, now under his commands and guidance. They knew nothing about intelligence, infiltration, battles fought with words or looks rather than swords and shields. To top it off, they still believed the Kingdom was made from daisies and smiles instead of pure and harsh violence. He had to teach them that, as it was his job.

Peake could only frown as he saw in the covered wagon and the squires basically dirtied him up. One of them harshly coated his features in the dirt he had scooped from the street, while the second one made sure his clothing was unpresentable as it got. He tore the fabric here and there, splashed some dirt on it, some wine, and threw around some sort of scent that smelled very much like horseshit. Or some other shit, as there was rarely any difference in smell. Anything to fit into the profile of a commoner, apparently. The other knights under his command were already infiltrated, and they needed no special arrangements made for their attires or manners. Unlike Peake, most of the knighthood was composed of boys and girls, raised in the farmlands, in the lower parts of the cities. Common and simple folk, perhaps unaware of the true nature of the world, folk that wanted to earn a flag on their own, to have something to say in their gravestones. They saw their city and their Kingdom as a treasure, ignoring its imperfections, and choosing to defend the people that roamed it.

Peake, of course, did identify with them. The Kingdom was dying, for it was rotten already. The King was a child with no say in the matter, the Queen was an expensive whore that assaulted the King’s crib. The Knighthood was becoming lazy and ineffective, the troops stacked within the Kingdom, the knights and their leaders sniffing each other’s balls like dogs. Meanwhile, the citizens grew lazy, unaware of just how fragile their peace was. Peake saw through it, beyond the city, beyond the oceans, into the threats that stood by and watched how the last Kingdom of men was slowly losing its most important value – its ambition. Leaving his thoughts aside, Peake finally inspected himself and his attire. The nobleman in rags, the king of the peasants. If it wasn’t his noble flesh the one buried below these clothes, he wouldn’t doubt to spit on himself. Alas, he didn’t. “My Lord, you’re ready. Whenever you give the signal, the second and third squad will be there to assist you. Goo—“Peake didn’t wait for the squire to end before he shoved the young boy’s face with his oversized palm, grunting in exchange.

Jumping out of the wagon, on one of the many dark corners of Andaris, Peake reached out to grab his simplistic cloak. Before he wrapped himself in it, however, Peake tossed it on the ground and used his feet to stomp on it, just to get more dirt on it. To think that was going around his body almost made him want to puke, dressing up like a simpleton… However, he did not complain, and after retrieving the cloak and wrapping himself in it, he stormed off into the night. The tavern in question, a small and somewhat recluse establishment near the docks, was a few turns here and there away. His feet were quick and light, contrasting greatly with his obvious bad mood, slithering through the stone streets like a spirit. Soon enough, the smell of fresh vomit and the noises of actual clientele echoed through the narrow streets, torches casting their light on the wet stone that formed the city. At the turn of a corner, Peake finally spotted the tavern’s door, which despite the nature of the establishment, was still quite hidden in the dead end that was this street. A perfect place for goons to hide, indeed.

Without much ceremony, Peake situated himself before the door, staring at the old wood as if he was gazing upon the eyes of the being he hated most, and without second thought, his hand reached for the doorknob and he opened the door.
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Sabine
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Mission: Implausible

Sabine was an idiot.

She stood inside the tavern, just next to the door, and ran through a list of names that suited her present situation: fool, halfwit, dolt.

Idiot.

Like the inexperienced (idiot) journalist that she was, she had recently published an article about Lord Quincy Andaris’ assault and had asked anyone with details to contact the Rynmere Gazette.

“It’ll be fine,” she had reassured her boss. “Don’t worry. I’ll even vet all of the information myself, if anyone actually responds.”

She had been so sure that no one would respond.

Instead, the article had resulted in an influx of notes and letters and people who claimed to know exactly who the woman in the dark cloth had been. At first, Sabine had been excited by the response. She had actually thought her article had inspired a rash of goodwill, that perhaps all of those people really had witnessed Quincy’s attack and were just hesitant to speak up.

Nope.

After spending the last few trials chasing false information down a series of decidedly dead ends, Sabine realized the claims fell into only two categories: cries for attention from the fame-hungry, and crazed ramblings of the paranoid. If there was any truth, it was buried so deeply that even the assailant herself might mistake it for fiction.

Still, Sabine had promised her boss that she would vet all of the information, which meant meeting her latest informant two breaks before midnight at a nondescript tavern near the Docks. She had already regretted the promise ages ago, but the feeling had grown exponentially the moment she’d walked into the shadowy room. Animosity rolled off the walls in waves, joined by the particularly unpleasant odor of stale ale, sweat, and smoke. The tavern-goers themselves, both the men and the women, were a motley crew of scars and piercings and scowls who spewed insults and growled with laughter.

Sabine had never been more grateful to be wearing her leather jacket. At that moment, it felt like armour.

The wooden door creaked open as Sabine scanned the room, and a new stench stepped - or rather, stomped - into the tavern. She was unable to keep distaste from curling her upper lip as she eyed the cloaked giant pretending to be a man. He looked as though he had crawled straight out of a grave, and smelled worse. She sniffed despite her better judgment, and immediately wrinkled her nose. Was that… horse shit?

Fantastic. Her night just kept getting better.

She glanced briefly at his wrist to confirm if he was her informant (please, no), but he didn’t wear the telltale scrap of green fabric that she had been promised and so her eyes - and her feet - quickly moved on.

Sabine made her way along the edges of the tavern, boots squelching over the ale-spattered floor and gaze dropping to each patron’s wrist. She played with the strands of one particularly thin braid and clenched her jaw apprehensively. “Where are you?” she murmured.

There. In the back corner.

A curly-haired man sat alone in a booth at the back of the tavern with a sorry scrap of dark green fabric hanging limply from his wrist. His brown eyes shifted nervously, and his red hair glinted strangely under the torchlight as if it were fire itself. Sabine took a breath (though she was unsure if it was one of relief or disappointment), straightened her shoulders, and strode towards the table.

“What.”

Sabine tightened her lips at the man’s coarse reaction. “Are you…” she searched her memory. “Neil?”

“Who’s asking.”

“I’m from the Gazette. You asked to meet here?”

“What’s the secret phrase?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Really? You actually want me to say it?”

He stared at her blankly.

She rolled her eyes. “Jack and Jill went up the hill and planned to do some kissing,” she recited. “Jack made a pass and grabbed her ass, now his two front teeth are missing.”

Her informant smirked and gestured to the booth. “Have a seat. I’ll tell you all about that Andaris kid’s attack once you order me a drink.”

Sabine slid into the seat, forced a smile on her face, and silently repeated a single word on loop.

Idiot.
Last edited by Sabine on Mon May 09, 2016 6:12 pm, edited 1 time in total. word count: 727
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Peake
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The tavern was certainly as Peake had imagined it. His perfume, or his horse essence as he liked to call it, greatly fit in with the overall mixture of scents that mixed within. Each and every last one of the tavern dwellers had their own scent, be it of animals, blood or just vomit. The lights were dim and the atmosphere was dark, the mood somewhat low and calm yet still aggressive for the faint of heart. Peake was not one of the latter, instead immediately trying to get into his character. And so, his frown merged with an expression of disgust as he looked around the tavern, trying his best to show just how unhappy he was to have chosen this place. Acting was easier when an emotion was truly felt, apparently. Most eyes fixed on him, at least for a moment, probably not only due to his gigantic height but also because of his glorious beard. These simpletons had surely never seen anything so magnificent before. Without loitering, Peake headed towards the bar as most booths were occupied by either passed out drunkards, men fondling their whores, or shady individuals whispering and trading secrets shrouded in darkness.

The bar was as old as the tavern itself, full of scratches and stains, damp here and there, putrid on several spots, yet still heavily occupied. To further fit into his character, Peake decided to head for a more obvious approach. Remaining undercover was hard, especially when one tried their best to stay away from the limelight. Peake went the other way, instead choosing to stand out and call attention upon himself to fit in better and discard any doubt about himself with brute methods. Finding a spot in the bar was impossible, and so Peake took action when he found a spot he liked on the edge of the bar, from where he could look around the establishment with ease. However, a drunkard was sleeping in a pond of his own vomit on said bar, which clearly stated that spot was his for the night. Peake reached out and tangled his fingers on his hair, pulling the passed out loser back harshly and sending his unconscious being to the ground. He did so with an annoyed and violent grunt, just to further wash off those noble motions that he may have. Simpletons were brutish and dumb, and Peake surprisingly played one of them very well.

Clearing his throat and spitting some of his mucus on the passed out drunkard’s face, he spun on his heels and leaned on the counter, waiting for the obese bartender to attend him. By his weight, it was clear that he made good coin from this establishment, which could only mean illegal activities. The bartender approached, eyebrows raised, and nodded towards Peake. Soon, Peake’s scent was captured by the porcine nose of the bartender, whom frowned greatly. “E’ fock you’se done, mate. Took a wee bath inta shite, did ya? Waddaya want?” After the bartender’s words, Peake realized he had no experience in fabricating accents proper of the uneducated goofs, and so he quickly improvised a boorish and overly manly loud tone to suit his being. He also added some cussing and profanity, to further diminish his intelligence of the character he played. “Been shoveling shit all morning. Get me some mead. Got to spend the coin I earned. Also, bring me something to eat.” Peake tossed two coppers nels on the bar, coins he barely used in his life. “Aye, mead and turtle stew comin’. Youse gonna love me wifey’s cookin’.”

Peake waited, looking around the tavern to locate his men. One of them was obviously drunk, having been undercover for most of the day and having quickly fallen victim to the alcohol, now hugging a whore as if he was hugging his mother. The second man was playing a card game with another one of his men, plus two other individuals that smoked some cheap and stinky cigars. The fourth man took a little while longer to be found, hidden in a dark corner, trying his best to hide the fact that he was masturbating furiously to a female that sat with another male in a distant booth, the knight obviously having consumed some sort of drug. As for the fifth man, there was no sight of him. Peake tried to mentally picture just how much happier he’d be if he hanged himself right now instead of witnessing just how idiotic his men were. His mead came soon enough, in a tankard that was clearly not washed properly. Peake’s eyes stared at the rim of tankard, in which all sort of lip and liquid stains remained on the metallic item, and swallowing his pride, he raised the mead to take a grandiose sip.

It took him a lot of effort to swallow it down, not only because of how dirty the tankard was, but also because of the disgusting taste of the mead. They had not used real honey, for sure. Surely, the beekeepers that provided the honey fed the bee’s water and sugar, the bees then vomiting it and making this poor attempt of honey. However, his expression did not change at all, as instead he remained on the spot and looked for something to do. Thinking of more ways to further fit in with this gang of cretins, he concluded that uneducated men and commoners such as these only talked about sex and complained. Beside him, an old woman dressed in stained clothes that were nonetheless quite revealing, Peake threw a kiss towards her. “How much for your minge?” The woman smiled, revealing most of her lacking teeth and the attempted golden shine of the remaining, not coated in any sort of metal but simply left unwashed until their color was very similar to the gold’s yellow. “Three coppers.” Peake had the money, yet he did not have the will to get infected with whatever parasites hid between the woman’s legs. “Fuck off, skank.” To finish it off, Peake scoffed loudly, raising his tankard once again to suffocate his inner pains.


It would be a long night, apparently. The least he could do is get drunk.
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Sabine
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“Excuse me, miss…?”

She rolled her eyes skywards as the lone barmaid passed her by yet again. Who ran a tavern and employed only one barmaid? That's what Sabine wanted to know. She had spent the last five bits gesturing frantically for the woman’s attention and studiously avoiding the glare of the man seated across from her. Neil had refused to speak about the assault until he had a tankard of ale before him – “Just in case you thought you could pull the wool over my eyes,” he’d said. While they waited, he had decided to amuse himself by alternating his suspicious glares between Sabine and the foul-smelling giant with the beard.

Although, to be fair, Sabine was on the verge of sending bad looks to Beardy McBearderson herself. The cloaked man she’d seen at the door had turned out to be the boorish sort, shoving men off barstools and loudly proclaiming his business for the entire tavern to hear. She couldn’t say she was surprised, given the room’s other patrons, but he had still managed to exceed all of her expectations. As she glanced in his direction and listened to him announce his order to the bartender, she was of half a mind to tell him to shut the hell up.

She might have, too, if he hadn’t looked like he could crush her head with his hand.

“Miss!” Sabine grabbed for the barmaid’s wrist as she neared the table once more. The barmaid promptly swatted her away, but paused and looked grudgingly at Sabine. “Can I get two tankards of ale?”

“Faster to order at the bar.”

Patience is a virtue, patience is a virtue. “Please? I’d rather order from you. It’s a bit… crowded over there.” Sabine jerked her head towards Beardy, who had begun belligerently propositioning a gap-toothed woman near the counter.

“Fine.”

“Thank y-” She trailed off as the overtaxed barmaid hustled to the next booth. Sabine’s eye twitched, and she turned back to Neil. “You ready to talk now? The ale’s on its way.”

He grunted. “Whaddya want to know?”

For the love of… “You reached out to me,” Sabine began loudly, before catching herself. Across the tavern, an indignant shout went up from a group of men playing cards. “Never mind. You said you’d tell me about Quincy Andaris’ attack. Did you see the face of the woman who attacked him?”

Neil glanced around the tavern, leaned in, and dropped his voice. “Yeah, I saw it.”

“And...?” Sabine’s hopes rose in spite of herself. She had followed so many leads, hit so many dead ends, and talked to so many people. What if this was the one person who made all her time, energy, and frustrations worthwhile? What if he was the light at the end of the tunnel? What if he-

“It was the Queen!”

She could literally feel the silver lining rip away from her soul.

“The Queen,” Sabine repeated flatly.

“Yes, the Queen!” Neil’s face had become more animated, and his eyes darted wildly. “That’s why we had to meet here, see. Her spies are everywhere. I didn’t think they’d come to this tavern, but there’s still a chance…” He pointed subtly to Beardy. “Could be anyone, you know. Even him.”

She choked on a disbelieving laugh. That brute? A spy in disguise? The only thing more outrageous would have been accusing the Queen of attacking Quincy.

Oh, wait.

“What makes you think it was the Queen?” Sabine ventured. She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but how would he have even known her face? All she knew about the Queen’s appearance was that she was–

“-blonde and witchy,” Neil said.

“What?”

“The woman. She was blonde and witchy-looking. That’s how I know.”

Sabine dropped an elbow to the table and buried her forehead in her palm. Where was that barmaid? The evening had taken a turn down dead-end boulevard. The least she could do was get drunk.
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Peake
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There was a common misconception about drunks in Rynmere. Quite often, people believed a drunkard had to consume copious amounts of alcohol to get their fix, that they had legendary endurance and they only needed the strongest beverages in their diet. This was a great misconceptions, clearly proved wrong by Peake. Drunks like him needed nothing but a drop of alcohol to be triggered, to feel the rush of the fix running around their body. Gulping down on the dubious mead until the tankard was depleted, his stomach was already feeling the pleasant heat, a hearth within his own body. It wouldn’t be long before he was tipsy whenever the stomach began absorbing the alcohol. Perhaps he was the least appropriate man to befall to an intoxication, yet the envy of seeing his men enjoying themselves was clouding his judgement. Offering a harsh slap on the broken down counter, which was still partially coated in vomit that splashed around due to Peake’s motion, the bartender knew the man wanted another one. The refill came quite quickly, as the bartender was trying his best to be quick about it to once again flee Peake’s pestilence.

The second tankard was also downed with haste, as nothing worth Peake’s attention was happening within the obscure and bizarre tavern, salve perhaps for one of his men moaning loudly as he reached the artificial climax produced by his hand. The nausea caused by the poor hygiene of the establishment’s utensils was slowly overcome, despite the damage to Peake’s own ego. “Another!” As Peake waited, he decided to attempt to mingle with some of the tavern dwellers to further get into character. Looking about without much interest, most of the populace was as repugnant as commoners often were, his eyes ended up drifting to one of the booths, in which perhaps the most attractive female of the tavern sat with some obviously inferior male. The female looked back at him, with disgust to those with a clear judgement, yet Peake only saw interest thanks to his bloated ego and intoxicated being. Cracking his neck and gaining a smirk, he began mentally dusting off all those pick-up lines he hadn’t used in quite a while, mostly because his pickup methods included exchanging coins instead of words. His refill arrived quickly, and taking it with him, he began making his way towards the booth.

Instead of trotting as stiff and plain as he usually did, Peake added an exaggerated swagger to his strides, a sort of dance that tried to hypnotize the female, a deluded peacock trying to impress with his abnormal height, his beard thickness and his organic aroma. It didn’t take long for his large legs to finally arrive just by the booth, to which Peake widened his cocky smirk and nodded towards the female. “Argh, I’ve got something in my eye, woman!” Shamelessly, he leered towards the female’s frame. “Your ass.” Delivering a loud ‘Ha!’ as a punchline that caused some of the simplistic male clientele to chuckle and shake their head, Peake sat on the edge of her companion’s seat, afterwards shamelessly pushing himself into the seat as the suddenly mute male was pushed towards the wall. Sitting right in front of the lady, Peake removed his cloak to uncover the hessian shirt he was wearing, whose buttons were partially unmade to display Peake’s chest hair. It appeared as if someone had taken a common sack and had made it into a shirt, which would be rational giving the male’s size. “Are you free tonight or is it going to cost me?”

Women loved power, yet Peake’s character had no titles nor wealth. Instead, he used his virility to hint just how dominant he was. Dominance meant strength, and strength was power. “You know how they say skin is the largest organ? Not in my case.” Winking to her, Peake further integrated into the booth’s seat, mostly to further scare away the man beside him, who was currently pressed against the wall like a rat, his face slowly turning blue as some suspicious thought was flooding his mind just like Peake’s smell was flooding his nose. “How about you and I head to the alley for a while? I’d like to name a multiple orgasm after you. What’s your name woman?” Peake wiggled his eyebrows, strangely proud to be handling the situation as easily as he was and somewhat excited to have awaken some sources of laughter within the tavern. Maybe he could compensate for the horrible dishonor with some intoxication and a piece of female flesh, the ideal price to compensate him for his trouble.
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Sabine
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Mission: Implausible

“The Crown has spies everywhere.”

“Yes, so you’ve said.” Sabine drummed her fingers anxiously on the table and glanced around the tavern. The barmaid wasn’t kidding when she had said service would be faster at the bar. A quick glance at Beardy showed her that he was already on his second tankard, while she was still waiting for her first.

To pass the time, Neil had taken to chattering about secrets and spies and secret spy plots. At first, Sabine had listened politely to his ramblings, but as the wait lengthened, she had started tuning him out and nodding only when he paused expectantly for a response.

Her thoughts drifted back to Quincy’s attack. If he could have just remembered a single detail about the woman’s face… Skin colour, hair colour, nose structure, something more for her to go on than just the woman’s gender and the darkness of her clothes. It had been a terrible beating, true, but for him to not remember anything about his attacker…?

Either he was still in shock, or he was suffering from a more serious memory loss. Maybe the stress of the assault had been too much for his mind to handle.

“-and that’s when I told ‘em that I would never fall for their mind tricks. Isn’t that what you would have done?”

“What?” Sabine blinked dumbly at Neil. “I mean… yes. Exactly.” She nodded halfheartedly and traced a finger over the table’s wood grain. Neil paid her no mind and continued to speak, reminding her of a first date gone horribly awry.

Not that she’d been on one of those in a while.

It would be two more bits until the barmaid returned with their drinks. Sabine gratefully exchanged coin for beer and reached hastily for her mug. The faster she drank, the sooner she could excuse herself and head home from this fruitless night.

Except that even drinking would prove to be a challenge. Sabine eyed her mug with revulsion. Faded lipstick and day-old saliva stained the rim, while grime floated in the murky liquid. She steadied her stomach, took a hesitant sip, and made a face.

Rharne would have rioted over the taste alone.

Neil, on the other hand, seemed entirely unconcerned. He had begun downing his beer like a man who had found his desert oasis.

The pair sat in silence for a moment: Neil drinking, Sabine struggling to drink.

“He’s looking at you,” Neil said suddenly, in what may have been his most intelligible statement of the evening.

“Who?”

“Don’t tell him anything.”

“Don’t tell who anything?”

“Remember, he could be a spy for the Queen.”

Sabine rolled her eyes and searched the tavern for Neil’s spy. It wasn’t long before her gaze stopped short on Beardy. The man had stopped harassing the bartender, and had taken to staring at Sabine with “sex me” eyes and a cocksure smirk. She scowled darkly and sent him her best “fuck off” vibes in return. Oh, hell no. He was not thinking what she thought he was thinking.

She watched, unamused, as he strode towards her table with his back arched, shoulders spread, and legs bouncing like an overconfident rooster. As he grew closer, his eau de horse shit once again invaded her senses. She wrinkled her nose and maintained her scowl. Neil, however, chose to cope by draining the rest of his beer, seemingly under the impression that a drunken stupor would override his sense of smell.

As Beardy shared his opening line with her and the tavern, Sabine’s disgust only heightened. Anyone else, including Quincy’s assailant, would have been more welcome than the boor who had pushed his way into her booth.

She greeted him in silence, with narrowed eyes and tense shoulders. It took all of her self-control to keep from telling him off - a battle which would only continue as he persisted in throwing line after line at her.

Her eye twitched as he called her a whore, and her hands tightened around her mug as he paraded the size of his dick before her.

But it was when he promised to name a multiple orgasm after her, eliciting laughter from some particularly simple-minded onlookers, that she finally broke.

“My name is None of Your Fucking Business,” she said. He may have been able to crush her head with his hand, but she was well past caring. “How about you head to the alley for a while and leave the rest of us to drink in peace?”

A tavern-goer whistled and several others snorted their laughter at Beardy’s expense. Sabine grimaced and glanced dispassionately at her soon-to-be crushed table partner. Why was she even bothering? Neil had no useful information, Beardy was a noxious nightmare, and, worst of all, her beer tasted like cat piss.

“You know what? Forget this.” She tossed the remaining half of her drink at Beardy’s face and moved to slide out of the booth.

[Reviewer’s Note: -6sn for two beers.]
Last edited by Sabine on Tue May 31, 2016 2:53 am, edited 2 times in total. word count: 861
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Elyna
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It was one of those taverns that you walked into, and then wanted to leave with the same breath. The pungent welcome of stale ale, urine, and other bodily fluids, that Elyna did not want to think about, soaked into the sawdust on the floor over years. So it was one of those sticky kind of floors as well, and maybe that was why she didn’t immediately walk back out; and by the second breath in the rowdy room, the Skyrider had lost her sense of smell. It was probably for the best. Dressed in her usual clothes of a shirt, breaches, boots and leather jerkin she skirted the edge of the room, eyes trailing over the patrons as she stuck to the shadows.

The night of passion in Krome, followed by the confusion of Malcolms’ return to the city had left her feeling a bit lost. She wanted to try and re-connect with the Captain, and at the same time she couldn’t help but feel guilty that maybe she was ready to move on from the past. The occasional fling was one thing; born of adrenaline, fear or alcohol she had at times let go of Yoreth’s memory. But this threatened to be something else. Who was she really, to let go of her heartfelt grief and step into the future with someone new? What did that say about Yoreth? Did it lessen the value of what they’d shared? Did she deserve a chance at happiness?

Her thoughts had bought her back to the docks. In Yoreth’s company she’d found it a safer place than most, because he wielded too much respect. Though the Noble hadn’t returned to the inn with his death, she’d been aware that there were still sailors that recognised her as belonging to their ‘Hangman’. Even dead, he still held their respect, or fear; remarkable. So she was back, to see if could recognise anyone from the life she’d lived before. A self-imposed punishment and reminder of the past.

Elyna spotted two familiar faces in the crowd, and several things that she wished she’d never seen. This had been a bad idea, surely no amount of bathing could make her feel clean again? Was that man…she gulped and sank into an empty chair with her back to the wall.
Her eyes were fixed on a man whose blonde hair was shorn back to his scalp, like a fine dusting and his beard left stubble on his jaw. She remembered him and his dark eyes. He must have been nearly twice her age, he’d been a friend of Yoreth and she searched her memories for his name; Leren?

Before he could turn in his seat to follow her stare she looked elsewhere and was surprised to see another woman who looked equally uncomfortable in the surrounds, sipping hesitantly at a drink. Squinting through the gloom and smoking atmosphere, Elyna thought she recognised the braids; the journalist? She quickly ducked her head and examined her hands. The last thing she needed was a journalist, who knew her real name, to see her here, in this dung heap.

It was then a tall man with an unforgettable beard swaggered past in a storm of commotion and parked himself at Sabine’s table.
“Can I get you a drink?” The waitress stood pointedly at Elyna’s shoulder. Ely glanced up and peered around her at the bar.

“Someone’s getting it for me,” the Skyrider lied and grinned. No way was she going to risk something from here. Had it always been so…rough? Love was blind, but did it also have no other senses? Surely this hadn’t been such a dive when Yoreth had bought her? The waitress looked at the bar and nodded, she didn’t believe her, but was too busy to waste time throwing her out.

Some of the bearded man’s comments broke across the crowd and was met with raucous laughter and a smatter of applause. Elyna’s eyes narrowed again and she bit the inside of her cheek, fingers curling into fists on the table. The phrasing, that beard. It was all familiar. She had a feeling she’d seen the man before, but where? He wasn’t from her past life with the Sailors, something was tickling the back of her mind and telling her she’d encountered him far more recently. But where? When?

One thing she knew for certain, was that she was disgusted by this place and his approach to the woman from the arena. The Noblewoman was suddenly grateful she’d worn her sword as she looked around, scowling as his insults kept falling. Her mouth dropped open when the drink was thrown and she grinned to herself. Well done girl, she thought, now…just get out of there before this turns nasty. There was really only two ways it could go, he could shrug off the insult and skulk away…or…the other option. The violent explosive response. Elyna sat up and rolled her shoulders back. She had a feeling that it might be the latter.
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Peake
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Race: Human
Profession: A**hole
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Peake was definitely getting this woman tonight. Never before he had witnessed how a female melted in desire for him, how she barely managed to hide her feeling of overwhelming affection behind desperate and ineffective words. Peake’s heart was wrapped in thick armor, yet it was an armor made of glass that allowed him to clearly pinpoint possible connections to the many females that surrounded his life. At the same time, that transparent armor gave him a sort of gift, a talent, or an extraordinary genius to be precise about the magnitude of his art in detecting just how interested every other heart was in his own. His cold and distant words, mixed with cynicism and a hint of vulgarity were also a façade, just like the brunette’s denial of her true sentiments towards Peake and, surely, his talented beard.

The nobleman with the strong aroma was flattered, undeniably. If only the circumstances of his life were less severe, and calmer than they were in the current trial and age, perhaps he would’ve gently stripped the armor around his heart for her. Her face was pretty, and her brown eyes could easily be the ones he would like to stare at for the remained of his life. Her mind remained unwitnessed, for in these moments her words didn’t quite express much intelligence, yet nonetheless Peake believed all the treasures of acumen that were to be found within. Their children would surely be blessed with astonishing beard genetics, the envy of their generation, and the peak of humanity itself. Alas, despite the mental images of their wedding, their wedding night, and the long life spent afterwards in each other’s company flashing in his mind, the task that brought him to this place tonight left no room for true love.

At least, not after her drink washed over his delusional fantasies in a sudden attack that could very well be the most unexpected betrayal in the nobleman’s colorful life. Frozen in place for the first few trills, in which his slightly intoxicated mind tried to solve the puzzle of his own fallacy, at last he realized just how much effect the foul ale had had on him. The laughter of some of the patrons, all of inferior birth than his even if they were ignorant about said fact, only caused his latent rage to threaten an implosion. Standing up almost in a jump, looming just before the female with his abnormal height, his nostrils expanded as he huffed air similarly to how a bearded and a much more testosterone loaded bull would. If was safe to say that, if his nostrils were also shaped to match his disguise and act, they would currently be shooting out of the dark depths in great numbers. Thankfully, however, nothing but the hot air escaped those two orifices, perhaps hinting towards the imminence of steam if calm did not surround him on that instant.

Nothing happened, at least not immediately. The tavern, at least the part of it that was aware of Peake’s doings, grew somewhat silent as interested eyes shot towards him. Used to the limelight, Peake’s own mind was feeding him sweet whispers, temping him to take matters into his own hands with promises of a complete release from the fury. And, in truth, he felt like the female wouldn’t be quite of a fight, not after Peake broke her two hands for the tavern to witness.

Although Peake was usually very irresponsible when his rage was present, he was quite the opposite whenever he was on duty. These moments, he was not supposed to be Peake Andaris. Just like his odor was different, so was his name, and so was supposed to be his reaction.

“If you had only warned me that I was too much for you, I would’ve opened my mouth and caught most of that ale, woman!”

Peake’s voice was rather inadequate for charm, not when it was obvious he was trying to hide his violent nature, yet the awkwardness was also obvious to him. For his next sentence, he leveled his tone.

“… I’m sorry, woman. Had a few too many, you know. Name’s…” A name, he needed a name. Tavern, dark, drunk, ale, copper, food, stew, turtle...

“… Keppler Kunt.” Not even his choice of name was decent. Alas, there was nothing to be done about it, not now.

“Barwench! Bring this woman a refill, right now!” Peake’s throat hurt, surely because he needed something moist to gulp down his enormous pride. Never again he would sign up for undercover duty. Raising his sleeve to wipe the ale from his face, he slowly slid away from the booth, glancing one last time to the male curled in the corner opposite of the woman that just rejected him. In a last whim to feel some of his power back, he’d widen his eyes towards the male and faint an upcoming attack towards him.

“What are you looking at, shrimp?”


Peake’s grin returned just as the tavern door opened loudly.
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Sabine
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He was definitely not getting her into bed tonight. Never before had she been assaulted by such an overwhelming array of desperate and ineffective pick-up lines. His stench - a smell so strong that it nearly burned the hairs from her nostrils - did not help his case. Even with the aggressive virility of his beard playing in his favour, Sabine’s heart was unmoved. His hygiene and intelligence were much too questionable for her to consider even the tamest flirtation, let alone jumping his bones in a back alley.

Still, the message seemed to have difficulty getting past his peculiarly large ego. She couldn’t figure out what he had to be so confident about, unless it was overcompensation for what actually hung between his legs.

And wasn't that a tale as old as time.

Pfft. Men.

And then the beer landed.

Sabine flinched in spite of herself as Beardy shot up. He towered above her menacingly, beer dripping from his beard and running down his hessian shirt. The tavern, or at least the tables nearby, fell quiet and patrons began to stare with a more obvious interest. He, too, stood before her in silence, and the longer he stayed quiet, the more concerned she became that he was going to level her in front of the entire room.

She leaned away from him without any subtlety and relaxed only when the words that came out of his mouth were chastising rather than angry.

“I’ll make sure you’re good and warned next time,” she replied, and crossed her arms tightly against her chest. When he went on to apologize, however, she dropped her arms in surprise.

How... unexpected.

Much like his name.

“Keppler Kunt,” she repeated slowly, and wrinkled her nose. The poor man. With a name like ‘Keppler,’ it was no wonder he felt he had something to prove.

Though she was still no more likely to sleep with him than she was to sleep with her own mother, her irritation lessened considerably with the reveal of his name and a sliver of sympathy for his lifelong plight sparked in her eyes.

“Sabine Qe’azour,” she relented. It was both an introduction and an apology. “And… thanks, I think, but don’t bother with the drink. I won’t be staying.” She disentangled herself from the booth and waved a hand at the overtaxed barmaid to indicate that, no, she certainly did not need a refill.

What she needed was actual alcohol, not the sorry attempt at ale that the tavern offered.

Neil, who had begun gasping breath back into his lungs once Keppler slid away from the booth, shoved himself back against the wall as the larger man feinted an attack his way. He looked desperately to Sabine for back-up, but she feigned ignorance and instead began inspecting the smudges of black ink that stained her fingertips.

It was true that she was more partial to him than Keppler, but Neil was the one who had led her to the dump of a tavern in the first place before successfully wasting her time on bad information and piss-poor beer.

Why he expected Sabine’s help was beyond her.

Most of the tavern patrons, suspecting that a fight was no longer imminent, lost interest and began to chatter once more, just as the tavern door opened with a bang and a succession of Ryns filtered into the room - each odder than the last.

The first was a large-chested woman with oily blonde hair that lay matted against her forehead. She wore an uncomfortably tight red dress, carried a sheathed sword at her hip, and had curves for days.

The blonde was followed by a tall, spindly fellow whose limbs looked as though they’d been stretched on the rack. His brown hair was cut in the military style most frequently found in The Iron Hand, and his hand twitched over the knife that was belted to his waist.

Two more men and a woman followed, squeezing through the entrance like rats. But it was the last man to enter who captured Sabine’s full attention. He wore a cavalier hat and appeared to be tattooed from neck to toe. As if that weren’t enough, he had a full, curly, black beard – one that rivalled Keppler’s in its masculinity – with beads and braids woven throughout.

Sabine’s eyebrows shot up as the man turned and locked the door behind him, barring it with a wooden plank.

Well, shit.
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Elyna
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Elyna was more than a little relieve that the tall bearded man took a back step and issued what could have been believed as a genuine apology. The rapid rate of her pulse started to slow and the Skyrider lent back once more in her seat, fingers drifting away from the hilt of her sword. The barmaid shot her a dirty look, which she returned with a smile. She wasn’t prepared to leave, not just yet. Not when the tension was palpable and could have been cut with a blunt cleaver.

Oh…what a name. Elyna flinched as Keppler announced himself, it was truly misfortunate and yet…she didn’t quite believe him. Head tilted to oneside, she studied the man again. Brown gaze lingering on the stern features and strong straight nose. Above all things though, it was the salted and peppered beard and the arrogance that seemed to ouze from him, that held her attention. She just knew she’d seen him before, but in a setting so vastly different, it was impossible to put a face to a name. Or even a beard to a name.
Frustrated she ran her fingertips down the bridge of her own nose and watched the reporter making her hasty exit. Clever girl. Elyna bid her good speed and stretched out her legs. A few bits and she would make her own exit, she didn’t want Sabine to think she was looking for trouble, or following her.

The door was cast open and fresh air invaded the heavy settled stench. Brows raised in surprise as she twisted in her seat. Stomach tightening once more as she realised that trouble at the Inn was only just beginning.

The woman lent forward urgently, eyes intent on the reporter.

“Hey,” she called without thinking, lifting her hand in a mild wave, “pssst...” she scrambled for the woman’s attention, trying to balance the act with trying not to be noticed herself. But Sabine was standing direct in the firing line of whatever was about to go down. Elyna half stood, beckoning. Hopeful that the woman would see.
Last edited by Elyna on Tue Jul 26, 2016 11:18 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 362
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