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Roleplaying / Landing in Lugagun: One Graves Digs His Own; The Rise of A Mercenary
« on: October 29, 2012, 01:55:49 AM »
Figured I'd compile and post my past few roleplays (over a period of 4 days or so) from Fissoa in case anyone was interested:
--
Night Before The Landing
"News from ashore, milord," the young man intoned solemnly, watching the blanket-wrapped man from a respectful distance away. Tarkus had been sitting there for some time watching the coast, insofar as the man could now given his limitations, and did not immediately stir to the boy's voice. So he tried again, prompting cautiously: "Milord, news by falcon." The night hung around them both, foggy and chill.
This time Tarkus shifted in his chair and turned at the hip, presenting a preternaturally aged face lit by a lantern's dim halo, lined by scars and the healed reminders of flayed skin. His eyes, what of them remained, were blissfully closed; he spared the boy that sight, at least. Then, just as quickly, he twisted back to face the sea and tucked his left arm beneath his blanket, hiding that mutiliation from sight as well as the others. He rasped a noise that could have meant anything, thick and choked in his throat, but the boy took it for assent and continued quietly.
"Aurvandil has been declared upon by," a list of realms followed, "and has formed a new colony in Paisly, which too has been declared upon. We have reached the coast, and will make landing after the sunrise. It's to be a quick raid." The boy hesitated, then: "You will watch from the ships...?"
A harsh cough, followed by a vigorous shake of Tarkus's head. His face was coiled up in a fierce scowl and despite the frailness of his body, there was still that iron core of stubborn intent stiffening his spine. How the lord planned on making the landing with his troops was anyone's guess, but the boy knew better than to question it. Base-born folk had no right to counsel their betters.
Only usurp them.
"Very well," the boy whispered, his breath catching, then chanced a step closer to the lord and extended the sheet of parchment he'd been concealing under his arm all night, and wet at his lips in sudden anxiety. "There's just the formality of a signature, milord, and I'll leave you be. Regarding the ship captain's pay."
Tarkus Graves didn't - couldn't - even spare the paper a second, or first, glance. He took it and signed it clumsily, without hesitation, glad to be rid of the nattering voice in his ear, and sagged back in his chair to listen to the gulls overhead, and smell the salt tang in the air. Without eyes, the tears did not sting so much, but he could still feel them run tracks down his weathered face. After all this time - finally, action.
The young man retreated without a word, glad the nobleman could not see his face. He was shaking, grinning riotously, and wasn't shamed to admit he had nearly wet himself in terror. The paper he carried with him contained a future he could have never dreamt of before now:
'I, Tarkus Graves, declare henceforth that Waldor of Fissoa is my true-born heir and son. Upon my death, he is to inherit all my titles and lands and be welcomed into the House of Graves. Should I take ill or be rendered senseless, he is to act as my Regent until either I recover, or pass from this world.
Tarkus Graves
Knight of Fissoa Fields
Once Duke of Madina'
Captain Waldor, the youngest man by far to lead this company of mercenary bowmen since its inception during the colonization of Dwilight, privately thanked all the gods above and below for this good turn of fortune as he disappeared below deck to ready his men for morning.
--
Night Before The Landing
"News from ashore, milord," the young man intoned solemnly, watching the blanket-wrapped man from a respectful distance away. Tarkus had been sitting there for some time watching the coast, insofar as the man could now given his limitations, and did not immediately stir to the boy's voice. So he tried again, prompting cautiously: "Milord, news by falcon." The night hung around them both, foggy and chill.
This time Tarkus shifted in his chair and turned at the hip, presenting a preternaturally aged face lit by a lantern's dim halo, lined by scars and the healed reminders of flayed skin. His eyes, what of them remained, were blissfully closed; he spared the boy that sight, at least. Then, just as quickly, he twisted back to face the sea and tucked his left arm beneath his blanket, hiding that mutiliation from sight as well as the others. He rasped a noise that could have meant anything, thick and choked in his throat, but the boy took it for assent and continued quietly.
"Aurvandil has been declared upon by," a list of realms followed, "and has formed a new colony in Paisly, which too has been declared upon. We have reached the coast, and will make landing after the sunrise. It's to be a quick raid." The boy hesitated, then: "You will watch from the ships...?"
A harsh cough, followed by a vigorous shake of Tarkus's head. His face was coiled up in a fierce scowl and despite the frailness of his body, there was still that iron core of stubborn intent stiffening his spine. How the lord planned on making the landing with his troops was anyone's guess, but the boy knew better than to question it. Base-born folk had no right to counsel their betters.
Only usurp them.
"Very well," the boy whispered, his breath catching, then chanced a step closer to the lord and extended the sheet of parchment he'd been concealing under his arm all night, and wet at his lips in sudden anxiety. "There's just the formality of a signature, milord, and I'll leave you be. Regarding the ship captain's pay."
Tarkus Graves didn't - couldn't - even spare the paper a second, or first, glance. He took it and signed it clumsily, without hesitation, glad to be rid of the nattering voice in his ear, and sagged back in his chair to listen to the gulls overhead, and smell the salt tang in the air. Without eyes, the tears did not sting so much, but he could still feel them run tracks down his weathered face. After all this time - finally, action.
The young man retreated without a word, glad the nobleman could not see his face. He was shaking, grinning riotously, and wasn't shamed to admit he had nearly wet himself in terror. The paper he carried with him contained a future he could have never dreamt of before now:
'I, Tarkus Graves, declare henceforth that Waldor of Fissoa is my true-born heir and son. Upon my death, he is to inherit all my titles and lands and be welcomed into the House of Graves. Should I take ill or be rendered senseless, he is to act as my Regent until either I recover, or pass from this world.
Tarkus Graves
Knight of Fissoa Fields
Once Duke of Madina'
Captain Waldor, the youngest man by far to lead this company of mercenary bowmen since its inception during the colonization of Dwilight, privately thanked all the gods above and below for this good turn of fortune as he disappeared below deck to ready his men for morning.