BattleMaster > Roleplaying
Assorted RP's of Sigrid Gudrun Auru'in
CryptCypher:
A place to store the many RP's to come, so I don't lose them like with my old characters/accounts. :)
--- Quote ---Roleplay from Sigrid Gudrun Auru'in (3 days, 4 hours ago)
Message sent to everyone in the region Krimml (29 recipients)
(Non-English terms are Old Norse. Warriors are Northmen.)
A small retinue approaches from northwest from Commonyr, circa Oligarch.
My first vivid impression of Krimml was that of a squat city nestled unto the verdant hills of Braga. The pleasant scent of her infamous meat pastries hung gently in the air as the great looming shadow of Oligarch cast wide from late evening's setting sun. Scarred by the passage of countless wars, her four-tiered stronghold rose stark and proud against the silhouette of bandit-infested forests. A distant cadre of trade-wagons creaked and scraped at the loose cobblestone road leading from the great forest toward Oligarch's main thoroughfare, caravan guards on alert for a chance skirmish by overzealous brigands. Tonight however, not a soul lay claim to the slightest footfall beneath her wavering boughs: for only fool or madman would stir trouble in these circumstances.
"Ãmirs frosteistna... Now that's a bloody army..." (Ymir's frosty balls)
A thousand bodies flittered lazily between clusters of hastily-pitched tents sown wide beyond the sloping rim of Krimml's outer reaches, inhabiting a sparse expanse of uneven terrain likely cleared by malnourished woodsmen and restless invaders of ages past. Scattered campfires spewed trails of smoke as the final rays of dying light shoze brazenly across the glinting armor of at least five-hundred infantrymen. Twenty-nine distinct banners fluttered in the evening breeze as heepish campwomen, hurried cooks, jingling traders, and assorted servants made up the hundreds wandering where chain and plate failed to betray soldier's garb. Small groups of wary rangers clumped together in various vantage points, the off-brown of their faded leather reminiscent of dried blood drops.
Though I could recognize scant few banners from a brief study of Oligarch's records, one stood out as being of decidedly foreign origin. Around fifty tired-looking rangers huddled beneath that foreign banner as the thick smoke of their camfires licked the sky. Perhaps a passing dignitary come to meet with Prime Minister Mersault, or an early arrival for Duke Tandaros's wedding. Surrounded as they were by at least a thousand armed Sirionites, there could be no fear of foolish betrayal.
My own retinue of rangers, nineteen in all, gradually slowed their exhausted march as we approached the furthest camp. A few men briefly paused to look our way - gazing curiously at our single quivering standard - whence flew bloody Phoenix upon a background of sable flanked by argent flaunches. I wondered for a passing moment if any still recalled the old meaning of twin flaunches upon heraldic shield... That archaic debruisement whence claimed the illegitimate spawn of a noblewoman must bear her arms with "a surcoat"; that is, on large flaunches around a blank center. Except the center of my own banner bore the shining crimson of a feathered bird from whose wings those brilliant white flaunches radiated like the rays of a Gods' light.
"Nei brandir! Takið þér yðart bogi... Ragnarr: hvar er bogi þitt, saurig vÃking skÃtkarl? Ja, yðart bogi, Ragnarr! Óðins skegg... Nei búinn, lÃtil pÃka? Ek várkann geirr hafa saurig arsgat þitt...
(No swords! Grab your bows. Ragnarr, where is your bow, you dirty viking bastard? Yes, your bow, Ragnarr! Odin's beard... Unready, little bitch? I pity the spear that takes your dirty !@#$%^&...)
Chuckling beneath my breath as my warriors laughed in stride, I bellowed a final command to the men as we strode through thickening crowds. The haggard and the battle-hardened, servants and soldiers whose sole purpose in life was to live and die beneath the glint of a blade. Such is the fate of all men who wage war, and upon whom war is waged: an effortless tide of conflict which none may escape for more than a brief moment of respite.
--- End quote ---
JeVondair:
I like the language mix followed by translation
CryptCypher:
--- Quote from: JeVondair on November 06, 2017, 07:28:06 PM ---I like the language mix followed by translation
--- End quote ---
Thanks :) One of various new writing styles I've been toying with. Trying to change it up a bit.
CryptCypher:
--- Quote ---"If the 'Tree of Whispers' could truly speak, it'd be screaming right about now... Fat lot of good it'd do, m'sure the grizzled old Elves have all but lost their hearing. Ah, cosmic irony..."
The white granite walkways of the Grand Garden, whose exotic flora once numbered in the thousands, featured far less diversity than the old stories described. The Tree of Whispers itself, diseased by scuttling insects whose industrious maws so casually tore at ancient visage, in no way resembled the picturesque storybooks whose legends puffed hot air unto Elvish pride. Sigrid's joyful heart lay as barren as a desert lakebed, visibly pissed at her own foolishness. As her pissant Krimmelian uncle once realized, plump arse sat proudly betwixt the leaning pillars of his decrepit old manorhouse, she was not one to be taken for a fool!
Old captain Ferdinand donned his customary mask of worry, yet as he opened his mouth to speak, Sigrid beat him to the punch.
"What in the hell happened to this place! Honestly, it looks like someone took a steaming dump, covered it in fancy adornments, and tried to hock it as some glorious artifact of ancient times..."
Were the stories of its mythic splendor just a crock of frog intestines, thought Sigrid, or did Sirion lose its glow somewhere along the way? For all the legends of Elvish mastery, even the Palace's sparse public records were an embarrassing enigma. Ferdinand awkwardly cleared his throat as Sigrid steeled herself against the time-worn mastery of shoddy excuses. The captain's service to a procession of haughty nobles imparted a particular gift for courtly deflection, but even so, the man was capable of an occasional stark sincerity.
"M'lady, one must expect some measure of leisure in the meticulous record-keeping of grand bureaucracies... One can hardly expect a realm of such age to prioritize the documentation of events that must seem so fleeting in the scope of its lengthy existence... It is unwise to fault the Elves for paying less-than-stellar attention to recording what their ancient minds must know by heart... Yet even I must admit: for so many years to be absent from every available parchment, scroll, and banner... Not just incomplete, no, but utterly devoid of mention... Why, its almost as if time itself had stopped in the wake of the Siro-Westmoorian War."
Ferdinand endeavored to lick his cracked lips, much as one expects a grandparent to lick a finger before leafing through an oft-read fairytale. Much of it was sheer presentation, Sigrid thought to herself, though some of it could surely be chalked up to the physiological effects of advanced age. After all, it is only right to give one's elders the chance to pause and recollect their thoughts. To contain so vast a knowledge crammed within a mind no longer in its prime... One could not dare to cast fault upon well-earned moment of respite. Not that she would ever admit such a thing to Ferdinand. It was just too much fun how they bickered back and forth over the years. In truth, she relished his graceless dance between grizzled tutor and old friend.
For a briefly humorous moment, Sigrid contemplated whether the Elvish Lords powdered their asses, lest tired old bones and thrice-wrinkled cheeks become lodged in the seat of a sanitary facility... Hells, maybe they just defecate where they stand, attentive servants trailing behind to salvage the oh so 'glorious' emanations of their masters. Considering how often her once-graceful uncle had shat himself at a moments notice, multiplied by the far greater lifespan of said Elves... Clearly lost in ridiculous mental imagery as a funny look glazed across her face, old captain Ferdinand cleared his throat in that oh-so timeless signaling of desired attention.
"Ahem... It was not a good time for the East Continent, or Sirion for that matter... Despite a desperate bounce back to relative success, the events of the Siro-Westmoorian War painted a stark image of what Sirion had become: a decaying house of playing-cards whose might rested upon the rank of its assembled faces, grimacing as if to frighten passers-by, yet vulnerable to the ravages of any old passing breeze. Fontan crumbling between the two-pronged Caligan-Perdan assault; then Prime Minister Lapallanch's retaliatory strike against Westmoor suffering an embarrassing retreat as complacency allowed the Westmoorian looting of Commonyr... General Blakeshadow accomplishing - pardon my Common - !@#$-all then abdicating after driving Sirion forces to the brink of oblivion, only for newly-minted general Clipt to fail miserably as the Army of Sirion lay shattered... So they say, alongside Sirion's puckered dignity..."
If Sigrid's eyebrows could arch any higher, the damn things would spread wing and take flight. A stifled grin broke into outright laughter as Ferdinand's wrinkled forehead lay bridged by furry gray unibrow cast high in startled indignation.
"Listen here, girl. You may not be that clever little runt anymore; y'know, the one who set fire to a certain Vice Chancellor's heirloom tablecloth at a wedding respectable nobles are loathe to mention... Or that time you let loose a horde of emaciated rats in middle of a certain Duke's *bloody* feast... Aye, you've grown proud and strong, if not a tad bit wise, since those trying times... But that doesn't mean I have to put with your shenanigans. You're still my little one, damn girl, and you'd best remember that. They may not have caught you, but I had to clean up your mess every time your sick humor got the best of us. Oh, Gods above... What was I saying? Ah, yes, do you recall that gutted pig they found on the altar at Brunswick? How you managed to haul that festering sack of maggots up all those stairs and plant the damn thing like some imperial banner is just, urgh, why would you even-"
Red cheeks nearly bursting from such profound laughter as joyful tears coalesced in the corners of azure-flecked emerald eyes, Sigrid struggled to catch her breath - after a brief loss of control, she swiftly composed herself in the wake of unknown voice trailing song across the expanse.
"Shush, old man! Listen-"
Looking across the Bridge of the Fallen, where casual stroll and distracted speech had naturally brought the pair, she scanned her surroundings for the songbird whose solemn tune caught her fancy. Nevermind Ferdinand never realized she had recruited a pair of local urchins to do her 'heavy lifting', rewarding their part in her bored shenanigans with table scraps and scavenged trinkets that made their eyes grow wide with wonder... One day she'll get around to giving up some of her tricks... But who the hell was singing that curious song?
"Oh yes, I'm the great pretender
Pretending I'm doing well
My need is such I pretend too much
I'm lonely but no one can tell
Oh yes, I'm the great pretender
Adrift in a world of my own
I play the game but to my real shame
You've left me to dream all alone"
--- End quote ---
CryptCypher:
Non-Consensual Cosmetic Surgery
--- Quote ---Roleplay from Sigrid Gudrun Auru'in (just sent)
message to all nobles of Sirion
Hrafn was still staggering half-way through the streets of Avamar when his scribe came running, fuming, shaking a letter in his hand. He bowed more from fatigue than from respect and tried to catch his breath to announce the most important part of what he had to say.
Sigrid and her Avenging Exiles had just finished paying for the burial of the mangled scout they'd discovered with his throat cut while surveying Montijo, apparently by some pissant from Nivemus who valued his privacy more than his scruples. After all, there was no one in that region beside the Nivemus army at the time of his death. Somber faces all around, she left them at a nearby tavern to mourn their brother and departed for the market, accompanied by her once-Regent Ferdinand and her new captain Helmut.
What a sight it must have been to those walking the streets of Avamar: a young noblewoman in black ranger's leathers and long hair the color of phoenix feather practically gliding across the pavement. A grizzled old frowning war veteran struggling to keep up as sparse grays cling like weeds atop a balding head, leg ruined in some long-forgotten war for a nation history has forsaken. Last but not least, a young new captain with enough notches on his blade to fill a banquet hall, and plenty of room for more.
Sullen and sour at the loss of a good man to supposed allies - lost in her own little mental world of unwinding strategies, ever-shifting politics, and a yearning for simpler days - Sigrid barely notices Hrafn until she practically rams him from behind. A muscled arm reaches out from behind and grabs her shoulder, to which she promptly spins and punches her new captain square in the nose. A look of profound surprise scours his face as a trail of blood leaks from what might be a shattered nose.
"!@#$! Sorry! I- damn it, don't grab me like that! NEVER !@#$ing grab me like that!"
--- End quote ---
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