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[O]  The tragedy is not to die, but to be wasted.

Offline Gilbert Jun 30 2020, 1:57 PM
  • Age: 38
  • Gender: Male
  • Race: Eximius
  • Rank:
  • Total Posts: 1
  • Played by: Stryx
115 Mana · ?
The rain had not let up for a fortnight at least. As commonplace as the downpour felt, it was yet another injustice endured. A concentration of Nature's weeping, one might argue. Gilbert might have linked the storming to one god or another had he the capacity. He was the furthest thing from Human that he knew of, so why not be the furthest from the gods as well? They had done him no favours. He saw no proof of their presence here in this wilderness, while he worked.

Suffered, more like it.

Meals did not come easy here. The rain soaked through his clothes within minutes of exposure. It was warm (like spit or sweat, he often thought) and by the time he'd dried off somewhere safe, a sweet smell would linger. Sometimes the rain burned when it touched his skin. If it penetrated his leather jerkin he would have to stop his prowling and strip - stealing precious time away from his hunt.

The linens he wore were less like undergarments and more like tattered sheets, pock-marked, stained. Pathetic as they were, he could not afford to damage them with this sweet rain. Already Gilbert could feel a dampness on the back of his neck, the small of his back. The rain continued to sluice across the canopy. It could be hours before it waned, or days, and he was hungry.

The jerkin, meant for someone rounder and broader than himself, felt more like a carapace. He cinched it with pieces of dried gut at the neck and around his hips. It had straps across the neck that did not work without buttons to attach to. Those he'd lost or damaged some time ago. There were ornate buttons descending beneath his right armpit too, serving no discernible purpose. He'd found those after donning the garment a few weeks ago, while trying to nap. It had felt like he'd rolled across a fistful of discarded molars, jarring him awake one night.

He held himself against the dirt in a crouch. In one fist he held a branch topped with a shard of something sharp, also tied in to place with stale gut strings. The other arm he kept tucked against his side. As he placed a foot and moved between the trees, he felt those pointless buttons catch on something. The tug stopped Gilbert mid-motion, but he moved his free hand to work at whatever had snared against them. When he could not immediately untangle himself he lowered his weapon by a hair's breath and looked down at his own chest.

In that moment he missed his window. A creature with the shape and sinew of a fox, but the size of a small horse, took notice of his subtle movement. That or the pungent smell of his unwashed body, the confusing admixture of blood, piss, musk, and animal parts which he utilized. The creature coughed and Gilbert's attention swept back to it, staring it down eye-to-eye across a six foot gap. He felt exposed in that moment; his fist tightened around his rudimentary spear - and he froze there.

Another bleat punctuated the air, as if the creature had lost interest. It turned and vaulted off in to the green, leaving behind a sodden Gilbert to stare at a void among the trees.
Offline Sullivan Jun 30 2020, 11:14 PM
  • Giruvaga
  • Age: 33
  • Gender: Female
  • Race: Eximius
  • Rank:
  • Total Posts: 28
  • Played by: Onii
315 Mana · View All Items?
The fur collar lined around her neck was battered by the weight of the rain until it lay flat, preened down and exposing her earthen throat. If being soaked through bothered her, it certainly wasn't enough to push her to retreat. Instead she lit a fire in her chest to keep the cold from sinking to her bones and drew back her hair into a partial tail, partial braid. A mess was the word, donned not for beauty or other eyes--utility was always the way with Sullivan. Even at times where it was detrimental, unfortunately.

Her eyes kept ahead, and the alicorn sleipnir beneath her continued in accordance with the tiniest shifts she made in his saddle. She sat in the midst of steel, of pairs of throwing axes on one side and a long poleax on the other, hunting knives and an assortment of other. They'd been washed clean by the rain from their latest hunt and the skinning of it that turned up a nice fur coat laying along the alicorn's hip. A beast had crossed them on their way, about the size of a small horse, bouncing past but not fearful. It eyed them certainly, but kept going. The pair wondered aimlessly if it somehow knew they'd already had their fill.
They were headed into Gritnur. It was a long way until then, and despite how open and seemingly quiet the long valley was, The Brass Hammer was aware they weren't alone. It was reminiscent of Afiel Ca Sein, what she'd remembered of her time there anyway, when Eximius had been relegated to those treacherous, fog-eaten shores. The difference was that Midnur was unassuming, not nearly as ghastly as the former, but you could feel it.

So when she saw him at a distance the moment they crossed through the treeline, coming up in front of them, she's not hesitant. To be clear, she makes no move that suggests she's interested in pleasantries beyond a stare. Alone and tattered, left to the wind and rain; the same as her, except even without context a third party could look between them and guess which was in the better state of being. At a closer look though, despite the way he smelled of musk and meat and other, if they were stripped down and set side-to-side, would that opinion change?

Sullivan was war torn. Long scars from one side to the other of her face like a paw had raked across it, her hands and knuckles specifically were clawed and desperately bitten into. Gashed in her arms, her back, her thighs and feet, with only some of it covered by tattoo. Between them, which really looked more like Midnur's Illusion, its way of tricking visitors to their deaths with unsightly foes?

As they approached him at his side like passing ships, Sullivan's vantage point from the back of her large mount allowed her to see easier why he was lingering there, still. A snag in the wood, the cloth caught as though intentionally. She could certainly smell him, and she could certainly see the things he was dressed in, but if any of those details bothered her it was unclear. How many times had she been party to the voiding of many bowls as she hacked them down, one by one? Or how many times had she walked battlefields to retrieve fallen old faces, stepping around large scores of decay to find the needles in the haystack?
His scent was wild and it was very present, but at least not dead.

They have some distance between them for sure, about 10ft or so, and while one scarred hand rests in the woman's lap, the other very discreetly plays at the silver poleax's neck on her right side, the side furthest away from him. Her head high, shoulders slumped and gracelessly comfortable; it was a deceptive image, because the impeached tyrant was playing through all the possible troubles he could give her. Merlot felt that tension and at any point was prepared to strike his head with a barrage of many hooves. His ears were drawn to his skull. "You appear to be stuck," she says, her voice as always bold as thunder, stripped of both hostility and hospitality. Her Portuguese accent was bold and bare, and the way she carved her sentences was telltale of a different first language. "I wonder if this is by the woods' intention..or by yours." It was an accusation, no matter how it was said. A trick, perhaps?