Make your Lintha Daiklave into the straight-up SOUL EDGE and use your last charm for whatever its first bonkers Demon Sword Evocation is!
Realizing lately that I don't really trust or respect basically any of the moderators here. So, good luck with life, friends! Hit me up on Twitter @DesertLeviathan
Alright, I think I've got a few concepts for a Zenith character. I'll post 'em both and let you guys riff off of them.
1) Mother Murtha
The captain of the merchant cog The Highest Value and its wayward crew who she refers to as her children, Mother Murtha is a striking figure who resonates authority. She stands as tall and as wide as heavy laborer, and deep lines inset her upper brow as if she were about give a scolding. Yet when confronted with the poor and needy, especially children, her rough countenance is replaced with the kindest eyes and the warm glow of a gentle summer's day. No one knows her origin, certainly she talks like any sailor, but her looks are plain and blunt and unlike those who were born in the West.
The Highest Value wasn't always a merchant cog; it once sailed under a different captain and ran in the flesh trade. How Mother Murtha acquired it is the subject of many rumors. Just as many surround the captain herself. Certainly she is a welcome sight in any small port where she trades fairly in goods and gives information freely. In Guild-controlled ports she's known as a ruthless dealer and savvy merchant, and her unique goods fetch high prices. In recent years her practices have changed, The Highest Value once again carries people as it's cargo, though never slaves. Doctors, mendicants, craftsmen, and vagabonds alike find themselves on fruitful voyages to the places they're needed or where they need most to go. Mother Murtha holds supper on the top deck where all sit at the same long table where she herself serves the plates. More treasured than her cooking is the wisdom she supplies in kind.
With regards to this character, I'm thinking a tough as nails spiritual adviser with plenty of social skills, resources, and contacts. And Brawl & Resistance charms when words fail.
2) Bron the Mendicant
Bron the Mendicant is on a personal quest, though none save he and the gods know what it is. He travels erratically, if often, and his capricious nature belies a peculiar knack for always being in the wrong place at the right time. His appearance is likened to his walking staff: bony, gnarled, and frail, but appearances are deceiving. He has slain beastmen and humbled Imperial dynasts with that very same stick. All know when he enters a town; for everyone seems to meet him personally. Approachable and harmless, people find themselves laying bare their souls before him at first meeting. He tells stories studded with simple wisdom and practical advice to any and all who see him, for all that see him will listen. And at every town he visits he departs in the same way: in the night immediately following some great deed or spectacular battle such that just as many stories have popped up about him in his wake.
With regards to this character I kept him a little more mysterious and malleable to fit in with my likely sporadic schedule. Relative highlights for him will again be strong social skills and probably some martial arts.
After reading through The Moray's character sheet, I've been brainstorming a slightly different character. He'll be a prior charlatan monk, now repentant ghost hunter, with some martial arts style, occult, lore, investigation, etc. I'll have a character sheet up tonight.
Okay so, I remade my character a bit. The sorcery element just didn't reconcile, and also I read Kull again last night (and lamented that Howard only wrote a couple of stories for what I feel is one of his most interesting and complex characters).
So yeah, here it is.
Azharn, That-Which-Seeks
"I do not understand why you do this. She cannot fight you back, any more than the sea can fight the sky. But you are a coward without honour, that is clear. Choose then; face me or flee."
Azharn was a young Lintha warrior of prodigious skill and terrific ferocity who spontaneously developed a kernal of personal, existential philosophy on the eve of a raid, realised his lack of purpose, and discovered that he no longer wished to take part in the cruelty of his people. He strove to persuade his fellow raiders the pointless of their own acts, but they would not listen and turned upon him. He sighed, closed his eyes, and when he opened them the sun shone from within.
Afterwards, Azharn left to wander the West. He does not know what he desires, now, but he searches for reality within the illusion that is life, meaning in the shadow of the world. He is That-Which-Seeks, as the night seeks the day and the light seeks the darkness. The ferocity and blood-soaked rage of his heritage cannot be cast off so easily, of course, but it lends him strength at times during his bloody pilgrimage.
Upon a wild and distant volcano island, he found a war between the God-blooded Priestesses of a Garda Bird cult, and the Raksha who assailed them. Azharn took a Daiklave that rested within the Garda Bird's shrine, and slaughtered score upon score of fae warriors upon the beach. The priestesses call him Red Tide, now. He carries their Daiklave into the world, to kill is to free a blade, to lay it to rest is to imprison it. Azharn knows the purpose of such a thing is clear. In return he granted the isolated cult with progeny, children he has never met. He hopes they will find truth in the world. But though he is a father, his purpose is not to be a father. And so he left, swimming to the far horizon.
He has come to Kishinou because he will not be attacked out hand, there. He tires of slaying men for their rage against his past nature. In this land where mortals do not kill, Azharn is weakened, for he has always struck to slay. Now, here, he cannot. Such a thing interests him. The people of the city were fearful of him when he climbed from the sea into the harbour, and perhaps would have slain him, but for the intercession of another of the Sun's chosen, who recognised the Dawn's light...
Appearance: That-Which-Seeks is tall and slim, whipcord lean muscles wrapped around iron-hard bones. His hair is ash white and shaved brutally into a wild mohawk, beneath which is a face of notably fine features and sharp, narrow eyes of crimson. Scarifications, whorls of precise, fine cuts that flow like waves, cross his dark skin, blasted by sun and saltwater. Like most Lintha he has the form of a human, but the rich and varied blood of gods, dragons and demons is in him still, and his neck is cut with small gills that, when not in use, lie flat and are almost completely invisible.
Strength 3, Charisma 3, Perception 2
Dexterity 5, Manipulation 1, Intelligence 2
Stamina 3, Appearance 3, Wits 3
Essence: 1
Willpower 7
Intimacies
Defining Positive Principle: Purpose (I must find a reason for my existence)
Major Positive Principle: Self-Determination and freedom (People deserve the chance to discover their own purpose as well)
Major Negative Tie: The Lintha (they are without purpose, and cause much suffering, they must be stopped)
Minor Positive Tie: The Priestesses of the Firebird (They did not turn me away for what I am, and gave me my weapon in thanks)
Merits
Artifact *** (Daiklave)
Subtle Gills *****
Tempered by the Elements (ocean storms and exposure etc)
Charms Excellent Strike (+1 auto success, re-roll 1s) One Weapon, Two Blows (melee attack reduces target initiative from higher to lower, may make secondary attack) Fire and Stones Strike (withering; spend up to (strength) motes to add +1 to post-soak damage, decisive max (essence, 3) motes to transfer successes from attack to damage) Perfect Strike Discipline (1wp, once per scene, full melee excellency for free) Rising Sun Slash (if full excellency used, 7,8,9,10 rolled adds (essence) non-charm dice to attack) Foe Cleaving Focus (if Rising Sun Slash used, each 10 rolled = 1 mote gained) Dipping Swallow Defence (ignore defence penalties, +1 initiative if parry successful) Solar Counter-Attack (Make a decisive attack in response to an attack, after attack dice rolled but before damage dice rolled) Flashing Edge of Dawn (Make a withering attack in response to an attack, (same as SCA), then immediately roll ini gained as damage. Do not reset) Monkey Leap Technique Graceful Crane Stance Foe-Vaulting Technique Ox Body Technique Reed in the Wind Salty Dog Method (Loads of cool shit)
Basically, replaced the Athletics charms and Sorcery with some Resistance charms, grabbed some more Melee stuff instead to allow for a really mean counter attack (Flashing Edge of the Dawn as a counter attack and activate Perfect Strike Discipline, get a full excellency attack with Rising Sun Slash and Foe Cleaving Focus stacked on top, pretty heinous).
This guy defends himself through counter-attacks, essentially. In the future he'd go down the route of more extra-attack charms, turn into a proper cuisinart on the battlefield.
Man, I'm still really iffy on the character concept. I finally read through social combat and sailing, but I haven't finished the charms yet. I'm thinking of revisiting Mother Murtha; I didn't see anything in particular about The Moray that would prevent a character with a merchant background from working with the group. I get that he's an infamous pirate, and it sorta sounds like he murdered a trader's ship in Kinshin as part of some mystical rebirth exercise, but if that's the case how would he work with Brazen Buckle who has a defining tie of would not work for evil people?
If I go with the ghost hunter, I don't really have a strong concept of how and why he became Chosen.
The Moray doesn't "do murder." He's a negotiator. His entire combat shtick is "stop hitting yourself" elevated to martial art. But his reputation is fearsome and something did happen to Harmonious Reef because the sailors are still missing. He supposedly went down with his ship, but here he is in Kishin seeming hale and hearty. If you ask merchant captains and pirates who aren't reactionaries, they'll tell you about the Moray. That he always offers prizes a chance to surrender and never sinks a ship that isn't going to sink anyway. That he rescues stranded mariners (although occasionally for a fee, if they're wealthy merchants). But they also note that even though he seems to have flexible morals, he's scrupulous and a man of his word.
Maybe they have a pre-existing relationship. Maybe she understands he's not the monster his reputation projects.
Well I mean, I don't like to police the group at all, but Azharn's basic thing is kind of "randomly murdering and enslaving people is wrong because they deserve the chance to seek their own purpose and satisfaction."
At least for now, anyway. He's actually a properly honourable guy. For a Lintha that's pretty impressive! Their honour is essentially hollow, in Azharn's view.
Yeah, he's a Solar. Whatever happened out there, Sol Invictus was like "this man is my bro." Whatever his reputation, he's got to be some sort of admirable person if he's been chosen by the Sun God. But as the Moray would tell anyone, it's much easier to be a pirate if you have a reputation that is bloodthirsty, murderous, and generally horrifying.
Buckle is going to be okay with this circle. The Moray and Azharn appear to have made choices roughly analogous to his, Eight-Black Tigers is the person people mistake him for, and Genraq is just cool.
Eight Black Tigers is very cool, and I will use him at some point, but I realised that messing around with the martial arts and trying to get some synergy there is something I'd want to do after getting some experience with the combat engine. Solar Melee just seems purely good, really powerful and efficient charms that allow you to churn out incredible hard hitting and accurate strikes on the reg.
Like, I was thinking today that one of the very first things a Solar can take is Dipping Swallow Defence, which negates onslaught penalties right out of the door. And then straight afterwards; Bulwark Stance, which then essentially makes you immune to onslaught penalties for 5m. So defensively, a Solar swordsman is incredible. Then if you want offence, you can take One Weapon, Two Blows which can allow for an additional attack, Peony Blossom Technique which allows you to shed your anima for another attack, Solar Counterattack which lets you make an attack in response to an attack...
Straight out of the gate, before you even get to essence 2, Solar Melee is already giving you the option to make three or four attacks a round and not care about how many enemies you are fighting. Sure, you are losing motes and willpower at a really high rate, but in terms of going for that pure "fuck, we need to win this now" it just looks so good, and I had to try it. Though I've actually tried to take advantage of the supernal and go for some higher essence charms. Flashing Edge of Dawn, man!
Okay. The Halloween weekend and all associated drama has passed(mostly) and I actually got sleep(hurrah for not having to work) so we'll get started on this RIGHT AWAY. Ardent, I'm looking at your evocation stuff now.
So get ready! I flipped through the book a bit more and I've got some ideas for how to kick things off in style, you know, Graduate Our Game.
@Solar
Martial Arts are a mathematically losing proposition if you are a Solar. I'm curious what sort of choice they would have been for the Sids and Lunars, but I doubt we'll ever know now.
You guys, with your combat synergies and your understanding-the-game-engine-without-needing-an-extensive-test-drive... I just picked the first two Thrown charms I saw that I met prerequisites for.
Realizing lately that I don't really trust or respect basically any of the moderators here. So, good luck with life, friends! Hit me up on Twitter @DesertLeviathan
You guys, with your combat synergies and your understanding-the-game-engine-without-needing-an-extensive-test-drive... I just picked the first two Thrown charms I saw that I met prerequisites for.
@Solar
Martial Arts are a mathematically losing proposition if you are a Solar. I'm curious what sort of choice they would have been for the Sids and Lunars, but I doubt we'll ever know now.
So far as I can tell, Martial Arts are a great combat option for characters who want to spend their core XP on a particular Solar ability cascade (say, lore or occult or presence or whatever) and therefore don't have the spare XP for any specific combat charms, but can use the fantastically poorly named Solar XP to purchase Martial Arts Charms instead.
Using Martial Arts over Solar Melee is probably a losing prospect (Single Point is great for example, but the efficiency just isn't there compared to Solar Melee) but if you are a Sorcerer who is generally taking occult and lore charms and you want to have some sort of supplementary fighting capability, snake or crane will do that for you and not take away the XP you need for general stuff.
If you are using Solar Melee or Brawl then you probably want Evocations, instead.
Also not to go on a tangent but I am not sure that Ex3 will disappear. I actually hope it does not; really want to see Sidereals and Gentimans (and the additional Exalt that is a foil for Sidereals) at the least this time around so I can do a Sidereal campaign in the style of a John Le Carre or Robert Ludlum spy thriller. But we shall see!
DAWN, THE ISLE OF KISHINOU, THE CITY OF KISHIN
Resplendent Water 7, Realm Year 768(though such measurements have little meaning in this island paradise)
It had been some time since Stauros had last stepped down from her hollow home within the empty peak, and gamblers of the city had taken to making bets on who would be foolish enough to incur her wrath. Unfortunately, that was Branded Gill, the foremost baker in the city, whose arms were covered in brands of piracy, theft, extortion, but never anything that had resulted in the death of another. He had fled justice to fulfill his lifelong dream of baking, and it so happened he was very good at it. After several years in the city, almost all baked goods were produced by him or his apprentices. So, it was a loss for all when he cursed Thanh Kiro to choke on his bread for insulting his baking, and Thanh Kiro did choke, on a small overcooked portion of the loaf that he could not swallow.
So the chief bakery in Kishin was left unattended as the funeral for both men took place, and also because his apprentices said they could still hear Gill's cries coming from below the earth, which had opened up to swallow him whole. Some of the more cunning and dignified criminals that 'helped' Kishin sustain itself considered the value of this plot of land which was unlikely to remain as a bakery, but I digress.
This day was important because it was the day that The Moray set foot on Kishinou. Of course, many of his companions that later grew to fame were already there, and had been for some time, but the red-handed pirate had a certain notoriety that scribes and poets adore. In the scrolls and books, it is said that this was when everything changed for the inconsequential island of Kishinou.
In the brothel by the docks, where the men and women that worked to pleasure the sailors that brought wealth to their small community were mostly well-treated, for fear of incurring the wrath of Stauros, Indubitable Ling paused her work and turned her ear to the messenger that whispered urgently. A small gesture, and a dozen messengers were sent across the city. Such a notable individual was bound to bring trouble to the city.
By mid-day, the only person of note in the city who had not heard of the arrival was on the fishing boats, Siakal-Is-Strong, the man who had been born of a shipwreck and named in honor of the goddess that spared his life. As dusk fell, three men and women awaited him while his boats came in.
Indubitable Ling, elegant, wealthy, and versed in all arts to make men spill their secrets, who placed her own life on a razor's edge when her owner came to reclaim her, before he left in fear. Norotu Kiro, a beast of a woman with wyld-blood in her, who was directly responsible for many of the broken-legged beggars that lined the streets of Kishin, for she could control her rage to avoid killing. And finally, Depths, the lord of the gambling-houses and unquestionably the wealthiest man of Kishinou, who some whispered had gambled with Plentimon himself and won.
What these four spoke of is unsure, for the gulls and waves spoke more loudly, but it is likely that they spoke of the Moray.
And now we come to the next day, as Azharn stares at the dawn and his own shadow, as The Moray considers deeds done and deeds rumored. Brazen Buckle once again pondered the injustice of a land where the cruel cannot be killed, even as their cruelty is forced onto the weak. Genraq, of course, was sleeping.
Okay, so that's enough blabbing from me, let's let you guys get established! I feel like The Moray arriving is a pretty good point to kick things off since he has a bit of a reputation and pizzazz, everyone else can be either freshly arrived as well or working with a bit of time to establish themselves.
When he strode ashore, he knew the eyes of Kishinou were upon him. That with the evening tide word of his resurrection would reach the furthest corners of the Neck and the darkest burrows of the Caul; the most run-down warrens of Wu-Jian, but worst of all it would reach the ears of the Dynasts he'd made fools of.
It meant that he had turned the hourglass on its head and the sands of fate tumbled down quickly down. He spared himself one philosophical moment to glance up at the descending grains. If he was not fast enough the weight of his past would surely crush him.
So he bore the stares of strangers, offering a prayer to the gods that he would meet friends here as well, and adjusted his blood red kidskin gloves before moving off the quay. If he noticed the messengers scurrying deeper into the city, he gave no indication of it. He turned to survey the ships currently in harbor and the ones lying just off shore.
Even now the loss of his beloved Harmonious Reef tore the man's heart with an anguish he would not soon forget. Not just the hull, the masts, the sails, the rigging, or even his prized compass. It was the loss of his boon companions and true friends that burdened the Moray most, although no onlooker would be able to determine that.
He adjusted the heavy scabbard slung across his back, feeling the weight of the prize he'd lost everything to claim. A cursed blade, to be certain, but now an important part of who he was. Or was to become. To say that the Roiling Depths had revealed more than they ought to, but not nearly enough to provide clarity was to relive his frustration.
He uncoiled suddenly, swirling into the alleys of Kishinou, his brown-and-gold cape bannering out behind him. That even the beggars on the street recoiled at the sight of him did not disturb the Moray, for he had worked hard to develop and maintain the reputation of a man who murdered for sport and ate the treasure of nations out of sheer spite. Given what the priests told the peasants of the gods, many simply assumed him to be a particularly angry one. It certainly wasn't an accident that he wore a blood red buff coat.
Perhaps the only thing more startling for the locals than his arrival was his disappearance not long afterward that day. Runners were sent throughout the city seeking word of his passing, his lodgings, and his fortunes, and all returned to their patrons empty-handed. Like a ghost, he had manifested on a sunny morning, brought in from the sea with him a gloomy fugue, and vanished from sight all too soon.
The Moray will end up wherever is convenient to whomever has to encounter him first. He's rested somewhere overnight, and the strands of Fate may have sent him to the very same inn someone else is inhabiting.
Buckle heard that Kishinou was a paradise where none had fallen to violence. This was not true. Folk memory and drinking songs had failed the zouave again, and he walked the coast in a bitter mood, stealing from those he felt deserving until he could gain respectable lodgings. That the veteran purchased a straw mat and laid on the beach spoke to his temperment. Spear tucked under his mat, he feigned sleep, waiting for someone to creep near his supine form. He snorted, reached slowly to his moustache, and resumed his breathing.
"Porridge again?" he says, native Riverspeak tinged by a touch of Firetongue.
Activating Seasoned Criminal Method's vulnerability power. Fall asleep in the open round here, will you? Buckle is just asking to get pickpocketed.
Genraq liked Kishinou. The fishing was good, there was a local recipe of coconut rum that he rather liked, and he was far enough south from his home waters that no one recognized the spiraling Thaumaturge's Brands scarred into the flesh of his upper arms, the backs of his calves, and stretching from the base of his spine all the way up the back of his neck. That meant he could get away with wearing his matted hair in a comfortable topknot, and garbing himself only in a filthy seal pelt vest and pair of loose short trousers, without anyone recognizing him as anything but a humble (if extraordinarily skillful) fisherman.
The catch was good that morning, which was surprising, as Genraq had fallen into a doze only minutes after putting out his nets, and his boat had drifted quite a bit further out to sea than he intended. He awoke only when the climbing sun made the waters shine so bright that the light pierced even his his stubbornly clenched eyelids. After he rowed to shore and pulled his boat up onto the beach, he took his full nets back out a stone's throw into the shallows and methodically butchered his catch, trading quips and good-natured insults with his fellow fishermen doing the same.
The daily ritual of the Fishmonger's Tide was a dangerous time, for all the predators the blood called in from deeper waters. Most of his fellows did their dirty work on rafts or barges anchored permanently in the shallows for just this purpose. But Genraq didn't feel like paying the fee to use one of the communal rafts, or like doing the deed in his own tiny boat, which he would then have to clean. So he stood shin deep in the water, with his trousers hiked up above his knees so they wouldn't get stained with gore. The last and largest fish, he cut apart in a different manner, careful not to disturb the organs until he could spread them out on the beach and read the morning augury in them. Other fishermen crowded around with questions about the weather and the seas, and he felt a flash of irritation that he'd ever been so foolish as to perform this trick where others could see him, but by now they knew his predictions were accurate, and it really didn't hurt him any to share what he knew. Even armed with the simple forecast, none of them were half as good of fishermen as he!
There were, of course, parts of the augury he declined to share. Powerful entities moving through the island's fate, twisting it, muddying it. Was the augury warning him about his own sorcerous gifts? Or the island's temperamental goddess? Or some new influence? Well, he wouldn't learn any more details staring at a heap of fish guts. He scooped up the remains and muttered a halfhearted benediction before hurling it all back into the sea, a haphazard offering to whatever god was swift enough to harvest it first.
With those nasty tasks concluded, he took the wicker basket he'd made with cloth loops so he could carry it on his back, wrapped Flying Tsunami, his Skycutter, tightly in oiled cloth, then heaped in his full catch on top to conceal it. It was an unruly burden, but Genraq refused to make a second trip to market, even if it would have been kinder to his knees and back. His trained cormorant, Haqu, saw that he was departing and stopped gorging itself on the fishermen's castoff, flying to the rim of Genraq's basket and completing the familiar silhouette as he trudged from the beach into town.
The quality and bounty of his catch didn't matter much in the markets, in light of his poor monetary instincts. Dealing directly with customers was always too much of a hassle, so he unloaded the whole load wholesale with another merchant, who was all too happy to pay Genraq a scandalously low amount for his superior catch. And then, with nothing else to do with his morning, he went looking for a drink and some shade. But all his favorite places to relax with a mug were busier than normal, full of idiot chatter about Legendary Pirates.
"Pirates?!", he whined, sloshing his mug over his fingers and pausing for a moment to awkwardly lick them clean. "Only idiots, the brain-sick, and small children who will grow up to be brain-sick idiots would idolize pirates."
I figure I'm ready to Drunken Master my way into whatever scene may happen. Or be the flashpoint of a big stupid bar brawl.
Desert Leviathan on
Realizing lately that I don't really trust or respect basically any of the moderators here. So, good luck with life, friends! Hit me up on Twitter @DesertLeviathan
It was a morning like all others, and unlike all others, as all mornings are.
The light broke swiftly, wavetops of molten gold rippling across the bay before lapping gently at the age-old sea front. In mere moments the quiet of the nighttime was broken by lances of dewy sunlight within which bleary-eyed gulls screeched and argued half-heartedly with each other, their cries mixing with the satisfied calls of the day's first shift of narrow-eyed, salt-burnt fishermen as they checked the night's nets, and the crackling smell of crabs fried in their own juices upon the iron skillets of laughing dockfront wives.
A morning alike, and unlike.
It was to little attention at first that a single, slim fingered hand of grey-green skin and elegant grace reached from the seawater and gripped a sturdy wooden spar to which a number of boats were tied, but to glances and then wide-eyed surprise that it was followed by a swift, smooth pull and the emergence of a tall, strange featured man, though of course, what else would a hand be attached to than an arm, and an arm a body (and so on and so forth)? The man alighted and shook the water from his shock of ash-white hair, unslinging with impossible ease and leaning upon the five foot long golden blade which had been across his back.
Azharn stretched for a moment and closed his eyes, letting the warm sunlight bake those of his smoke-and-sea grey muscles not covered by the rough, loose sharkskin jerkin he typically wore. It had been a brief and pleasant swim, he had stopped further down the coast the night before, deciding to make his entry to the famed port in the morning and spend the whole day exploring it's many-rumoured wonders and delights, and he felt suitably exercised for it's light effort. A less open entrance would have been wiser, some might say, but Azharn trusted to directness over illusion. An open declaration was preferable to him, and besides, fitting in was hardly going to be likely for one who had once been called Lintha. No, a honest presence for an honest man, thought Azharn, before shouldering his blade and striding towards the main street of Kishinou. Now, let us see what we see
Azharn is mostly just exploring. He's never really visited a place like this before and he wants to have a look around. No charms or anything active right now.
Also if it's okay with you Rainfall I will rejig my charsheet a bit. I've been tooling around with Solar Melee and I want to just focus the previous charm selection a bit.
It did not take long for Brazen Buckle to attract attention, sleeping in the open as he was, while the sun rose over the harbor. His half-lidded eyes clearly spied a small group of urchins moving quietly towards him, gesturing and beckoning as they moved towards his form, ready to pick the wandering mercenary clean of worldly possessions and enrich their own lives for a few moments, or perhaps spare the wrath of whatever petty thug terrorized them where they slept.
On the main street of Kishinou, Azharn experienced several peculiarities. There were no weapons raised against him, despite the look of uncertainty on the faces of many. And despite the wary glances he received, and the wide berth on the street, there were no screaming women, sobbing children hiding under market stalls, or any of the other hallmarks of a Lintha being in plain sight on a western isle. It did not take long, however, before he was shadowed, a pair of burly Western men following him, their bodies strong and rough from a lifetime at sea, scars and tattoos crisscrossing their bare torsos. Each of them had a thick cudgel strapped to their waists, but for the moment they seemed more interested in remaining unobtrusive than attempting to break Azharn's legs, although his warrior instincts and lookout's gaze rendered their attempts at subtlety quite futile.
"Idolize? You think we idolize that bastard?" The serving-woman snatched Genraq's mug away, an act almost unheard-of for the popular inn. "I had a cousin on the Harmonious Reef, before it sank. Every last man and woman serving on that boat is fodder for Siakal, or worse!" She spat into the mug before slamming it back on the table in front of the fisherman, veins throbbing on her forehead. "The Moray was the only one to come away from that vessel, with not a scratch on him or a story to tell. Way I see it, he gave them all to the demons, and the rest of us are just trying to decide on the most painful way to drown him in the harbor."
Her impassioned rant carried clearly onto the street, and even moreso to the floor above, where The Moray had found lodgings. Despite the words of the serving staff ad the skill of local pickpockets, the intimidating qualities of his reputation had left him completely undisturbed overnight, without even a single attempt to lay fingers on his coinpurse.
Having successfully eluded the many pursuers dogging his trail yesterday, through wit or worship, the Moray had secured amenable lodgings. He was awake and meditating on the things he needed to do that day when he heard the ranting begin. With a sigh he donned the rest of his clothing and secured the cursed blade, sliding a pair of obols towards the bored-looking man seated by a table in the lobby. The man stiffened as he realized who had just paid him coin, although his fear did not slow his hands as he snatched the jade up.
He stepped into the same drinking establishment the earlier squawking had come from. He surveyed the assembled locals as they began to realize he had darkened the door.
"You're not wrong," he began, looking directly at the woman he suspected had been the source of the complaints. "I have nothing to offer save my condolences, and no story of their valiant end to share."
He pauses for a moment. "But don't waste your time seeking ways to drown a drowned man. I am already dead and there is nothing you can do to make it worse for me."
"Tell your champions I am here, spies, and they are welcome to parley," he says, waving a dismissive hand. Then he glances at the proprietress. "I'd like something to eat."
Azharn paid little heed to the two men following him. Either they would attack him, or they would not, and he did not seek to tempt or dissuade them from their course. What will come, will come. He had little to fear from two toughs, though they might learn much from him if their eagerness overcame natural (and wise) caution. Let the wind blow and the tides turn. It was pleasant to be treated as simply another traveller, and not have to deal with any understandable but tiresome local upset, and he saw no need to disturb that any time soon.
The Dawn moved like a cat, or perhaps a lizard, hands reaching the struts and spars of the structures lining the roadside as he weaved through stall and seller, the unconscious habit of one who is used to living upon heaving boats, and always keeps a couple of points connected lest an errant wave cast them into Siakal's mercy. Lifting himself above the hustle and bustle, the once-Lintha peered across the crowd with casual interest, looking for something interesting. He saw many things, but was distracted by the sound of raised voices behind him, within the building upon which's supports he perched. Speaking of the wind...
Dropping back to the ground, Azharn entered the building. It's cool darkness was quite the contrast from the now bright morning sun, though the light was undeterred, seeping through cracks in the bamboo walls and played beautiful patterns upon the walls, a pleasant effect which Azharn did not fail to notice. The shouting had stopped, and it seemed that another man had made entrance into the room, a man whose words seemed to have quieted the inhabitants (though Azharn did not know why, as yet). He did mention something about eating, though, and That-Which-Seeks did at times admit to seeking fare of a more fundamental and material nature.
"This one would also like something to eat, if such things be found here." Noting the confident cut of the finely cloaked man before him, and the sharp eyed appraisal in the eyes of another who hid a warrior's spirit behind drunken foolishness, Azharn smiled inwardly. Yes, it seemed that many things might be found here...
Seeing the slinking youths made the mercenary unduly happy. Surely it was an Age of Sorrows and so forth, but Buckle had expected only one thief to come. And children were small. They could go unseen and unnoticed, and their loyalties, once captured, were hard to lose. The sun's rising as his ruse took hold made it feel truly ordained, and the Sun Chosen remembered how blessed he had been in life.
As the bruised urchins closed the gap, they saw the prone man reach into his pocket and hold above him a small bag. The trinkets and morsels he filched before dawn dangled temptingly above. "Ah, there you are. That saves me the trouble of looking for you. Here's some food to tide you over.". Brazen Buckle sat up, brushing himself and hoping he hadn't caught lice.
His tone is all business "I'm sure you've heard The Moray is here; Hands dripping blood, fangs, walked the bottom of the sea until coming here to steal our souls? Yeah, well, when you start to hear that talk, it means there's going to be a fight. And people come from all over to watch fights. So what I thought I'd do is work the crowd, open up a tab, and get something to eat. Do you want in on that? Good!". Without waiting for an answer, Brazen Buckle took his spear from beneath the straw mat, and rising, began to walk back into town. So assured is he that he doesn't look back, to the urchins, or the straw mat he left behind.
Activating Familiarity to spoof a minor Intimacy of familiarity
geth, roll 9d10x7 for a fast sell, Manip+Presence+3+1,
Internet was out all weekend at home, and I kept getting interrupted on my lunch break. My landlord confirmed that it's back working though.
Also, I sketched a Genraq, being un-subtle about his magic.
Realizing lately that I don't really trust or respect basically any of the moderators here. So, good luck with life, friends! Hit me up on Twitter @DesertLeviathan
Genraq endured the serving woman's tirade, squinting and hunching up his shoulder, as though he were staring into a driving storm and trying to retract his head into his torso. Generally, he was sufficiently averse to just this sort of social mauling that he kept his conversations to strangers at pubs limited to a pretty sanitized collection of topics. But generally, "pirates, eh? What a bunch of dicks" was about as controversial as "The weather, eh? Sometimes water comes out of the sky". Clearly, his strategy of avoiding entanglements by ignoring all local news and gossip had backfired, and there had been some specific pirate-related news that he could have gleaned from all the chatter, if he'd bothered to listen.
He opened his mouth for a hastily-formed rebuttal, but all that came out was a strangled croak as the serving woman spat in his mug. And then, as the brooding stranger came downstairs, and the room got tense, Genraq opted to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut. So... not just some specific pirate news, but specific pirate news manifest as a specific Pirate, lodging upstairs, overhearing everything. Well. Fabulous.
Odds were good that Genraq could have just held his tongue and that would have been the end of it. But as he was side-eying the stranger, he realized that he'd started sipping from his now tainted brew. Before he could stop himself, a spray of liquid erupted from his puckered lips, like the blowhole of a whale, all over the back of the Moray's neck.
Haqu the cormorant, recognizing that Shit Was About To Get Real, decided it was a good time to flap out the window and wait for Genraq outside. He had a good instinct for that sort of thing.
Desert Leviathan on
Realizing lately that I don't really trust or respect basically any of the moderators here. So, good luck with life, friends! Hit me up on Twitter @DesertLeviathan
The Moray, for his part, took Genraq's discharge calmly, pulling a strip of cloth free to daub the back of his neck as he turned to face the wiry fishmonger.
Surprisingly, there was no anger or rage in the man's eyes. "Father, uncle, or brother?" he asked, pulling the now-damp cloth scrap from his neck and keeping his hand clear of the hilt of his enormous sword. Genraq realized the Moray wasn't really a large man, cleaving more to the average. It made his enormous sword all the more comical, as it seemed clear even the athletic-looking pirate would have trouble dislodging it from its scabbard, much less swinging it. His clothes were well-made, but clearly had seen too much time familiar with the brine, as Genraq could spot the salt stains at this distance.
By this time, people were boiling through the streets, certain that the bloody Moray would be depriving the deranged fishmonger of his head 'ere long.
Posts
1) Mother Murtha
The captain of the merchant cog The Highest Value and its wayward crew who she refers to as her children, Mother Murtha is a striking figure who resonates authority. She stands as tall and as wide as heavy laborer, and deep lines inset her upper brow as if she were about give a scolding. Yet when confronted with the poor and needy, especially children, her rough countenance is replaced with the kindest eyes and the warm glow of a gentle summer's day. No one knows her origin, certainly she talks like any sailor, but her looks are plain and blunt and unlike those who were born in the West.
The Highest Value wasn't always a merchant cog; it once sailed under a different captain and ran in the flesh trade. How Mother Murtha acquired it is the subject of many rumors. Just as many surround the captain herself. Certainly she is a welcome sight in any small port where she trades fairly in goods and gives information freely. In Guild-controlled ports she's known as a ruthless dealer and savvy merchant, and her unique goods fetch high prices. In recent years her practices have changed, The Highest Value once again carries people as it's cargo, though never slaves. Doctors, mendicants, craftsmen, and vagabonds alike find themselves on fruitful voyages to the places they're needed or where they need most to go. Mother Murtha holds supper on the top deck where all sit at the same long table where she herself serves the plates. More treasured than her cooking is the wisdom she supplies in kind.
With regards to this character, I'm thinking a tough as nails spiritual adviser with plenty of social skills, resources, and contacts. And Brawl & Resistance charms when words fail.
2) Bron the Mendicant
Bron the Mendicant is on a personal quest, though none save he and the gods know what it is. He travels erratically, if often, and his capricious nature belies a peculiar knack for always being in the wrong place at the right time. His appearance is likened to his walking staff: bony, gnarled, and frail, but appearances are deceiving. He has slain beastmen and humbled Imperial dynasts with that very same stick. All know when he enters a town; for everyone seems to meet him personally. Approachable and harmless, people find themselves laying bare their souls before him at first meeting. He tells stories studded with simple wisdom and practical advice to any and all who see him, for all that see him will listen. And at every town he visits he departs in the same way: in the night immediately following some great deed or spectacular battle such that just as many stories have popped up about him in his wake.
With regards to this character I kept him a little more mysterious and malleable to fit in with my likely sporadic schedule. Relative highlights for him will again be strong social skills and probably some martial arts.
PM me your thoughts I'll give you feedback!
So yeah, here it is.
Azharn, That-Which-Seeks
"I do not understand why you do this. She cannot fight you back, any more than the sea can fight the sky. But you are a coward without honour, that is clear. Choose then; face me or flee."
Azharn was a young Lintha warrior of prodigious skill and terrific ferocity who spontaneously developed a kernal of personal, existential philosophy on the eve of a raid, realised his lack of purpose, and discovered that he no longer wished to take part in the cruelty of his people. He strove to persuade his fellow raiders the pointless of their own acts, but they would not listen and turned upon him. He sighed, closed his eyes, and when he opened them the sun shone from within.
Afterwards, Azharn left to wander the West. He does not know what he desires, now, but he searches for reality within the illusion that is life, meaning in the shadow of the world. He is That-Which-Seeks, as the night seeks the day and the light seeks the darkness. The ferocity and blood-soaked rage of his heritage cannot be cast off so easily, of course, but it lends him strength at times during his bloody pilgrimage.
Upon a wild and distant volcano island, he found a war between the God-blooded Priestesses of a Garda Bird cult, and the Raksha who assailed them. Azharn took a Daiklave that rested within the Garda Bird's shrine, and slaughtered score upon score of fae warriors upon the beach. The priestesses call him Red Tide, now. He carries their Daiklave into the world, to kill is to free a blade, to lay it to rest is to imprison it. Azharn knows the purpose of such a thing is clear. In return he granted the isolated cult with progeny, children he has never met. He hopes they will find truth in the world. But though he is a father, his purpose is not to be a father. And so he left, swimming to the far horizon.
He has come to Kishinou because he will not be attacked out hand, there. He tires of slaying men for their rage against his past nature. In this land where mortals do not kill, Azharn is weakened, for he has always struck to slay. Now, here, he cannot. Such a thing interests him. The people of the city were fearful of him when he climbed from the sea into the harbour, and perhaps would have slain him, but for the intercession of another of the Sun's chosen, who recognised the Dawn's light...
Appearance: That-Which-Seeks is tall and slim, whipcord lean muscles wrapped around iron-hard bones. His hair is ash white and shaved brutally into a wild mohawk, beneath which is a face of notably fine features and sharp, narrow eyes of crimson. Scarifications, whorls of precise, fine cuts that flow like waves, cross his dark skin, blasted by sun and saltwater. Like most Lintha he has the form of a human, but the rich and varied blood of gods, dragons and demons is in him still, and his neck is cut with small gills that, when not in use, lie flat and are almost completely invisible.
Strength 3, Charisma 3, Perception 2
Dexterity 5, Manipulation 1, Intelligence 2
Stamina 3, Appearance 3, Wits 3
Essence: 1
Willpower 7
Intimacies
Defining Positive Principle: Purpose (I must find a reason for my existence)
Major Positive Principle: Self-Determination and freedom (People deserve the chance to discover their own purpose as well)
Major Negative Tie: The Lintha (they are without purpose, and cause much suffering, they must be stopped)
Minor Positive Tie: The Priestesses of the Firebird (They did not turn me away for what I am, and gave me my weapon in thanks)
Skills
-Supernal Melee ***** (Daiklave)
-Awareness *****
-Dodge ***** (Evasion)
-Resistance *****
-Integrity ***
-Athletics *****
-Sail ***
-Survival *** (Navigation)
-War ** (Naval)
-Brawl ***
Merits
Artifact *** (Daiklave)
Subtle Gills *****
Tempered by the Elements (ocean storms and exposure etc)
Charms
Excellent Strike (+1 auto success, re-roll 1s)
One Weapon, Two Blows (melee attack reduces target initiative from higher to lower, may make secondary attack)
Fire and Stones Strike (withering; spend up to (strength) motes to add +1 to post-soak damage, decisive max (essence, 3) motes to transfer successes from attack to damage)
Perfect Strike Discipline (1wp, once per scene, full melee excellency for free)
Rising Sun Slash (if full excellency used, 7,8,9,10 rolled adds (essence) non-charm dice to attack)
Foe Cleaving Focus (if Rising Sun Slash used, each 10 rolled = 1 mote gained)
Dipping Swallow Defence (ignore defence penalties, +1 initiative if parry successful)
Solar Counter-Attack (Make a decisive attack in response to an attack, after attack dice rolled but before damage dice rolled)
Flashing Edge of Dawn (Make a withering attack in response to an attack, (same as SCA), then immediately roll ini gained as damage. Do not reset)
Monkey Leap Technique
Graceful Crane Stance
Foe-Vaulting Technique
Ox Body Technique
Reed in the Wind
Salty Dog Method (Loads of cool shit)
Parry: 7
Dodge: 6
Natural Soak: 3
Natural Hardness: 0
Health Levels, -0, -1, -1, -1, -2, -2, -2, -2, -4, Incapacitated
This guy defends himself through counter-attacks, essentially. In the future he'd go down the route of more extra-attack charms, turn into a proper cuisinart on the battlefield.
If I go with the ghost hunter, I don't really have a strong concept of how and why he became Chosen.
Maybe they have a pre-existing relationship. Maybe she understands he's not the monster his reputation projects.
At least for now, anyway. He's actually a properly honourable guy. For a Lintha that's pretty impressive! Their honour is essentially hollow, in Azharn's view.
Like, I was thinking today that one of the very first things a Solar can take is Dipping Swallow Defence, which negates onslaught penalties right out of the door. And then straight afterwards; Bulwark Stance, which then essentially makes you immune to onslaught penalties for 5m. So defensively, a Solar swordsman is incredible. Then if you want offence, you can take One Weapon, Two Blows which can allow for an additional attack, Peony Blossom Technique which allows you to shed your anima for another attack, Solar Counterattack which lets you make an attack in response to an attack...
Straight out of the gate, before you even get to essence 2, Solar Melee is already giving you the option to make three or four attacks a round and not care about how many enemies you are fighting. Sure, you are losing motes and willpower at a really high rate, but in terms of going for that pure "fuck, we need to win this now" it just looks so good, and I had to try it. Though I've actually tried to take advantage of the supernal and go for some higher essence charms. Flashing Edge of Dawn, man!
babble babble babble etc
So get ready! I flipped through the book a bit more and I've got some ideas for how to kick things off in style, you know, Graduate Our Game.
Martial Arts are a mathematically losing proposition if you are a Solar. I'm curious what sort of choice they would have been for the Sids and Lunars, but I doubt we'll ever know now.
So far as I can tell, Martial Arts are a great combat option for characters who want to spend their core XP on a particular Solar ability cascade (say, lore or occult or presence or whatever) and therefore don't have the spare XP for any specific combat charms, but can use the fantastically poorly named Solar XP to purchase Martial Arts Charms instead.
Using Martial Arts over Solar Melee is probably a losing prospect (Single Point is great for example, but the efficiency just isn't there compared to Solar Melee) but if you are a Sorcerer who is generally taking occult and lore charms and you want to have some sort of supplementary fighting capability, snake or crane will do that for you and not take away the XP you need for general stuff.
If you are using Solar Melee or Brawl then you probably want Evocations, instead.
Resplendent Water 7, Realm Year 768(though such measurements have little meaning in this island paradise)
It had been some time since Stauros had last stepped down from her hollow home within the empty peak, and gamblers of the city had taken to making bets on who would be foolish enough to incur her wrath. Unfortunately, that was Branded Gill, the foremost baker in the city, whose arms were covered in brands of piracy, theft, extortion, but never anything that had resulted in the death of another. He had fled justice to fulfill his lifelong dream of baking, and it so happened he was very good at it. After several years in the city, almost all baked goods were produced by him or his apprentices. So, it was a loss for all when he cursed Thanh Kiro to choke on his bread for insulting his baking, and Thanh Kiro did choke, on a small overcooked portion of the loaf that he could not swallow.
So the chief bakery in Kishin was left unattended as the funeral for both men took place, and also because his apprentices said they could still hear Gill's cries coming from below the earth, which had opened up to swallow him whole. Some of the more cunning and dignified criminals that 'helped' Kishin sustain itself considered the value of this plot of land which was unlikely to remain as a bakery, but I digress.
This day was important because it was the day that The Moray set foot on Kishinou. Of course, many of his companions that later grew to fame were already there, and had been for some time, but the red-handed pirate had a certain notoriety that scribes and poets adore. In the scrolls and books, it is said that this was when everything changed for the inconsequential island of Kishinou.
In the brothel by the docks, where the men and women that worked to pleasure the sailors that brought wealth to their small community were mostly well-treated, for fear of incurring the wrath of Stauros, Indubitable Ling paused her work and turned her ear to the messenger that whispered urgently. A small gesture, and a dozen messengers were sent across the city. Such a notable individual was bound to bring trouble to the city.
By mid-day, the only person of note in the city who had not heard of the arrival was on the fishing boats, Siakal-Is-Strong, the man who had been born of a shipwreck and named in honor of the goddess that spared his life. As dusk fell, three men and women awaited him while his boats came in.
Indubitable Ling, elegant, wealthy, and versed in all arts to make men spill their secrets, who placed her own life on a razor's edge when her owner came to reclaim her, before he left in fear. Norotu Kiro, a beast of a woman with wyld-blood in her, who was directly responsible for many of the broken-legged beggars that lined the streets of Kishin, for she could control her rage to avoid killing. And finally, Depths, the lord of the gambling-houses and unquestionably the wealthiest man of Kishinou, who some whispered had gambled with Plentimon himself and won.
What these four spoke of is unsure, for the gulls and waves spoke more loudly, but it is likely that they spoke of the Moray.
And now we come to the next day, as Azharn stares at the dawn and his own shadow, as The Moray considers deeds done and deeds rumored. Brazen Buckle once again pondered the injustice of a land where the cruel cannot be killed, even as their cruelty is forced onto the weak. Genraq, of course, was sleeping.
Okay, so that's enough blabbing from me, let's let you guys get established! I feel like The Moray arriving is a pretty good point to kick things off since he has a bit of a reputation and pizzazz, everyone else can be either freshly arrived as well or working with a bit of time to establish themselves.
It meant that he had turned the hourglass on its head and the sands of fate tumbled down quickly down. He spared himself one philosophical moment to glance up at the descending grains. If he was not fast enough the weight of his past would surely crush him.
So he bore the stares of strangers, offering a prayer to the gods that he would meet friends here as well, and adjusted his blood red kidskin gloves before moving off the quay. If he noticed the messengers scurrying deeper into the city, he gave no indication of it. He turned to survey the ships currently in harbor and the ones lying just off shore.
Even now the loss of his beloved Harmonious Reef tore the man's heart with an anguish he would not soon forget. Not just the hull, the masts, the sails, the rigging, or even his prized compass. It was the loss of his boon companions and true friends that burdened the Moray most, although no onlooker would be able to determine that.
He adjusted the heavy scabbard slung across his back, feeling the weight of the prize he'd lost everything to claim. A cursed blade, to be certain, but now an important part of who he was. Or was to become. To say that the Roiling Depths had revealed more than they ought to, but not nearly enough to provide clarity was to relive his frustration.
He uncoiled suddenly, swirling into the alleys of Kishinou, his brown-and-gold cape bannering out behind him. That even the beggars on the street recoiled at the sight of him did not disturb the Moray, for he had worked hard to develop and maintain the reputation of a man who murdered for sport and ate the treasure of nations out of sheer spite. Given what the priests told the peasants of the gods, many simply assumed him to be a particularly angry one. It certainly wasn't an accident that he wore a blood red buff coat.
Perhaps the only thing more startling for the locals than his arrival was his disappearance not long afterward that day. Runners were sent throughout the city seeking word of his passing, his lodgings, and his fortunes, and all returned to their patrons empty-handed. Like a ghost, he had manifested on a sunny morning, brought in from the sea with him a gloomy fugue, and vanished from sight all too soon.
"Porridge again?" he says, native Riverspeak tinged by a touch of Firetongue.
The catch was good that morning, which was surprising, as Genraq had fallen into a doze only minutes after putting out his nets, and his boat had drifted quite a bit further out to sea than he intended. He awoke only when the climbing sun made the waters shine so bright that the light pierced even his his stubbornly clenched eyelids. After he rowed to shore and pulled his boat up onto the beach, he took his full nets back out a stone's throw into the shallows and methodically butchered his catch, trading quips and good-natured insults with his fellow fishermen doing the same.
The daily ritual of the Fishmonger's Tide was a dangerous time, for all the predators the blood called in from deeper waters. Most of his fellows did their dirty work on rafts or barges anchored permanently in the shallows for just this purpose. But Genraq didn't feel like paying the fee to use one of the communal rafts, or like doing the deed in his own tiny boat, which he would then have to clean. So he stood shin deep in the water, with his trousers hiked up above his knees so they wouldn't get stained with gore. The last and largest fish, he cut apart in a different manner, careful not to disturb the organs until he could spread them out on the beach and read the morning augury in them. Other fishermen crowded around with questions about the weather and the seas, and he felt a flash of irritation that he'd ever been so foolish as to perform this trick where others could see him, but by now they knew his predictions were accurate, and it really didn't hurt him any to share what he knew. Even armed with the simple forecast, none of them were half as good of fishermen as he!
There were, of course, parts of the augury he declined to share. Powerful entities moving through the island's fate, twisting it, muddying it. Was the augury warning him about his own sorcerous gifts? Or the island's temperamental goddess? Or some new influence? Well, he wouldn't learn any more details staring at a heap of fish guts. He scooped up the remains and muttered a halfhearted benediction before hurling it all back into the sea, a haphazard offering to whatever god was swift enough to harvest it first.
With those nasty tasks concluded, he took the wicker basket he'd made with cloth loops so he could carry it on his back, wrapped Flying Tsunami, his Skycutter, tightly in oiled cloth, then heaped in his full catch on top to conceal it. It was an unruly burden, but Genraq refused to make a second trip to market, even if it would have been kinder to his knees and back. His trained cormorant, Haqu, saw that he was departing and stopped gorging itself on the fishermen's castoff, flying to the rim of Genraq's basket and completing the familiar silhouette as he trudged from the beach into town.
The quality and bounty of his catch didn't matter much in the markets, in light of his poor monetary instincts. Dealing directly with customers was always too much of a hassle, so he unloaded the whole load wholesale with another merchant, who was all too happy to pay Genraq a scandalously low amount for his superior catch. And then, with nothing else to do with his morning, he went looking for a drink and some shade. But all his favorite places to relax with a mug were busier than normal, full of idiot chatter about Legendary Pirates.
"Pirates?!", he whined, sloshing his mug over his fingers and pausing for a moment to awkwardly lick them clean. "Only idiots, the brain-sick, and small children who will grow up to be brain-sick idiots would idolize pirates."
The light broke swiftly, wavetops of molten gold rippling across the bay before lapping gently at the age-old sea front. In mere moments the quiet of the nighttime was broken by lances of dewy sunlight within which bleary-eyed gulls screeched and argued half-heartedly with each other, their cries mixing with the satisfied calls of the day's first shift of narrow-eyed, salt-burnt fishermen as they checked the night's nets, and the crackling smell of crabs fried in their own juices upon the iron skillets of laughing dockfront wives.
A morning alike, and unlike.
It was to little attention at first that a single, slim fingered hand of grey-green skin and elegant grace reached from the seawater and gripped a sturdy wooden spar to which a number of boats were tied, but to glances and then wide-eyed surprise that it was followed by a swift, smooth pull and the emergence of a tall, strange featured man, though of course, what else would a hand be attached to than an arm, and an arm a body (and so on and so forth)? The man alighted and shook the water from his shock of ash-white hair, unslinging with impossible ease and leaning upon the five foot long golden blade which had been across his back.
Azharn stretched for a moment and closed his eyes, letting the warm sunlight bake those of his smoke-and-sea grey muscles not covered by the rough, loose sharkskin jerkin he typically wore. It had been a brief and pleasant swim, he had stopped further down the coast the night before, deciding to make his entry to the famed port in the morning and spend the whole day exploring it's many-rumoured wonders and delights, and he felt suitably exercised for it's light effort. A less open entrance would have been wiser, some might say, but Azharn trusted to directness over illusion. An open declaration was preferable to him, and besides, fitting in was hardly going to be likely for one who had once been called Lintha. No, a honest presence for an honest man, thought Azharn, before shouldering his blade and striding towards the main street of Kishinou. Now, let us see what we see
Also if it's okay with you Rainfall I will rejig my charsheet a bit. I've been tooling around with Solar Melee and I want to just focus the previous charm selection a bit.
On the main street of Kishinou, Azharn experienced several peculiarities. There were no weapons raised against him, despite the look of uncertainty on the faces of many. And despite the wary glances he received, and the wide berth on the street, there were no screaming women, sobbing children hiding under market stalls, or any of the other hallmarks of a Lintha being in plain sight on a western isle. It did not take long, however, before he was shadowed, a pair of burly Western men following him, their bodies strong and rough from a lifetime at sea, scars and tattoos crisscrossing their bare torsos. Each of them had a thick cudgel strapped to their waists, but for the moment they seemed more interested in remaining unobtrusive than attempting to break Azharn's legs, although his warrior instincts and lookout's gaze rendered their attempts at subtlety quite futile.
"Idolize? You think we idolize that bastard?" The serving-woman snatched Genraq's mug away, an act almost unheard-of for the popular inn. "I had a cousin on the Harmonious Reef, before it sank. Every last man and woman serving on that boat is fodder for Siakal, or worse!" She spat into the mug before slamming it back on the table in front of the fisherman, veins throbbing on her forehead. "The Moray was the only one to come away from that vessel, with not a scratch on him or a story to tell. Way I see it, he gave them all to the demons, and the rest of us are just trying to decide on the most painful way to drown him in the harbor."
Her impassioned rant carried clearly onto the street, and even moreso to the floor above, where The Moray had found lodgings. Despite the words of the serving staff ad the skill of local pickpockets, the intimidating qualities of his reputation had left him completely undisturbed overnight, without even a single attempt to lay fingers on his coinpurse.
He stepped into the same drinking establishment the earlier squawking had come from. He surveyed the assembled locals as they began to realize he had darkened the door.
"You're not wrong," he began, looking directly at the woman he suspected had been the source of the complaints. "I have nothing to offer save my condolences, and no story of their valiant end to share."
He pauses for a moment. "But don't waste your time seeking ways to drown a drowned man. I am already dead and there is nothing you can do to make it worse for me."
"Tell your champions I am here, spies, and they are welcome to parley," he says, waving a dismissive hand. Then he glances at the proprietress. "I'd like something to eat."
The Dawn moved like a cat, or perhaps a lizard, hands reaching the struts and spars of the structures lining the roadside as he weaved through stall and seller, the unconscious habit of one who is used to living upon heaving boats, and always keeps a couple of points connected lest an errant wave cast them into Siakal's mercy. Lifting himself above the hustle and bustle, the once-Lintha peered across the crowd with casual interest, looking for something interesting. He saw many things, but was distracted by the sound of raised voices behind him, within the building upon which's supports he perched. Speaking of the wind...
Dropping back to the ground, Azharn entered the building. It's cool darkness was quite the contrast from the now bright morning sun, though the light was undeterred, seeping through cracks in the bamboo walls and played beautiful patterns upon the walls, a pleasant effect which Azharn did not fail to notice. The shouting had stopped, and it seemed that another man had made entrance into the room, a man whose words seemed to have quieted the inhabitants (though Azharn did not know why, as yet). He did mention something about eating, though, and That-Which-Seeks did at times admit to seeking fare of a more fundamental and material nature.
"This one would also like something to eat, if such things be found here." Noting the confident cut of the finely cloaked man before him, and the sharp eyed appraisal in the eyes of another who hid a warrior's spirit behind drunken foolishness, Azharn smiled inwardly. Yes, it seemed that many things might be found here...
As the bruised urchins closed the gap, they saw the prone man reach into his pocket and hold above him a small bag. The trinkets and morsels he filched before dawn dangled temptingly above. "Ah, there you are. That saves me the trouble of looking for you. Here's some food to tide you over.". Brazen Buckle sat up, brushing himself and hoping he hadn't caught lice.
His tone is all business "I'm sure you've heard The Moray is here; Hands dripping blood, fangs, walked the bottom of the sea until coming here to steal our souls? Yeah, well, when you start to hear that talk, it means there's going to be a fight. And people come from all over to watch fights. So what I thought I'd do is work the crowd, open up a tab, and get something to eat. Do you want in on that? Good!". Without waiting for an answer, Brazen Buckle took his spear from beneath the straw mat, and rising, began to walk back into town. So assured is he that he doesn't look back, to the urchins, or the straw mat he left behind.
geth, roll 9d10x7 for a fast sell, Manip+Presence+3+1,
Internet was out all weekend at home, and I kept getting interrupted on my lunch break. My landlord confirmed that it's back working though.
Also, I sketched a Genraq, being un-subtle about his magic.
He opened his mouth for a hastily-formed rebuttal, but all that came out was a strangled croak as the serving woman spat in his mug. And then, as the brooding stranger came downstairs, and the room got tense, Genraq opted to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut. So... not just some specific pirate news, but specific pirate news manifest as a specific Pirate, lodging upstairs, overhearing everything. Well. Fabulous.
Odds were good that Genraq could have just held his tongue and that would have been the end of it. But as he was side-eying the stranger, he realized that he'd started sipping from his now tainted brew. Before he could stop himself, a spray of liquid erupted from his puckered lips, like the blowhole of a whale, all over the back of the Moray's neck.
Haqu the cormorant, recognizing that Shit Was About To Get Real, decided it was a good time to flap out the window and wait for Genraq outside. He had a good instinct for that sort of thing.
Surprisingly, there was no anger or rage in the man's eyes. "Father, uncle, or brother?" he asked, pulling the now-damp cloth scrap from his neck and keeping his hand clear of the hilt of his enormous sword. Genraq realized the Moray wasn't really a large man, cleaving more to the average. It made his enormous sword all the more comical, as it seemed clear even the athletic-looking pirate would have trouble dislodging it from its scabbard, much less swinging it. His clothes were well-made, but clearly had seen too much time familiar with the brine, as Genraq could spot the salt stains at this distance.
By this time, people were boiling through the streets, certain that the bloody Moray would be depriving the deranged fishmonger of his head 'ere long.