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A letter to Johe
Posted: 27 Apr 2007 01:35 AM |
After getting a rather horrifying explanation of exactly what the kama is meant to do, Emma sighs and pulls out a piece of parchment, penning a short note and leaving it with Zig to deliver to Johe. She then surreptitiously leans forward and points to two sets of lock picks. The big orc smiles and hands them over, receiving a smile and a grateful nod in return.
The note reads as follows:
Dear Sir Johe:
It pleases me that your establishment is once more open for business. You have my congratulations, and my patronage.
However, I was rather surprised to find that your employee was selling a weapon that he described as being of most use for killing paladins. I believe it gives your shop a bad name to do so. This is an item called the 'Undead Avenger', a kama.
I respectfully ask that you remove that item from your shelves and destroy it. I would have purchased it myself and done so, except for the fact that gold does not come all that easily to me. If you require compensation for removing that evil artifact from circulation, perhaps I can arrange some time to raise the necessary funds.
In faith,
Emma Robinson |
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A reply, of sorts
Posted: 03 May 2007 02:28 PM |
Emma knocked at the door to Johe's chambers, and was greeted with silence. It was fitting, she supposed. The reply to her missive was on the shelves of the man's store. No word, and certainly no letter, was necessary. She had finally raised the gold to purchase the evil kama, and found that he now he had five for sale. On top of that, he was selling a ring blessed by Menarok Himself.
Her tone with Zig didn't change. She simply sold him the innocuous items she had taken from the Mountain King's armoury and pocketed her gold, willing her jaw not to tighten. Her eyes no longer showed her feelings. The glowing blue on blue betrayed nothing, meaning that if she could control her musculature, she could hide what emotion came, and leave, meditate, and abandon it.
Johe was a merchant, and would sell whatever fattened his purse. There was no room for morality, or for choosing sides, in his business, she supposed, although, on taking a quick inventory of what he had for sale, it seemed that items of use to Jessup's thugs outnumbered items of use to elven warriors or Aristi Heralds by a ratio of ten to one.
Buying the ring and the five kamas would cost three-hundred-thirty-thousand-gold, and raising such an unfathomable sum was beyond Emma. She also knew that it would make barely a dint in what was available to the nefarious. Jessup sold many artifacts of use only to the dark of heart, as did nearly every other merchant in Port Royale, and under it.
After waiting at the door for a moment longer, Emma swept her cloak behind her and walked briskly out of the darkened establishment and into the dark alley, which was now filling with a smattering of drunkards emptying out of the Black Pearl. The skin-tight apparel she had taken to wearing after her trials earned her whistles, catcalls, and the odd uninvited hand on her behind, but when her head turned to the amourous man, he would inevitably recoil, the blue-on-blue eyes hitting him like a punch to the solar plexus.
Most of them only knew of one other in Port Royale with glowing eyes, and wouldn't dream of squeezing -his- bottom.
She walked purposefully toward the nearest exit from the City and to the Queen's Coast, eyes meeting each staggering man who approached her, and turning him away. She slid out the gate and closed it behind her, ensuring the night guard latched it, then proceeded to cut down the walking dead that had ravaged the area for nearly all of her adventuring career. She knew they would be invigorated with new 'life' by the next evening, irrespective of her actions. She allowed in a bitter thought, try as she might to suppress it: that it was a metaphor for nearly all she had done to confront evil since leaving home.
When nothing stirred on the coast save the ravens, the young monk knelt and meditated. She tasted the emotions that her trip to the Guyver store had briefly unearthed, pondered them, and spat them out, rejecting them for the poison they were. She dissected the facts from what Talion had told her earlier that night, and discarded the veiled insults: all she really knew was that the magisters were meeting the following day, and that the matter of the Atalan might once more be on the agenda.
She then softly murmured an Asashi catechism, clearing her mind, and finished with a homily to Vilyave. Asashi had largely supplanted the faith of her childhood, but there were some things Emma would not give up, and there was much that the world owed to the Goddess of the Winds.
Her mind clear, Emma slung her meagre possessions over her shoulder and headed in the direction the wind blowed. |
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An Updated Description
Posted: 04 May 2007 02:42 PM |
((To those that are interested, there are a few matters I would like to update regarding Emma's appearance, as compared to what comes up when one examines the character and reads the description.
Emma's eyes were always her most appealing feature. They were a hazel that shone flecks of emerald in a bright sun, yet muted to an earthen reflection of the orange motes of a campfire by night. They were playful, warm, and inviting, and beamed with the hope of one who is certain of her beliefs and has an unswerving faith in the benevolence of her fellow man.
Time and experience had snuffed most of her exuberance, as any who have read these posts or interacted with her for the duration of her adventuring life would have probably gleaned. The hazel eyes had ceased to be playful; humour, when she chose to engage in it, was deadpan and sarcastic, and smiles that curled her thin lips were rarely joined by a twinkle in her eye.
There was one man who could always bring a warm and genuine smile, with whom her trust and faith converged. As her trials neared, he was the only person who would have seen traces of the young farm girl from Paws when he looked upon her.
Now, Emma's eyes glow, night and day, with a searing blue light that completes the mask she'd been constructing for months. Dark blue irises and pupils sit against a background of sky-blue 'whites'. There is a severity to those eyes that is only broken by a genuine smile, something seen less commonly than the wolfen smile of battle, be it verbal or physical.
Her delicate features have hardened somewhat over the past few months, but her face continues to be more at home in a Noxema advertisement than a Soldier of Fortune magazine. Defined cheekbones rise above the concavity of softly hollow cheeks, and a thin jawbone meets at the center to form a fragile chin. Her thin, mousy brown hair once complemented her eyes, but is now generally pulled tightly into a leather cord at the nape of her narrow neck.
Her slightly tanned skin is free of mark or blemish, save one. On the inside of her left forearm, generally hidden by her combat gloves, is a crimson-coloured scar that looks to have been made by the fat talons of a bloated vulture.
In the jargon of secondary school boys back when I was of like age, Emma is built for 'speed, not comfort'. All of her appendages are surrounded by toned, defined muscle, but are thin, and her five foot tall frame is unlikely to weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet. Her hips are narrow, her waist is thin, and even the most craftily designed corset could not create the swell of a bust.
She moves with a purposeful stride, short legs covering a vast amount of territory very rapidly. There is an economy to her movement, with no wasted gestures or energy, but she lacks the fluid grace of the elven. She runs with the controlled, compact strides of a 100-metre sprinter, rather than the relaxed bob of a marathon runner, despite her similarity of build.
In combat, Emma does not really punch most foes, irrespective of what the animations might show. Instead, what you would see is a series of feints, dodges, and foot sweeps that wear her enemy down before a single death attack comes. With a great cat, that death attack might be the removal of its larynx; with a giant, it would be a series of blows that start with that quintessentially male piece of his anatomy.
After her trials, Emma's attire changed, modesty having been sacrificed for utility. Skin-hugging leggings, breeches, and blouses have replaced her combat dress, and tend to be complemented by a gold and slate mask that radiates the blue of her glowing eyes.
In short, she's not who she was, and certainly doesn't look like she did. Her face betrays little: hope, confidence, love, hate, fear...two pounds of gilded gold does much less to hide her experience of such things than a few ounces of oddly-coloured, glowing tissue.)) |
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Diary Entry #27
Posted: 08 May 2007 03:23 AM |
Dear Diary:
It's hard to remember what has happened since I last made an entry. Vives has become a lonely place for me since then, emptied of hero and villain alike. I followed Tristian through the cold lands today, cloaked in shadow, just to see where he'd go, and what he'd do. A'mael pointed out that the last time she'd seen him was the day I told him his assistance in the Gladden catacombs wasn't necessary or welcome.
It would be the height of arrogance for me to conclude that rejecting him on that occasion led to him withdrawing and then wilfully ignoring that sign despite having been a frozen chunk of ice once before. I'm not going to elaborately explain my reasons herein, but I had them, and I don't believe I made the wrong decision. Nonetheless, if to an extent I played a part in his walk into the blowing snow, I do regret that.
A'mael and I delved into the heart of the volcano yesterday, and Sir Markus and I to the gates of Valinor Castle the previous day. I've been as a tourist, seeing places more fearsome than I'd ever imagined existed, watching as more capable companions fight the battles I am unable to prosecute.
I'm told the magisters of Vives had a meeting a few days back, and decided to organize an assault on the Halls of Bregodim, the theory being that such an assault would break the Atalan / Deep Dwarf alliance.
Though I had little time to talk when I saw her, I discussed the plan briefly with Serai, who, fiendish lycanthropy aside, is the best strategist I know. She seemed to give the plan qualified acceptance. It is, ultimately, an action, and people were clamouring for action. For reasons I can only guess at, the original plans of both Talion and Sir Markus never progressed. If this new plan does, so much the better.
The strange entity - the glowing ball of light - appeared in Port Royale at the Broken Mask Tavern a few days back. Talion and I were there when it manifested, though Talion immediately left when he saw it. He was later to explain that, what with being wrapped up in dealing with the Atalan problem, the appearance of some new force trying to claim the cold lands, the end of the world threatening, and a deepening of Desth'des power within him, he hardly had the time or the energy to care about a silly little poltergeist.
Indeed. The message within the message rang loud and clear. Small mysteries can be investigated by the bit players who litter the footnotes of history.
And, of course, following the spirit, if that's what it was, did not impart any new knowledge. I simply chased after it until it brought me to an open door to the personal chambers of the arch-lich Vestlat, whence I declined to enter. When I turned back, a lightning storm came and a firey arrow drawn on the road pointed me back in the direction of Lynaeum; I headed back, but at that point, the lich's chambers were locked, and the spirit was gone.
I had thought of dedicating some ink to speculating on what the poltergeist was up to and why it changed tack. Ashen showed up, and I could perhaps make outlandish assertions that his oath to the combat dummies and position as Herald of the Knights of the Round scared the ghost off. In truth, though, I've no idea.
I have seen the spirit in numerous places: Maldovia, the Seven Sisters, the Northern Highway, and Lynaeum among them. It once led myself, Ophelia, and a few others to Lynaeum, and has now led me, alone, to Lynaeum. It once spoke to me, and to Ophelia, and now doesn't. It might be something the animated combat dummies referred to as 'It Which is That'. Again, I've truly no idea.
I had written a note to the halfling merchant Johe to ask that he cease selling evil artifacts and magicks, a note that did not receive a reply. I had made a few conclusions about the fellow, none particularly kind, until he told me that Zig, the half-orc tending the supplies, will not speak to him, instead answering to 'The Shadows'. His story seemed true, or else the orc is just a darn good thespian. Johe asked me to pass word that his shop is closed, irrespective of what this Zig might claim.
He wasn't the only one to ask me to pass word to someone. Talion asked me to pass word of the magisters' plan to the Aristi, and see if they would offer their aid. I believe in some circles this is referred to as busywork. In any event, I know exactly two Aristi: Sir Markus and Sir Cedrych. I passed word to Sir Markus when I saw him, though it is entirely possible Talion and his cadre simply await a rejection (or, more likely, no answer at all) from the Aristi so as to give another excuse to malign paladins. If they were serious about requesting help from the Aristi, they would approach the Aristi, not ask some girl with no standing in the organization, and who knows almost nothing of their plan, to act as intermediary.
Well, it seems I've nothing left to write about.
In faith,
Emma |
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Desth'des' Other Servant / Diary Entry #28
Posted: 09 May 2007 03:33 PM |
As dusk deepened and the orange glow of the setting sun burned through the seemingly omnipresent grey clouds, the petite young woman clumsily struck her skinning knife against flint, trying to light a single tallow candle in the centre of a round wooden table with three functional legs and a granite flagstone propping up a stunted fourth. Eventually, she gave up at trying to aim a spark at a fat-soaked wick, and instead arranged some dried bark and lion fur in a tin bowl, items that would combust more easily. A short-lived fire allowed her to light the candle, and sit down to a solitary meal.
She had hoped to share a repast with Markus, but it seemed that in the aftermath of Talion’s assault on Magister Salt, the less-than-genial greeting he’d received upon arrival at the Trading Post had soured the knight. They’d shared a few short sentences before he’d begged off, heading into the former Merchant’s Guildhouse to ‘deliver a report’. A cold salad and a cold pie from Mrs. Miggins more than sated Emma’s appetite, washed down with water drawn from the nearby stream.
After the trials that gifted her with glowing blue eyes and an impenetrable mind, Emma had re-worked every item she wore. New holes were bored into the wide, man-sized monk’s belt, such that it fit her in a single wrap of her waist, and excess leather was cut off. Razor-sharp metal barbs were sewn into the knuckles of her gloves and thin metal blades were affixed to the hard leather thereof that ran from elbow to forearm. She had painstakingly made the adjustments in accordance with the instructions of a master of the Dragon School, one who had agreed to instruct her on how to improve her skills with the fist in exchange for her teaching one of his students the art of fighting unseen opponents.
Emma smiled unconsciously as she eyed her handiwork on the table, white incisors glinting in the mixed glow of the orange sunset, the yellow flame of the candle, and the incandescent blue of her eyes. The gloves looked savage, a complement to her attire she could not have imagined wearing a year back.
If seeking instruction from a master of another school had rankled Marie, Emma’s former Sensei didn’t show it. “Learn what you can, and stay true to yourself,” was all that the woman said when Emma hesitantly broached the topic of improving her combat skills under the tutelage of the other monk. A distance had opened between them after the trials, akin to the distance that had so recently opened between the young woman and her mother. She wasn’t particularly happy with how either relationship had progressed, but she also felt powerless to change them. They had evolved, and putting things back to how they once were was like trying to swim against the current of a swift river. She stared hard at the flickering candle, looked at the emptiness across the table, and sighed softly.
Her diary now laid open in front of her. She wasn’t really sure if chronicling all she knew, and all of import she could think of, would ever really benefit her, but it was often as cathartic as combat and forms, as calming as meditation. She had literally stumbled upon Talion attacking Salt earlier that day, had gleaned all she could from those that were there, and compulsion to write of it soon took her. A quill danced upon the bound parchment, only the flicker of candlelight providing illumination now.
Dear Diary:
I have now learned more of the condition afflicting Talion, and I struggle to write of it without interjecting a sense of irony or turning it into a parable. I believe I’ve already written of how he came to receive a curse from the arch-lich Desth’des: he confronted and, I believe, assaulted a servant of Gukathul’s usurper. The response to that was a curse that initially left Talion with wretched breath.
Subsequently, something began to grow inside the magister/swordsman. It apparently manifested itself during a dangerous trip Talion, Magister Salt, and two magisters I don’t know by the names of Lucifer and Xaranthir took to Valinor Castle. I’m not certain of what it did then, though it seems the force within Talion resurrected Xaranthir, a curse that perhaps briefly masqueraded as a blessing, since I am told the magister is now dying of a wasting disease.
Earlier this evening, Talion was struck down by a golem in Se’eth’s Tower. I am told that coming near-to-death merely strengthens the entity within him, and apparently this happened, the entity coming to the fore. When magister Salt tried to divine what the entity was, the result was fearsome magicks bursting forth from Talion, magicks that robbed Magister Salt of haleness and eventually of breath, breath that, once taken, was soon after returned by some vile sorcery.
Talion was transformed, taken by whatever lies inside him. As I struggled to drag the magister away from the magister/swordsman/creature’s wrath, foul magicks began robbing me of life. With frankly indescribable courage, Timik, and perhaps Fennigan, attacked Talion, giving impassioned shouts for me to enjoin the assault. By the time Salt was safely away, Talion was apparently reasserting control over his body. Both halflings still stood, though Timik was battered and bloody.
Salt did not seem to be cursed by what befell him, not in the manner that Xaranthir was, but the magister is likely to convalesce at the Sisters for a few days. Talion, suddenly repentant and reflective, apparently has perhaps a week before whatever lurks within him takes over entirely, at least according to Talion.
As I said at the outset, Dear Diary, I will resist the urge to turn this entry into a preachy discussion of someone I have never much liked, and the decisions he made in the past. I will also not bother to mention my proposed solution. Today I write only of the facts as they were relayed to me. I shall put my own spin on them another time.
In faith,
Emma
On cue, a gust of cool air blew into the open door of the ruined tower, eddying in a concentric and shrinking circle. Pages fanned and the single flame danced, until the vortex narrowed to a point and snuffed the flame. Glowing blue eyes shed the only light that remained. |
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Bye
Posted: 14 May 2007 02:48 AM |
((I've had my fun on Vives, lots of it, in fact, but I made a promise to myself with my last character...and I'm going to live by that promise. Her story ends when she stumbles out of Nethar'u and returns to Ferein. It was nice knowing everyone I got to know, and I suppose my last act on this server is to own up to who I was...Robber Baron / Lucius a long time ago, Arrogant Worm / Londo more recently, and The Snooty Duchess / Emma most recently. Some of you figured that out on your own, some may have suspected it, and for those that didn't, now you know.
I was careful not to say goodbye before, rather simply killing off my characters, but I've played over 3,000 hours on here now, with all my characters, written over 500 PMs and about 400 or 500 posts, I think, and basically reached the end of my welcome. To those I knew in any of my guises, farewell. I've enjoyed the rp, the adrenaline rushes, and, on the occasions when I had the opportunity to take part in a storyline, the stories. I would have loved to see how the world ended, and how the Atalan were finally defeated, if they were, but that's not really reason enough to play.
Take care all, and best of luck with whatever you do in the future.))
Six months back, she'd made an oath, and she had a destiny.
Her destiny most certainly wasn't entwined with where she woke up. She'd led three others to near-death in Nethar'u, to retrace her steps to the ruins of a lost city.
As the four adventurers shivered in the Hall of Champions, the young woman saw the faces of her nephews in her mind's eye. Two boys being raised among the elves, refugees in a war that hadn't yet started, sheltered with Midor's sworn enemy. And their aunt gallavanting through the Hells, nearly losing her life.
She had begun to hope for so much from life, and had forgotten something more important and compelling, something that over-rode her wants, and her hopes. She had forgotten her obligations.
Nothing reminded one of those more than near-death, and Emma'd had more than her fill of near-death experiences. One too many, in fact. She stood, stoically looking forward, for the entire boat trip to Ferein. She didn't know what the future held, only that she would be close to her parents and nephews for whatever it was. It had always been her destiny. The rest was as a dream. |
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Re: Bye
Posted: 14 May 2007 11:01 AM |
Well I'm gonna miss ya, you wus wut little wus left uf me concience ;)
'ave fun out there in tha werld
JJ |
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Re: Bye
Posted: 14 May 2007 06:45 PM |
((Leaving? Didn't see that one coming.
Bye! It was always fun roleplaying with you in any of your guises [even if I didn't know it was the same person]. You're a great roleplayer and are one of those people that makes spending countless hours IG worthwhile. ...and I'll miss Emma's ripping out of larynges.)) |
Me: “Hrothgar is not crazy, he is blessed!”
Wicked Keen/Sa'koless: “Vilyave must have been PMSing when she blessed Hrothgar...” |
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Re: Bye
Posted: 14 May 2007 06:51 PM |
{( Well...You really had me fooled.
It's a dang shame, Snooty. I really enjoyed Roleplaying with you; a lot of times that I'll remember.
You've made a huge impression on me, and I'm sure it's safe to say you'll be sorely missed.
Take care. )} |
WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE |
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Re: Bye
Posted: 14 May 2007 08:30 PM |
| ... and you promised me another Chess match. Hmph. |
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Re: Bye
Posted: 14 May 2007 09:13 PM |
You mean to tell you you were Londo. . . TO THIS DAY I miss Londo. So he grew boobs and was an awesome chick! And now she's leaving too. . . *watery pouty eyes* Don't leave me! Come bachack! I don't mind that you got me dead . .. again. . . Im gonna misses you!
*love you forever*
Rissy |
All Rincewind could manage to say was, "You know, I never imagined there were he-dryads. Not even in an oak tree."
Durellae Snorted "Stupid! Where do you think acorns come from?" . . .
(Terry Prachett, "The Color of Magic") |
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Happily ever...
Posted: 21 Sep 2007 02:42 AM |
"Though the Atalan arrows fell all around him, the brave knight pushed ever forward, his own safety subservient to that of the fallen maiden. Countless projectiles stuck in his great-shield, and some broke through his plate armour and tore at the raw sinew of his upper arms, but he did not falter.
He plowed up that mountain, facing magister, archer, and axe-wielding savage with equal unflinching resolve, engaging only those who stood between him and the fair woman.
Somehow, despite the odds, he reached her, grim determination to bring her to safety beating back his fear that he'd lost his true love without ever telling her how he felt. He sheathed his sword, picked her up as gently as he could, slung her over his shoulder, and ran down the mountain, bullrushing any dwarf fool enough to get in his way.
Amazingly, although he was one man against an army, he survived the rescue and carried his soul-mate to the safety of the dark cave that marked the transition from an Atalan stronghold to the outskirts of the dark island of Maldovia.
He gently eased her to the floor of the cave, leaning over the young woman and listening for breath, breath that wouldn't come. So much remained unsaid between them, and the thought that it ever would be brought a single tear to the stoic man's eye, a tear that encapsulated all his kindness, love, and hope.
The teardrop clung to his lashes as he knelt, before finally dropping when he blinked. It dropped to his true love's gently parted lips, and with that tear came a miracle. A raspy intake of breath announced that the fair maiden yet lived, that the knight's desperate but unvoiced prayer was answered."
Emma looked into the distance, an envelope held in her hand, Noah and Levi joined by three elven children for the recounting of the tale. Each story the young woman told her nephews had a grain of truth in it, and this one was no different. Hers, though, always had happy endings. The brave knight and the fair maiden were always united in eternity after whatever struggle they had to overcome.
A young elve with a knowing expression smiled as Emma approached the end of her tale. Perhaps Ilfirin'lomi's parents didn't tell such fanciful stories, Emma thought distractedly, for she would never miss a single telling, and though she seemed to always know exactly how each story would end, she gave Emma the full focus of her attention, large almond eyes crinkling happily with the denouement of each tale.
Emma had left it all behind more than four months back to replace the mother her nephews had lost. In that time, she'd heard little of the world outside Ferein, and her 'knight' had never tried to reach her.
One man had, however, and her hand shook slightly as she looked in wonder and trepidation at the letter she now held.
In clear but accented common, Ilfirin'lomi brought Emma back from her reverie.
"Did they live happily ever after?"
"Happily...ever..." Emma trailed off as she turned her gaze back to the children.
"Yes," she said quickly, blinking and smiling to the young elve. "All the love found in that knight's one tear could cure any ailment, even bring a woman back from the brink of death. It was the most potent elixir the world had ever seen. Yes. They lived happily ever after."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Emma walked through the door of the Inn, clad in tight breeches and a blouse she'd not worn in four-and-a-half months. The common room was filled with strangers, though the barkeep looked at her with dim but dawning recognition.
The monk sighed softly. When she had retired, this place was largely hostile territory for her. The barman's twitchy glances as she strode to the elevated mahogany countertop that made an elongated 'U' in front ot the liquor cabinets belied that he was either unnerved by her eyes, or by her history and affiliations.
Or both.
When she reached the bar and whispered to him, however, he nodded, and said that yes, indeed, he had been instructed to forward any mail he received to the man. He then held out his hand for the envelope she clutched.
The young woman shook her head.
"I deliver no message," she said, smiling. "I shall await his return here."
In the letter, the man had said he wished counsel. There had also been an undertone of contrition, regret, and perhaps simple maturation. She could provide neither counsel nor absolution, and suspected the man truly wished a great deal of the latter and little of the former.
In fact, he was offering her much more than she offered him: a link to the past, an explanation of where her former comrades were now, and news, unfiltered by the elven military, of the current state of her former home.
She sat down on a barstool and nursed a glass of water, alone with her thoughts.
And waited. |
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