Post by eukelade on Mar 6, 2023 19:08:33 GMT -5
This is a log I'm not sure if I remember has been shared anywhere before. And I'm also not sure if people share logs of things they actually enjoyed here or if it is just a place to post logs of terrible things?? Anyway, I guess I will cross my fingers nobody minds if I post this. Please just ignore it if you don't want to read a bunch of roleplay or if you're specifically tired of being exposed to Armageddon-related things and trying to avoid it. Also, there's no combat and nobody dies!
This log is of my templar Balthazar - who was so insane, he wanted to marry his pet erdlu - and his servant, Alme, when the other shoe finally dropped and he discovered this shocking fact at last (after I hinted at the possibility with everyone for months and months and months lol.) I really want to applaud Alme as being an absolutely perfect character in every way as an aide to a crazy templar. I couldn't have asked for a more gratifying reaction in this scene specifically but also every scene they had together just popped and had great rp chemistry. I don't know if the player still plays or if he like many people have left the game, but yeah, he was simply fantastic and this scene is one of my fondest armageddon memories simply because of his frustrated beleaguered responses!
Anyway in the wake of all that has happened and the gdb closure and things being terrible and everyone being sad and frustrated or glad and vindictive or spiteful or generally just feeling some stuff, I thought I would share something lighthearted and silly just because.
This log is of my templar Balthazar - who was so insane, he wanted to marry his pet erdlu - and his servant, Alme, when the other shoe finally dropped and he discovered this shocking fact at last (after I hinted at the possibility with everyone for months and months and months lol.) I really want to applaud Alme as being an absolutely perfect character in every way as an aide to a crazy templar. I couldn't have asked for a more gratifying reaction in this scene specifically but also every scene they had together just popped and had great rp chemistry. I don't know if the player still plays or if he like many people have left the game, but yeah, he was simply fantastic and this scene is one of my fondest armageddon memories simply because of his frustrated beleaguered responses!
Anyway in the wake of all that has happened and the gdb closure and things being terrible and everyone being sad and frustrated or glad and vindictive or spiteful or generally just feeling some stuff, I thought I would share something lighthearted and silly just because.
A Spacious Meeting Chamber [W]
Polished black tiles, distinguishable from one another due to their
rigid diamond shape, make up the smooth and shiny floor of this spacious
meeting room, which has a large table set along its center. A large wall
hanging covers nearly the entirety of the southern wall, depicting a city,
decimating would-be invaders. Slitted windows along the eastern wall
provide natural lighting during the day, while a small ceramic hanging
overhead is filled with a few shards of green glow-crystal, providing a
dull, emerald glow to bask over the chamber during the darker hours.
The short, pech-haired man is standing here.
Twiddling his fingers beneath his nose, you look down at the short, pech-haired man.
This human male is well-formed and proportionate, but he stands well below the
height of most peers. His hair is a thick, wavy blend of browns and golds.
Colors of grasses burned and aged by Suk-Krath. His large eyes are glassy
green. His features are pointed and impish. When his wide mouth is closed
and smiling the long line of its curve dominates his face.
His head has been shaved nearly bald. Only pech-colored stubble remains.
He has a fresh lump on the back of his head.
The short, pech-haired man is in excellent condition.
The short, pech-haired man is using:
<on head> a stitched, earthy leather beret
<across back> a small jozhal-hide backpack
<on torso> a fitted dark-brown leather tunic
<over left shoulder> a coarse burlap satchel
<as belt> a broad sash of jade-dyed sandcloth
<hung from belt> a bone-handled obsidian longsword
<hung from belt> a slim bone rapier
<around body> a green sandcloth greatcloak
<on legs> a pair of tailored black leather pants
<on feet> a pair of stitched, earthy leather shoes
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Shall I make arrangements to have your party in some weeks, at the time we spoke of? I have not yet made those arrangements, given...events, Lord Templar."
Pointing a finger towards him, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"This is at the forefront of my mind, Alme. But outside these walls...not a word. Not a thought. Not a single breath of what we have spoken of will pass your lips."
Immediately bowing, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Of course, Lord Templar. I will not even allow it to enter the surface of my thoughts."
Addressing his earlier question, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Oh. Well, I suppose we may as well. It seems less exciting somehow, all things considered. Perhaps we will just make it a small, general announcement on Meleth's Circle. "
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"So...not a party. Only an...announcement. Wine, food - no?"
With a wave of one hand, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"No, no. Just an announcement, I think that should do. Oh, and Lady Alisima and I have quite repaired our friendship. "
Rising from his bow, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"That gladdens me, Lord Templar. It is good. It will strengthen you."
His ugly features assuming an expression of regal sacrifice, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"I see now I was wrong, all wrong, to shun her. It is not her fault I am marrying someone else."
The short, pech-haired man's eyes pop wide.
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Oh. I thought. You were marrying her. Lord Templar."
Shaking off his noble expression and gazing in shock down at him, you ask the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Whatever gave you that impression?"
In deadpan, blunt logic, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"I assumed your announcement was of marriage, and I was not aware that you were involved with anyone else."
With a dreamy chuckle, moistening his lips indecently, you exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"But of course I am, Alme. The love of my life. The ginka of my eye!"
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"...Lord Templar?"
Seeming in quite good humor by whatever thought occupies that...brain of his, chuckling to himself, you ask the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Yes, Alme?"
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Who..?"
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"You've, ah. Never mentioned their name. In my presence. "
Beginning to look rather severe, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Of course I have. I must have referred to her hundreds of times."
(A dangerous glint appears in the sallow, bowl-shorn templar's wet grey gaze.)
The short, pech-haired man turns slightly, away from your eyes.
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Ah...please, indulge your servant's faulty memory, Lord Templar. "
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Sometimes, I am very stupid and forgetful."
Tapping the side of his nose, all good humor restored, as he indulgently chuckles at him, you exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Oh, my dear servant. My dear and loyal servant. Aaah, Alme. My good servant Alme!"
Quietly, still looking away, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"I am that, Lord Templar."
His gaze sparkling like he has just received thirty years worth of birthday presents at once, you whisper to the short, pech-haired man in sirihish:
"It is a surprise!"
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"To...me?"
Clasping his hands behind his back and beginning to pace, his expression noble and lofty once more, well, as noble and lofty as such an ugly face can be, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"To the city! They must be surprised by the most excellent union I am about to embark upon."
With resignation, as if unwilling to probe further, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Very well, Lord Templar. It shall be a surprise."
Nodding sagely, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Yes, Alme. Yes. Well, I must go and see my sweet, lovely erdlu, Sapphire, before I meditate."
Changing topics quickly, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"You asked me the other week to probe into House Kadius, Lord Templar. I cannot do this effectively, yet. But I have a plan. It will be very easy."
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"I do not think you care overly much if that Zhaka Kadius dislikes you. Am I correct?"
After a longing glance to the door, and the things which might lie behind it, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Oh - do you? Wait - Zhaka Kadius - he dislikes me? How strange! I was under the impression he favored me, given the amount of donation he has shoveled my way."
You say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"But I do not care what a peasant thinks of me, no."
The short, pech-haired man stops, suddenly, frozen.
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Why does Sapphire need a wedding present, Lord Templar?"
With another indulgent chuckle, giving him a warm, comrade-like slap upon the shoulder, you exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Ah, my clever servant, Alme. I can't keep anything from you!"
The short, pech-haired man regards you with uncloaked, wary suspicion, his squint not abating even as he's clapped.
Coolly, slowly, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"I've heard it said...that I don't miss anything."
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar just chuckles and nods, continuing to pat the short, pech-haired man on the shoulder.
You feel fine, everything is perfectly fine. Just great. Life is wonderful, there is metal, there is Sapphire, there is friendship, there is Alme.
The short, pech-haired man lifts a hand to his head, and rubs the bridge of his nose and forehead, as if he were suddenly struck with a great headache.
Briskly brushing his hands together as he sets off for the door, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Well, I really must meditate."
With a hearty chuckle, you open the door.
Striding forth from the meeting chamber, you exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"A most excellent servant you are, Alme! I confess, all my troubles seem to melt away to nothing when we speak!"
The short, pech-haired man can't seem to move.
w (just assuming his servant will follow him)
A Polished, Winding Stairwell [E, U, D]
A staircase of polished marble stretches outward along the northern
wall here, curving at an acute, gradual angle. The occasional dull emerald
flare of a glow crystal is perched along the curving walls, separated by
several cords at a time, offering little in regards to visibility in the
distance between, and affording dangerous footing along the seamless squares
of marble beneath. A recessed doorway has been set against the eastern
portion of this staircase, marking a halfway point along the ascent of the
steps.
A human Allanaki soldier is standing here.
To the east: the short, pech-haired man walks west.
The short, pech-haired man has arrived from the east.
The short, pech-haired man says, out of character:
"Is your haste to get away an OOC thing because you need to log out"
The short, pech-haired man says, out of character:
"I only ask because I dont want to prolong if you need to log out"
You say, out of character:
"no I don't need to log out. rofl."
The short, pech-haired man says, out of character:
"motherfucker. ok."
You say, out of character:
"<3"
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar begins to stroll towards the stairway, his head up, his stooped shoulders back, arms swinging at his sides. He doesn't seem to have a care in the world.
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Lord Templar...I, ah...left my...bag...containing your letter. In the room. And it isn't...proper."
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"For me to be there. Alone. Very...improper. Will you, ah. Accompany me. Briefly. Back into the room. Yes!"
With a gasp, swinging around to notice him behind him, you ask the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"You did? My letter - in the room - really???"
You exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Alme, how could you be so irresponsible!"
The short, pech-haired man walks east.
To the east: the short, pech-haired man has arrived from the west.
e
A Spacious Meeting Chamber [W]
Polished black tiles, distinguishable from one another due to their
rigid diamond shape, make up the smooth and shiny floor of this spacious
meeting room, which has a large table set along its center. A large wall
hanging covers nearly the entirety of the southern wall, depicting a city,
decimating would-be invaders. Slitted windows along the eastern wall
provide natural lighting during the day, while a small ceramic hanging
overhead is filled with a few shards of green glow-crystal, providing a
dull, emerald glow to bask over the chamber during the darker hours.
The short, pech-haired man is standing here.
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar hurries back in, peering about the meeting chamber.
The short, pech-haired man closes the door.
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Oh. Silly me, Lord Templar. I have it with me. Pardon me for wasting your time. "
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar looks from the door to the short, pech-haired man.
(A suspicious look begins to cross the sallow, bowl-shorn templar's homely face.)
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Where, ah. Where will Sapphire be? During the announcement?"
Beginning to slowly reach for the door handle, his gaze fixed upon his short little buddy, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"By my side, of course."
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Why? Why of course, Lord Templar? She isn't normally by your side."
The short, pech-haired man smiles, in an utterly false manner.
Beginning to sound quite baffled at his current attitude and demeanor, you ask the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Because - we are - why wouldn't she be? Given the circumstances?"
You think:
"I am beginning to grow concerned about the nature of this conversation."
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"The circumstances! The circumstances of a...Templar. Making a wedding announcement, to a Lady of Allanak! Yes. A highborn, human lady of Allanak. "
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"A Lord Templar would want his trusty erdlu at his side, yes. During that announcement. The announcement which does not otherwise involve the erdlu!"
The short, pech-haired man looks at you almost beseechingly.
It is late at night on Cingel, the 136th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Silt's Vengeance, year 31 of the 22nd Age.
At this speech of the short, pech-haired man's, the sallow, bowl-shorn templar frowns deeply, he frowns darkly. He frowns most forbiddingly at his servant, the short, pech-haired man.
You feel suspicious.
Looming over him, his features grim beneath the mushroom-shaped dome of his haircut, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Alme, I am beginning to be troubled by your persistence...on this topic."
Skipping the questioning of it, skipping the why-the-fuck of it, and coming from a different angle, the short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Why...Lord Templar...must it be -public-?"
You think:
"Why would he question my devotion to Sapphire?"
You think:
"Surely he knows that my affection for her runs more deep and more true than any other thing."
After spending some time considering his question, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Because, my servant. It will give the people hope. It will give them encouragement. It is..."
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar flaps his hands in circles, grasping for just the right words to say what he is about to say.
You say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"It is the right thing to do. Besides, my endless devotion to my future wife cannot be understated, no! "
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"And the Lady Alisima. Knows that you are...going to marry...your erdlu."
The short, pech-haired man says this slowly, bluntly, with barely-concealed derision.
With a pleased smile that bends his perpetually grimacing mouth into a more upwards-seeming direction, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Ah, no. I told her it was a surprise."
(The sallow, bowl-shorn templar watches the short, pech-haired man closely.)
You notice: The short, pech-haired man seems to have a delay in his reactions, as if his brain were processing too much.
Slowly, with very practiced neutrality, the short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"And you think she will be filled with hope and encouragement, on learning that she will be passed up in favor of your erdlu, Lord Templar?"
Looking past his shorn scalp at the wall beyond, his features once more suffused with noble suffering, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"She does not think that way about me, Alme. We are only friends. She has stated repeatedly that she has no romantic interest in me."
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"...and you would prefer Lady Alisima. To, ah. To..."
Struggling with it, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"To Sapphire."
Nodding his head sagely, wisely, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"In truth, I do feel much the same way for her. A great deal of strong affection - a great deal, a very great deal - she is very wise and very sweet - but that is where it must end for us."
Turning a fraction away, and nodding just as sagely, but at the wall, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"And the true depth of your affection can only be returned by Sapphire, your erdlu."
Instead of answering the short, pech-haired man, the sallow, bowl-shorn templar just exhales a sigh, intaking the sight of the ceiling as if the answers to the world's most puzzling questions were written there upon the tiles.
Murmuring the single word, you say, in sirihish:
"Sapphire."
Beginning to turn towards the door, his movements energized, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"I must go and see Sapphire!"
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"You know, Lord Templar. A noble marrying a highborn is a ridiculous idea, isn't it? Marriage. Marriage is...a contract? Yes? It's not...a relationship. It's a business arranagement."
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"You can't enter into a business arrangement with an erdlu!"
Whirling around to gnash his teeth at him, you exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"It is a union of hearts!"
Thunderously, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"And you can't tell me what to do! You are a mere peasant! You can advise! You can suggest! But no - you cannot order me."
You feel incensed at the liberties the short, pech-haired man is taking at this time.
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"...you will hand Valorisk Borsail every victory in all your future rivalries, with this, Lord Templar!"
You feel a roaring rage boil up from his belly to nearly explode out the top of his head.
His grey gaze flaring wide, his expression one of pure lunacy, shaking his fists at the ceiling, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Valorisk Borsail...Valorisk Borsail...I demand he be present at the announcement, Alme. I demand it."
After a long pause, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"...allow me to accompany you to see Sapphire, hm? If this is to...go on, I should buy her a bloody present! A...collar, from Kadius, maybe."
You feel his gut churn with the desire to smash in the face of Valorisk Borsail.
Nodding his head a few times as he strides for the door, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"At last, you see sense"
You open the door.
The short, pech-haired man falls in behind you.
w (with an exasperated sigh)
A Polished, Winding Stairwell [E, U, D]
A staircase of polished marble stretches outward along the northern
wall here, curving at an acute, gradual angle. The occasional dull emerald
flare of a glow crystal is perched along the curving walls, separated by
several cords at a time, offering little in regards to visibility in the
distance between, and affording dangerous footing along the seamless squares
of marble beneath. A recessed doorway has been set against the eastern
portion of this staircase, marking a halfway point along the ascent of the
steps.
A human Allanaki soldier is standing here.
To the east: the short, pech-haired man walks west.
The short, pech-haired man has arrived from the east.
A human Allanaki soldier falls in behind you.
A human Allanaki soldier is now at your service.
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar summons a human Allanaki soldier away from the wall.
<they begin to travel to the templar's quarter>
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar strides along, his steps brisk, his arms swinging, his backpack bulging upon his back, a hammer slung over one shoulder.
The short, pech-haired man moves along just behind you, an incredulous expression on his face.
A human Allanaki soldier looks from you to the short, pech-haired man.
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar just keeps walking.
The short, pech-haired man shakes his head wordlessly at a human Allanaki soldier.
Templars' Way [N, S]
Templars' Way stretches north and south through the very heart of the
crowded city. The road is made of large, black-colored stones that are
covered with dust, dung, and other unsavory materials. It passes under the
Arena's morbid shadow, a gigantic structure standing to the east. Bustling
with activity, the Commoners' Quarter lies to the west. Crowds pass along
the street, hurrying on errands and avoiding the keen-eyed glances of the
templars and soldiers who use this way.
The sandstone statue of a hunched male templar towers here, gripping a cane.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from the north.
To the north: the short, pech-haired man walks south.
The short, pech-haired man has arrived from the north.
To the red sandstone templar statue, giving it a courteous nod, you say, in sirihish:
"Great Lord Malos. Looking well."
<they keep walking>
s
Templars' Way [N, S, W]
Templars' Way stretches north and south through the very heart of the
crowded city. The road is made of large, black-colored stones that are
covered with dust, dung, and other unsavory materials. It passes under the
Arena's morbid shadow, a gigantic structure standing to the east. Bustling
with activity, the Commoners' Quarter lies to the west. Crowds pass along
the street, hurrying on errands and avoiding the keen-eyed glances of the
templars and soldiers who use this way.
Directly south stands the gate to the Templars' quarter, its carved
stone form arching overhead. West Dragon's Path runs along a wall that
stretches to the west, enclosing the Templar's quarter and separating it
from the noise and filth of the Commoners' quarter, which lies to the
northwest.
A human soldier of Tektolnes stands here, guarding the Templar Quarter.
A half-giant soldier is standing here.
A half-giant soldier is standing here.
A half-giant soldier is standing here.
A half-giant soldier is standing here.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from the north.
To the north: the short, pech-haired man walks south.
The short, pech-haired man has arrived from the north.
You send up a call to the wall for the gates to be opened.
A human soldier exclaims, in sirihish:
"Hail the Servants of the Almighty Dragon!"
A human soldier sends up a call to the wall to open the gates.
A human soldier opens the gate.
A human soldier exclaims, in sirihish:
"Hail the Servants of the Almighty Dragon!"
Night's Path [N, E, S, W]
This road runs east to west, its pitchy black stones marking the
border between the Templar's Quarter and the rest of Allanak. The arena can
be glimpsed over the north wall, along with a few spires, but little else.
In the southern portion of the quarter, the Highlord's dark tower reaches
greedily towards the vast stretch of sky.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from the north.
To the north: the short, pech-haired man walks south.
The short, pech-haired man has arrived from the north.
You send up a call to the wall for the gates to be closed.
You close the gate.
The gates swing shut at the sallow, bowl-shorn templar's command, thumping closed with a very final sounding thump.
(There is a spring in the sallow, bowl-shorn templar's step as he walks.)
<they walk to the stables>
Training Yard [S, W]
Dust blows about this spacious training yard, regardless of the
weather, as the constant movement of soldiers, mounts, and wagons kick
it up from the hard-packed ground. A majority of the busy traffic here
moves to the stables and wagon yard at the north end, leaving the south
free for those training squads of soldiers or working with their mounts.
The lanky red-haired man tends to some mounts here.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from the south.
To the south: the short, pech-haired man walks north.
The short, pech-haired man has arrived from the south.
You open your oversized black backpack.
Rummaging about for it and muttering, you get your leather ticket from your oversized black backpack.
It is very light.
You notice: The short, pech-haired man watches you closely.
As he futzes with his belongings, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"I thought to have a special hut made, you know, with the Things. Silken pillows...alabaster feeding troughs..."
The lanky red-haired man takes a leather ticket and gets an erdlu from the stables.
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar spreads his arms wide as an erdlu is led forward, and he beams at the flightless bird, stepping towards it.
You say to an erdlu, in sirihish:
"Sapphire! My sweet companion."
You begin leading an erdlu.
An erdlu falls in behind you.
The short, pech-haired man looks up at an erdlu.
You look up at an erdlu.
Standing over 6 cords tall, this flightless bird is long-legged, each
foot terminating in menacing talons, matched by the sharpness of its beak.
It lacks feathers, but is covered with smooth grey scales. On its side, a
sigil has been carved into one of the larger scales: a crude cross, touched
with green dye to make it readily apparent.
An erdlu is in excellent condition.
An erdlu is hitched to you.
An erdlu is using:
<back> an emblem of a jade cross
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The short, pech-haired man dully stares at an erdlu.
You say, out of character:
"I beg you to ignore the gender of the npc. They're...just...all coded as guys and...there's nothing I can do about that."
The short, pech-haired man says, out of character:
"I will agree to ignore this great travesty."
You say, out of character:
"Thank you"
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar smiles at an erdlu with sincerity in his gaze. He looks extremely happy!
The short, pech-haired man says, out of character:
"Is it blue, or likewise are they just all coded as grey"
You say, out of character:
"oh, sapphire is just the name."
You say, out of character:
"i figure it's pretty generic looking, nothing special. just your garden variety erdlu such as you see standing before you."
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Sapphire. Yet it is grey, Lord Templar."
An erdlu twists its head about, scanning the surroundings.
Beginning to stroke an erdlu's long neck, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Hah. What does that matter? Appearances mean nothing to me."
Deadpan, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"As I am learning, Lord Templar."
With a sappy smile at an erdlu, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Sapphire's heart glows with love for me. And her scales are as finely polished as that of a precious gem."
The short, pech-haired man stops using his stitched, earthy leather beret.
An erdlu twists its head about, scanning the surroundings.
The short, pech-haired man rubs at his head, and rubs his face, too, as he looks to an erdlu, as if recovering from being very tired or drunk.
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar pays no attention to the short, pech-haired man's distress, simply stroking an erdlu's neck and seeming to enjoy being in that esteemed bird's company, though the bird itself does nothing more than peck at the ground occasionally.
You feel quite content.
You think:
"Sapphire, my love."
You think:
"Soon we will be together as man and wife."
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Do you...ride Sapphire, Lord Templar?"
Looking insulted, as he turns from his contemplation of an erdlu's scales to regard him, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Of course not. She is much too delicate...I would not subject her to such an indignity."
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Lord Valorisk. During this, ah. Announcement. What do you suppose his reaction will be?"
An erdlu twists its head about, scanning the surroundings.
His complexion growing red with anger, as his hands clench around an erdlu's leather reins, which appear impeccably oiled and braided with silk, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"I don't care. But he must be present. He must be present, Alme. I demand it."
You feel certain that this must be.
The burning sun rises high into the sky, searing the earth.
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"I'm going to ask the Senior Aide for advice on how best to handle...the announcement. What is your opinion of that, Lord Templar?"
Looking aghast at this suggestion, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Alme, I do not trust her opinion at all. Her tongue wags like a silt horror's tentacles, besides, and she would likely spoil the surprise. I think it would be best if we kept this to ourselves. "
The short, pech-haired man looks up at the lanky red-haired man.
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar pets an erdlu with idle strokes, as the training yard bustles with the day to day business of running an entire corrupt military-controlled city state.
The short, pech-haired man looks defeated.
Throwing it up into the air, and watching it fall at his feet, the short, pech-haired man drops his stitched, earthy leather beret.
An erdlu twists its head about, scanning the surroundings.
The short, pech-haired man grabs at his bald head with a hand's worth of curling fingers, as if there were hair there to grab.
Continuing to pet an erdlu as his servant's emotional endurance reaches its utter limits, to utter disregard from him, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Alme, it occurs to me ...."
The short, pech-haired man only seethes with heavy breaths.
A few soldiers walking by, carefree and off duty, their troubles light compared to some people's, you ask the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"You have served me for nearly a year now. Is it not so?"
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Nearly, Lord Templar! Nearly!"
The short, pech-haired man mumbles something to himself.
You say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"When Samim - my previous aide - had served me for, oh, around this amount of time - I entrusted her with access to the Templar's Quarter...to a paycheck...to all the privelege of a full rank as a Templar's aide."
Gazing upon an erdlu, his strokes of the bird's scales never ceasing, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"But in truth, Alme...it was all mostly so she could care for Sapphire. To feed her, to walk her."
Slowly bending to clutch it and place it, perhaps resolutely now, on his head, the short, pech-haired man picks up a stitched, earthy leather beret.
The short, pech-haired man places his stitched, earthy leather beret on his head.
Sappily smiling at an erdlu, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"With my happiest day so near to hand - though it would be most poetic to wait for a year and a day out from the engagement for the actual wedding, I feel..."
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Yes...yes. Sapphire should never be without...a caretaker. Why, it's almost...criminal. To leave her as she is...without Samim, and without you, given how much your Templarate duties occupy your time."
With a fond, indulgent smile down at him, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Yes, Alme. Once again, my clever servant, you come straight to the heart of the matter. I would like to entrust you with this most weighty of responsibilities."
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"You honor me, Lord Templar!"
You say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"You will see that her scales are polished, that she never wants for food, and that she has all the air and exercise and company she might wish. It is, as you say, criminal, that my duties are so taxing upon my precious time."
Beginning to laugh at his own joke, and waiting for him to do the same, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"One might say that I should be put in jail! Hah! Hah! "
An erdlu twists its head about, scanning the surroundings.
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Ha! Ha! Ha! ha!"
Sobering almost instantly, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"But no. No, that is not true. I would never be put in jail. I am a Templar."
You feel very serious about this.
You initiate the short, pech-haired man into 'Arm of the Dragon'.
The short, pech-haired man continues to smile after the laughter dies out, mirthfully still.
Continuing to speak, as if he had never stopped doing so, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"And so, Alme...to you, my most trusted servant, I entrust the care and keeping of my most precious Sapphire."
Extending a palm of benediction towards him, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Like Samim before you, your primary thoughts must be turned to her comfort and her satisfaction."
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"A tremendous gift. Thank you, Lord Templar. What...is her favorite meal?"
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar ushers an erdlu back into the lanky red-haired man's care, giving him the most ferocious look a templar ever gave.
The lanky red-haired man takes the reins from you.
The lanky red-haired man leads an erdlu towards the stables.
The lanky red-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Here is your ticket. OFFER it to me when you need your mount."
Passing it over to him, you give your leather ticket to the short, pech-haired man.
The short, pech-haired man smiles down at the ticket in his hand as if it were a gift from the Highlord himself.
The lanky red-haired man leads an erdlu to a pen, with exacting care and more than one glance over his shoulder at you.
His features grave, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"I need not tell you, Alme, that any abuse of this great privelege...well. I will not be so merciful. No matter what Lady Alisima advises."
The mighty sun begins to crawl across the western sky.
Looking over his shoulder at the departing erdlu with a fond smile, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Oh, she enjoys a warm mash of grain, seasoned with dried ocotillo flakes and the occasional flame cheese garnish."
You think:
"Ah, Sapphire."
You feel very lucky to be blessed with such an erdlu.
You think:
"And such a servant!"
After a serious, studious nod, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"You know, Lord Templar. I've heard that...animals. Kept in isolation. They won't breed. They aren't as...happy, as they might be. It's...against the natural way of things. That sort of thing."
With great authority, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"I distinctly remember hearing about a Lord of...Oash! Who wanted to breed...inix. And oxen. And other animals! He had no success keeping them penned up. They yearned for greater freedom. With their low moos."
With a frown at him, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Alme, really. I have given you enough of my precious time this week, my servant. You will organize the announcement as we agreed. I must away to my meditations at this time."
You say, out of character:
"Ok I really am trying to log out now sorry haha"
The short, pech-haired man says, out of character:
"You are an evil individual"
You say, out of character:
"You're a champion and I love you"
The short, pech-haired man opens his small jozhal-hide backpack.
The short, pech-haired man puts his leather ticket into his small jozhal-hide backpack.
The short, pech-haired man bows to you.
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Nevermind my peasant's thoughts, Lord Templar."
Patting the air around him in a blessing-like manner, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Go you forth now, Alme. Go you forth and bend that clever brain of yours towards the care and keeping of Sapphire."
Beginning to pace away, his eyes glazed with lunacy, you exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"And me, to my meditations. Where I will pray, and thank the Highlord for all his many gifts to me!"
You stop leading the short, pech-haired man.
The short, pech-haired man gives you another smile and a bow before turning.
s (with a spring to his step)
Training Yard [N, E, S, W]
Polished black tiles, distinguishable from one another due to their
rigid diamond shape, make up the smooth and shiny floor of this spacious
meeting room, which has a large table set along its center. A large wall
hanging covers nearly the entirety of the southern wall, depicting a city,
decimating would-be invaders. Slitted windows along the eastern wall
provide natural lighting during the day, while a small ceramic hanging
overhead is filled with a few shards of green glow-crystal, providing a
dull, emerald glow to bask over the chamber during the darker hours.
The short, pech-haired man is standing here.
Twiddling his fingers beneath his nose, you look down at the short, pech-haired man.
This human male is well-formed and proportionate, but he stands well below the
height of most peers. His hair is a thick, wavy blend of browns and golds.
Colors of grasses burned and aged by Suk-Krath. His large eyes are glassy
green. His features are pointed and impish. When his wide mouth is closed
and smiling the long line of its curve dominates his face.
His head has been shaved nearly bald. Only pech-colored stubble remains.
He has a fresh lump on the back of his head.
The short, pech-haired man is in excellent condition.
The short, pech-haired man is using:
<on head> a stitched, earthy leather beret
<across back> a small jozhal-hide backpack
<on torso> a fitted dark-brown leather tunic
<over left shoulder> a coarse burlap satchel
<as belt> a broad sash of jade-dyed sandcloth
<hung from belt> a bone-handled obsidian longsword
<hung from belt> a slim bone rapier
<around body> a green sandcloth greatcloak
<on legs> a pair of tailored black leather pants
<on feet> a pair of stitched, earthy leather shoes
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Shall I make arrangements to have your party in some weeks, at the time we spoke of? I have not yet made those arrangements, given...events, Lord Templar."
Pointing a finger towards him, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"This is at the forefront of my mind, Alme. But outside these walls...not a word. Not a thought. Not a single breath of what we have spoken of will pass your lips."
Immediately bowing, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Of course, Lord Templar. I will not even allow it to enter the surface of my thoughts."
Addressing his earlier question, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Oh. Well, I suppose we may as well. It seems less exciting somehow, all things considered. Perhaps we will just make it a small, general announcement on Meleth's Circle. "
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"So...not a party. Only an...announcement. Wine, food - no?"
With a wave of one hand, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"No, no. Just an announcement, I think that should do. Oh, and Lady Alisima and I have quite repaired our friendship. "
Rising from his bow, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"That gladdens me, Lord Templar. It is good. It will strengthen you."
His ugly features assuming an expression of regal sacrifice, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"I see now I was wrong, all wrong, to shun her. It is not her fault I am marrying someone else."
The short, pech-haired man's eyes pop wide.
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Oh. I thought. You were marrying her. Lord Templar."
Shaking off his noble expression and gazing in shock down at him, you ask the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Whatever gave you that impression?"
In deadpan, blunt logic, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"I assumed your announcement was of marriage, and I was not aware that you were involved with anyone else."
With a dreamy chuckle, moistening his lips indecently, you exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"But of course I am, Alme. The love of my life. The ginka of my eye!"
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"...Lord Templar?"
Seeming in quite good humor by whatever thought occupies that...brain of his, chuckling to himself, you ask the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Yes, Alme?"
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Who..?"
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"You've, ah. Never mentioned their name. In my presence. "
Beginning to look rather severe, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Of course I have. I must have referred to her hundreds of times."
(A dangerous glint appears in the sallow, bowl-shorn templar's wet grey gaze.)
The short, pech-haired man turns slightly, away from your eyes.
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Ah...please, indulge your servant's faulty memory, Lord Templar. "
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Sometimes, I am very stupid and forgetful."
Tapping the side of his nose, all good humor restored, as he indulgently chuckles at him, you exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Oh, my dear servant. My dear and loyal servant. Aaah, Alme. My good servant Alme!"
Quietly, still looking away, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"I am that, Lord Templar."
His gaze sparkling like he has just received thirty years worth of birthday presents at once, you whisper to the short, pech-haired man in sirihish:
"It is a surprise!"
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"To...me?"
Clasping his hands behind his back and beginning to pace, his expression noble and lofty once more, well, as noble and lofty as such an ugly face can be, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"To the city! They must be surprised by the most excellent union I am about to embark upon."
With resignation, as if unwilling to probe further, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Very well, Lord Templar. It shall be a surprise."
Nodding sagely, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Yes, Alme. Yes. Well, I must go and see my sweet, lovely erdlu, Sapphire, before I meditate."
Changing topics quickly, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"You asked me the other week to probe into House Kadius, Lord Templar. I cannot do this effectively, yet. But I have a plan. It will be very easy."
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"I do not think you care overly much if that Zhaka Kadius dislikes you. Am I correct?"
After a longing glance to the door, and the things which might lie behind it, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Oh - do you? Wait - Zhaka Kadius - he dislikes me? How strange! I was under the impression he favored me, given the amount of donation he has shoveled my way."
You say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"But I do not care what a peasant thinks of me, no."
The short, pech-haired man stops, suddenly, frozen.
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Why does Sapphire need a wedding present, Lord Templar?"
With another indulgent chuckle, giving him a warm, comrade-like slap upon the shoulder, you exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Ah, my clever servant, Alme. I can't keep anything from you!"
The short, pech-haired man regards you with uncloaked, wary suspicion, his squint not abating even as he's clapped.
Coolly, slowly, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"I've heard it said...that I don't miss anything."
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar just chuckles and nods, continuing to pat the short, pech-haired man on the shoulder.
You feel fine, everything is perfectly fine. Just great. Life is wonderful, there is metal, there is Sapphire, there is friendship, there is Alme.
The short, pech-haired man lifts a hand to his head, and rubs the bridge of his nose and forehead, as if he were suddenly struck with a great headache.
Briskly brushing his hands together as he sets off for the door, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Well, I really must meditate."
With a hearty chuckle, you open the door.
Striding forth from the meeting chamber, you exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"A most excellent servant you are, Alme! I confess, all my troubles seem to melt away to nothing when we speak!"
The short, pech-haired man can't seem to move.
w (just assuming his servant will follow him)
A Polished, Winding Stairwell [E, U, D]
A staircase of polished marble stretches outward along the northern
wall here, curving at an acute, gradual angle. The occasional dull emerald
flare of a glow crystal is perched along the curving walls, separated by
several cords at a time, offering little in regards to visibility in the
distance between, and affording dangerous footing along the seamless squares
of marble beneath. A recessed doorway has been set against the eastern
portion of this staircase, marking a halfway point along the ascent of the
steps.
A human Allanaki soldier is standing here.
To the east: the short, pech-haired man walks west.
The short, pech-haired man has arrived from the east.
The short, pech-haired man says, out of character:
"Is your haste to get away an OOC thing because you need to log out"
The short, pech-haired man says, out of character:
"I only ask because I dont want to prolong if you need to log out"
You say, out of character:
"no I don't need to log out. rofl."
The short, pech-haired man says, out of character:
"motherfucker. ok."
You say, out of character:
"<3"
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar begins to stroll towards the stairway, his head up, his stooped shoulders back, arms swinging at his sides. He doesn't seem to have a care in the world.
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Lord Templar...I, ah...left my...bag...containing your letter. In the room. And it isn't...proper."
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"For me to be there. Alone. Very...improper. Will you, ah. Accompany me. Briefly. Back into the room. Yes!"
With a gasp, swinging around to notice him behind him, you ask the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"You did? My letter - in the room - really???"
You exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Alme, how could you be so irresponsible!"
The short, pech-haired man walks east.
To the east: the short, pech-haired man has arrived from the west.
e
A Spacious Meeting Chamber [W]
Polished black tiles, distinguishable from one another due to their
rigid diamond shape, make up the smooth and shiny floor of this spacious
meeting room, which has a large table set along its center. A large wall
hanging covers nearly the entirety of the southern wall, depicting a city,
decimating would-be invaders. Slitted windows along the eastern wall
provide natural lighting during the day, while a small ceramic hanging
overhead is filled with a few shards of green glow-crystal, providing a
dull, emerald glow to bask over the chamber during the darker hours.
The short, pech-haired man is standing here.
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar hurries back in, peering about the meeting chamber.
The short, pech-haired man closes the door.
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Oh. Silly me, Lord Templar. I have it with me. Pardon me for wasting your time. "
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar looks from the door to the short, pech-haired man.
(A suspicious look begins to cross the sallow, bowl-shorn templar's homely face.)
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Where, ah. Where will Sapphire be? During the announcement?"
Beginning to slowly reach for the door handle, his gaze fixed upon his short little buddy, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"By my side, of course."
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Why? Why of course, Lord Templar? She isn't normally by your side."
The short, pech-haired man smiles, in an utterly false manner.
Beginning to sound quite baffled at his current attitude and demeanor, you ask the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Because - we are - why wouldn't she be? Given the circumstances?"
You think:
"I am beginning to grow concerned about the nature of this conversation."
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"The circumstances! The circumstances of a...Templar. Making a wedding announcement, to a Lady of Allanak! Yes. A highborn, human lady of Allanak. "
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"A Lord Templar would want his trusty erdlu at his side, yes. During that announcement. The announcement which does not otherwise involve the erdlu!"
The short, pech-haired man looks at you almost beseechingly.
It is late at night on Cingel, the 136th day of the Low Sun,
In the Year of Silt's Vengeance, year 31 of the 22nd Age.
At this speech of the short, pech-haired man's, the sallow, bowl-shorn templar frowns deeply, he frowns darkly. He frowns most forbiddingly at his servant, the short, pech-haired man.
You feel suspicious.
Looming over him, his features grim beneath the mushroom-shaped dome of his haircut, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Alme, I am beginning to be troubled by your persistence...on this topic."
Skipping the questioning of it, skipping the why-the-fuck of it, and coming from a different angle, the short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Why...Lord Templar...must it be -public-?"
You think:
"Why would he question my devotion to Sapphire?"
You think:
"Surely he knows that my affection for her runs more deep and more true than any other thing."
After spending some time considering his question, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Because, my servant. It will give the people hope. It will give them encouragement. It is..."
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar flaps his hands in circles, grasping for just the right words to say what he is about to say.
You say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"It is the right thing to do. Besides, my endless devotion to my future wife cannot be understated, no! "
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"And the Lady Alisima. Knows that you are...going to marry...your erdlu."
The short, pech-haired man says this slowly, bluntly, with barely-concealed derision.
With a pleased smile that bends his perpetually grimacing mouth into a more upwards-seeming direction, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Ah, no. I told her it was a surprise."
(The sallow, bowl-shorn templar watches the short, pech-haired man closely.)
You notice: The short, pech-haired man seems to have a delay in his reactions, as if his brain were processing too much.
Slowly, with very practiced neutrality, the short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"And you think she will be filled with hope and encouragement, on learning that she will be passed up in favor of your erdlu, Lord Templar?"
Looking past his shorn scalp at the wall beyond, his features once more suffused with noble suffering, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"She does not think that way about me, Alme. We are only friends. She has stated repeatedly that she has no romantic interest in me."
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"...and you would prefer Lady Alisima. To, ah. To..."
Struggling with it, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"To Sapphire."
Nodding his head sagely, wisely, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"In truth, I do feel much the same way for her. A great deal of strong affection - a great deal, a very great deal - she is very wise and very sweet - but that is where it must end for us."
Turning a fraction away, and nodding just as sagely, but at the wall, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"And the true depth of your affection can only be returned by Sapphire, your erdlu."
Instead of answering the short, pech-haired man, the sallow, bowl-shorn templar just exhales a sigh, intaking the sight of the ceiling as if the answers to the world's most puzzling questions were written there upon the tiles.
Murmuring the single word, you say, in sirihish:
"Sapphire."
Beginning to turn towards the door, his movements energized, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"I must go and see Sapphire!"
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"You know, Lord Templar. A noble marrying a highborn is a ridiculous idea, isn't it? Marriage. Marriage is...a contract? Yes? It's not...a relationship. It's a business arranagement."
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"You can't enter into a business arrangement with an erdlu!"
Whirling around to gnash his teeth at him, you exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"It is a union of hearts!"
Thunderously, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"And you can't tell me what to do! You are a mere peasant! You can advise! You can suggest! But no - you cannot order me."
You feel incensed at the liberties the short, pech-haired man is taking at this time.
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"...you will hand Valorisk Borsail every victory in all your future rivalries, with this, Lord Templar!"
You feel a roaring rage boil up from his belly to nearly explode out the top of his head.
His grey gaze flaring wide, his expression one of pure lunacy, shaking his fists at the ceiling, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Valorisk Borsail...Valorisk Borsail...I demand he be present at the announcement, Alme. I demand it."
After a long pause, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"...allow me to accompany you to see Sapphire, hm? If this is to...go on, I should buy her a bloody present! A...collar, from Kadius, maybe."
You feel his gut churn with the desire to smash in the face of Valorisk Borsail.
Nodding his head a few times as he strides for the door, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"At last, you see sense"
You open the door.
The short, pech-haired man falls in behind you.
w (with an exasperated sigh)
A Polished, Winding Stairwell [E, U, D]
A staircase of polished marble stretches outward along the northern
wall here, curving at an acute, gradual angle. The occasional dull emerald
flare of a glow crystal is perched along the curving walls, separated by
several cords at a time, offering little in regards to visibility in the
distance between, and affording dangerous footing along the seamless squares
of marble beneath. A recessed doorway has been set against the eastern
portion of this staircase, marking a halfway point along the ascent of the
steps.
A human Allanaki soldier is standing here.
To the east: the short, pech-haired man walks west.
The short, pech-haired man has arrived from the east.
A human Allanaki soldier falls in behind you.
A human Allanaki soldier is now at your service.
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar summons a human Allanaki soldier away from the wall.
<they begin to travel to the templar's quarter>
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar strides along, his steps brisk, his arms swinging, his backpack bulging upon his back, a hammer slung over one shoulder.
The short, pech-haired man moves along just behind you, an incredulous expression on his face.
A human Allanaki soldier looks from you to the short, pech-haired man.
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar just keeps walking.
The short, pech-haired man shakes his head wordlessly at a human Allanaki soldier.
Templars' Way [N, S]
Templars' Way stretches north and south through the very heart of the
crowded city. The road is made of large, black-colored stones that are
covered with dust, dung, and other unsavory materials. It passes under the
Arena's morbid shadow, a gigantic structure standing to the east. Bustling
with activity, the Commoners' Quarter lies to the west. Crowds pass along
the street, hurrying on errands and avoiding the keen-eyed glances of the
templars and soldiers who use this way.
The sandstone statue of a hunched male templar towers here, gripping a cane.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from the north.
To the north: the short, pech-haired man walks south.
The short, pech-haired man has arrived from the north.
To the red sandstone templar statue, giving it a courteous nod, you say, in sirihish:
"Great Lord Malos. Looking well."
<they keep walking>
s
Templars' Way [N, S, W]
Templars' Way stretches north and south through the very heart of the
crowded city. The road is made of large, black-colored stones that are
covered with dust, dung, and other unsavory materials. It passes under the
Arena's morbid shadow, a gigantic structure standing to the east. Bustling
with activity, the Commoners' Quarter lies to the west. Crowds pass along
the street, hurrying on errands and avoiding the keen-eyed glances of the
templars and soldiers who use this way.
Directly south stands the gate to the Templars' quarter, its carved
stone form arching overhead. West Dragon's Path runs along a wall that
stretches to the west, enclosing the Templar's quarter and separating it
from the noise and filth of the Commoners' quarter, which lies to the
northwest.
A human soldier of Tektolnes stands here, guarding the Templar Quarter.
A half-giant soldier is standing here.
A half-giant soldier is standing here.
A half-giant soldier is standing here.
A half-giant soldier is standing here.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from the north.
To the north: the short, pech-haired man walks south.
The short, pech-haired man has arrived from the north.
You send up a call to the wall for the gates to be opened.
A human soldier exclaims, in sirihish:
"Hail the Servants of the Almighty Dragon!"
A human soldier sends up a call to the wall to open the gates.
A human soldier opens the gate.
A human soldier exclaims, in sirihish:
"Hail the Servants of the Almighty Dragon!"
Night's Path [N, E, S, W]
This road runs east to west, its pitchy black stones marking the
border between the Templar's Quarter and the rest of Allanak. The arena can
be glimpsed over the north wall, along with a few spires, but little else.
In the southern portion of the quarter, the Highlord's dark tower reaches
greedily towards the vast stretch of sky.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from the north.
To the north: the short, pech-haired man walks south.
The short, pech-haired man has arrived from the north.
You send up a call to the wall for the gates to be closed.
You close the gate.
The gates swing shut at the sallow, bowl-shorn templar's command, thumping closed with a very final sounding thump.
(There is a spring in the sallow, bowl-shorn templar's step as he walks.)
<they walk to the stables>
Training Yard [S, W]
Dust blows about this spacious training yard, regardless of the
weather, as the constant movement of soldiers, mounts, and wagons kick
it up from the hard-packed ground. A majority of the busy traffic here
moves to the stables and wagon yard at the north end, leaving the south
free for those training squads of soldiers or working with their mounts.
The lanky red-haired man tends to some mounts here.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from the south.
To the south: the short, pech-haired man walks north.
The short, pech-haired man has arrived from the south.
You open your oversized black backpack.
Rummaging about for it and muttering, you get your leather ticket from your oversized black backpack.
It is very light.
You notice: The short, pech-haired man watches you closely.
As he futzes with his belongings, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"I thought to have a special hut made, you know, with the Things. Silken pillows...alabaster feeding troughs..."
The lanky red-haired man takes a leather ticket and gets an erdlu from the stables.
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar spreads his arms wide as an erdlu is led forward, and he beams at the flightless bird, stepping towards it.
You say to an erdlu, in sirihish:
"Sapphire! My sweet companion."
You begin leading an erdlu.
An erdlu falls in behind you.
The short, pech-haired man looks up at an erdlu.
You look up at an erdlu.
Standing over 6 cords tall, this flightless bird is long-legged, each
foot terminating in menacing talons, matched by the sharpness of its beak.
It lacks feathers, but is covered with smooth grey scales. On its side, a
sigil has been carved into one of the larger scales: a crude cross, touched
with green dye to make it readily apparent.
An erdlu is in excellent condition.
An erdlu is hitched to you.
An erdlu is using:
<back> an emblem of a jade cross
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The short, pech-haired man dully stares at an erdlu.
You say, out of character:
"I beg you to ignore the gender of the npc. They're...just...all coded as guys and...there's nothing I can do about that."
The short, pech-haired man says, out of character:
"I will agree to ignore this great travesty."
You say, out of character:
"Thank you"
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar smiles at an erdlu with sincerity in his gaze. He looks extremely happy!
The short, pech-haired man says, out of character:
"Is it blue, or likewise are they just all coded as grey"
You say, out of character:
"oh, sapphire is just the name."
You say, out of character:
"i figure it's pretty generic looking, nothing special. just your garden variety erdlu such as you see standing before you."
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Sapphire. Yet it is grey, Lord Templar."
An erdlu twists its head about, scanning the surroundings.
Beginning to stroke an erdlu's long neck, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Hah. What does that matter? Appearances mean nothing to me."
Deadpan, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"As I am learning, Lord Templar."
With a sappy smile at an erdlu, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Sapphire's heart glows with love for me. And her scales are as finely polished as that of a precious gem."
The short, pech-haired man stops using his stitched, earthy leather beret.
An erdlu twists its head about, scanning the surroundings.
The short, pech-haired man rubs at his head, and rubs his face, too, as he looks to an erdlu, as if recovering from being very tired or drunk.
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar pays no attention to the short, pech-haired man's distress, simply stroking an erdlu's neck and seeming to enjoy being in that esteemed bird's company, though the bird itself does nothing more than peck at the ground occasionally.
You feel quite content.
You think:
"Sapphire, my love."
You think:
"Soon we will be together as man and wife."
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Do you...ride Sapphire, Lord Templar?"
Looking insulted, as he turns from his contemplation of an erdlu's scales to regard him, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Of course not. She is much too delicate...I would not subject her to such an indignity."
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"Lord Valorisk. During this, ah. Announcement. What do you suppose his reaction will be?"
An erdlu twists its head about, scanning the surroundings.
His complexion growing red with anger, as his hands clench around an erdlu's leather reins, which appear impeccably oiled and braided with silk, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"I don't care. But he must be present. He must be present, Alme. I demand it."
You feel certain that this must be.
The burning sun rises high into the sky, searing the earth.
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"I'm going to ask the Senior Aide for advice on how best to handle...the announcement. What is your opinion of that, Lord Templar?"
Looking aghast at this suggestion, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Alme, I do not trust her opinion at all. Her tongue wags like a silt horror's tentacles, besides, and she would likely spoil the surprise. I think it would be best if we kept this to ourselves. "
The short, pech-haired man looks up at the lanky red-haired man.
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar pets an erdlu with idle strokes, as the training yard bustles with the day to day business of running an entire corrupt military-controlled city state.
The short, pech-haired man looks defeated.
Throwing it up into the air, and watching it fall at his feet, the short, pech-haired man drops his stitched, earthy leather beret.
An erdlu twists its head about, scanning the surroundings.
The short, pech-haired man grabs at his bald head with a hand's worth of curling fingers, as if there were hair there to grab.
Continuing to pet an erdlu as his servant's emotional endurance reaches its utter limits, to utter disregard from him, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Alme, it occurs to me ...."
The short, pech-haired man only seethes with heavy breaths.
A few soldiers walking by, carefree and off duty, their troubles light compared to some people's, you ask the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"You have served me for nearly a year now. Is it not so?"
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Nearly, Lord Templar! Nearly!"
The short, pech-haired man mumbles something to himself.
You say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"When Samim - my previous aide - had served me for, oh, around this amount of time - I entrusted her with access to the Templar's Quarter...to a paycheck...to all the privelege of a full rank as a Templar's aide."
Gazing upon an erdlu, his strokes of the bird's scales never ceasing, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"But in truth, Alme...it was all mostly so she could care for Sapphire. To feed her, to walk her."
Slowly bending to clutch it and place it, perhaps resolutely now, on his head, the short, pech-haired man picks up a stitched, earthy leather beret.
The short, pech-haired man places his stitched, earthy leather beret on his head.
Sappily smiling at an erdlu, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"With my happiest day so near to hand - though it would be most poetic to wait for a year and a day out from the engagement for the actual wedding, I feel..."
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Yes...yes. Sapphire should never be without...a caretaker. Why, it's almost...criminal. To leave her as she is...without Samim, and without you, given how much your Templarate duties occupy your time."
With a fond, indulgent smile down at him, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Yes, Alme. Once again, my clever servant, you come straight to the heart of the matter. I would like to entrust you with this most weighty of responsibilities."
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"You honor me, Lord Templar!"
You say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"You will see that her scales are polished, that she never wants for food, and that she has all the air and exercise and company she might wish. It is, as you say, criminal, that my duties are so taxing upon my precious time."
Beginning to laugh at his own joke, and waiting for him to do the same, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"One might say that I should be put in jail! Hah! Hah! "
An erdlu twists its head about, scanning the surroundings.
The short, pech-haired man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Ha! Ha! Ha! ha!"
Sobering almost instantly, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"But no. No, that is not true. I would never be put in jail. I am a Templar."
You feel very serious about this.
You initiate the short, pech-haired man into 'Arm of the Dragon'.
The short, pech-haired man continues to smile after the laughter dies out, mirthfully still.
Continuing to speak, as if he had never stopped doing so, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"And so, Alme...to you, my most trusted servant, I entrust the care and keeping of my most precious Sapphire."
Extending a palm of benediction towards him, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Like Samim before you, your primary thoughts must be turned to her comfort and her satisfaction."
The short, pech-haired man asks, in sirihish:
"A tremendous gift. Thank you, Lord Templar. What...is her favorite meal?"
The sallow, bowl-shorn templar ushers an erdlu back into the lanky red-haired man's care, giving him the most ferocious look a templar ever gave.
The lanky red-haired man takes the reins from you.
The lanky red-haired man leads an erdlu towards the stables.
The lanky red-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Here is your ticket. OFFER it to me when you need your mount."
Passing it over to him, you give your leather ticket to the short, pech-haired man.
The short, pech-haired man smiles down at the ticket in his hand as if it were a gift from the Highlord himself.
The lanky red-haired man leads an erdlu to a pen, with exacting care and more than one glance over his shoulder at you.
His features grave, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"I need not tell you, Alme, that any abuse of this great privelege...well. I will not be so merciful. No matter what Lady Alisima advises."
The mighty sun begins to crawl across the western sky.
Looking over his shoulder at the departing erdlu with a fond smile, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Oh, she enjoys a warm mash of grain, seasoned with dried ocotillo flakes and the occasional flame cheese garnish."
You think:
"Ah, Sapphire."
You feel very lucky to be blessed with such an erdlu.
You think:
"And such a servant!"
After a serious, studious nod, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"You know, Lord Templar. I've heard that...animals. Kept in isolation. They won't breed. They aren't as...happy, as they might be. It's...against the natural way of things. That sort of thing."
With great authority, the short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"I distinctly remember hearing about a Lord of...Oash! Who wanted to breed...inix. And oxen. And other animals! He had no success keeping them penned up. They yearned for greater freedom. With their low moos."
With a frown at him, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Alme, really. I have given you enough of my precious time this week, my servant. You will organize the announcement as we agreed. I must away to my meditations at this time."
You say, out of character:
"Ok I really am trying to log out now sorry haha"
The short, pech-haired man says, out of character:
"You are an evil individual"
You say, out of character:
"You're a champion and I love you"
The short, pech-haired man opens his small jozhal-hide backpack.
The short, pech-haired man puts his leather ticket into his small jozhal-hide backpack.
The short, pech-haired man bows to you.
The short, pech-haired man says, in sirihish:
"Nevermind my peasant's thoughts, Lord Templar."
Patting the air around him in a blessing-like manner, you say to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"Go you forth now, Alme. Go you forth and bend that clever brain of yours towards the care and keeping of Sapphire."
Beginning to pace away, his eyes glazed with lunacy, you exclaim to the short, pech-haired man, in sirihish:
"And me, to my meditations. Where I will pray, and thank the Highlord for all his many gifts to me!"
You stop leading the short, pech-haired man.
The short, pech-haired man gives you another smile and a bow before turning.
s (with a spring to his step)
Training Yard [N, E, S, W]