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Topic: Sorry...
Subject: Sorry...
My computer`s internet is down, so I won`t be on for a bit. All is well, however, and I should be up in a couple of weeks.
Posted on 2008-01-16 at 16:09:44.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: HI!
I`m BACK!
Sorry about this, I have been in the United States visiting a few close friends. I am back now, and will reply very soon.
Please don't count me out yet!
Posted on 2008-01-03 at 21:13:20.
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Topic: Rise of the Runelords Campaign Q&A / Information Pages
Subject: Right.
((Fixed. ))
Posted on 2007-12-07 at 21:22:33.
Edited on 2007-12-10 at 01:52:04 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Goofy Burf-day stuff
Subject: Lion...
I am a lion.
But the description is completely contraditory to my nature...
Oh well. Never thought of myself as 'peace-loving' before.
Posted on 2007-12-06 at 22:18:51.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: A Dark Decision
Fame was such a fickle thing.
In the bustling town of Corelan, where he had fled to in a desperate Exodus as a young murderer, he had been granted a grudging respect by fellow cutthroats. Oh, aye, they murmured about themselves, the rough men that lurked in taverns, disdainful of his quick wit and reluctance to battle. The slim, handsome pirate did not fit the physical stereotype of a criminal, and did not fight like one either, more apt to negotiate then to battle, more inclined to flight then to fight. He was surprisingly fair-handed with captives and crew alike, always splitting plunder equally among his men, and sparing captives whenever possible. For full cooperation, prisoners were enslaved, but with fair treatment. He rewarded spirit among his ranks, and if a prisoner had to be slain, because of his actions or knowledge, he saw to it himself that their death was sure.
His crew had been a ragged collection of men that other captains would not take upon penalty of death. Rebels, mutineers, and creatures of other species all found a home with him, and entered into a relationship that was more friendship than employment. He had tended to hire men most like himself, thin, tall, wily fellows, most with a good strain of elven blood in them thrown in for measure, and those under his charge were seen to be well-paid and well provided for. In measure, he was a much happier creature with the rhythm of the waves beneath him, and the dawning horizon before him.
Here, on land, it was entirely foreign to him. Except for trade, he had spent nearly his entire life aboard a ship. On this obnoxiously stable earth, there were people and animals that were completely at ease with the total lack of movement beneath their feet, the total predictability of their surroundings, and the edge of the skyline. Although he harbored a true talent for horsemanship, Septimus was awkward as an adolescent on land, striding along with the sprawling gait of a sailor, not quite certain how to manage his long limbs. But upon the deck of a ship, horsed, or in battle, he moved with the liquidity of a leopard, a slinking dark thing with a sharp intellect and terrible claws.
Yes, to the minds of children and criminals, he was a legend.
To the law-abiding however, he was only another creature to be hunted.
Most law-breakers are like the hounds themselves you see, slavering, not terribly bright creatures that heel at the ankle of those who treat them kindly and bark loudly of their achievements. A hound, you see, is always caught at whatever he is doing, as everything he does is completely conspicuous. The hound that raids a hen-house will have white feathers plastered on his muzzle. But some law-breakers, however, are more like the fox that rushes desperately from the bay of the hounds. A fox travels alone, so that none may incriminate her. She does her work in darkness whilst the farmer is sleeping like a babe, and after the chicken is slaughtered, daintily cleans herself of any evidence. Yet, although a fox is much more intelligent then a foxhound, it is the hounds that have the most power in this world. It is the little fox that must run for her life from the vast hoard of authority, dodging and skimming over the ground to escape from their gleaming fangs. And it is the fox, no matter how brilliant, who is caught and slain violently in the end.
Smoothly he dismounted his steed, his gaze impassive as his travelling companion nods to the shrine. He watched her in wonder. How marvellous would it be to have a power over your own life! For religion was a deep and blessed relief that he never knew, for his introspectiveness forbidded trust without proof. But how incredible would it be to have no burden…no responsibility. For that was the benefit of trusting in divine power. Once you trust wholly in a divine entity, be it God or Devil, one never truly needs to feel alone again.
He must have looked quite mournful, for he was quickly offered food by his companion. He took the apple in his hand, bemused, as if he had never seen one before and was unsure of what to do with it. His stallion soon solved his problem. In a swift motion, the great beast neatly plucked the apple from his hand. Septimus cast a side-way glance to Dae to check for laughter and was surprised to see her offering a portion of her own apple. He tipped his head slightly, cautious. His emerald eyes were wary. He was an expert in the ways of poison and though he thought his own methods beneath this girl, one never knew. She could have been hired by his brother to slay him. Although, he considered, he was fairly certain that the death chosen for him by Quintus was to be more torturous and slow then even the most lethal poisons could afford.
A low grumbling sound came from his stomach. He had not eaten for nearly a day, and his skeletal build was a testament to hard times. He could not afford to pass up another meal, even a small one. Preferring possible poison to the agony of starvation, he took the piece and gnawed on it contentedly, his malnourished body extracting every bit of nutrient as it had been adapted to do from years of constant near-starvation.
He understood, then, that she was treating him like a wild animal, coaxing him to trust, to know friendship. He glanced at her when he had finished eating; the look in his eyes an awful mesh of conflictions, trust and distrust, friendship and hate, fear and confidence. He grudgingly accepted her. The apple had not been poisoned.
He sighed. The rare moments of peace that he was granted were so wonderful, the sense of being at terms with the world, and the sense of being safe. He could not run forever, he knew. Like the fox, he had sped on to his last, and exhaustion was beginning to take its toll. He no longer had the strength or stamina to escape the deadly fangs of his enemies. He would stumble as he ran, and in a moment they would be on top of him.
A horrible fury blossomed like a dark rose in his heart, and he knew then that he would die, that they would slay him. A tremor went through his slight frame. Quintus would draw it out, he knew. He would die, screaming in agony, after hours of unimaginable torture. And worst of it would be the knowledge that as he lay dying, he would hear the screams of the only people that he had ever called his friends. All this was his destiny and could not be changed.
Unless he destroyed himself.
He paused. If he slew himself, the death would be quick and nearly painless. He could do it whilst his companions slept, and they would find him by morning. His dagger, without poison would suffice. A single sweeping motion, a hot spurt as his jugular yielded to the blade and it would be over. He would be at peace. And, he considered, his friends would be safe from harm. If he was dead, there would be no incentive for Quintus to harm them.
It was decided.
He would dream forever.
He would see his child.
He closed his eyes and his aura, which, when riding had been the light green of happiness, suddenly shifted and turned the darkest any creature’s could be. It billowed around him like the hammock that covers the corpses of sailors at sea, and most frightening of all was the total lack of colour. It was a deep, soulless black, and anyone would recognise it for what it was. The aura of creatures that are already dead. For Septimus had made the decision to save himself, and the only people that ever cared for him. He had found a new love, a dark beauty, and a dark dream.
For the huntsman was coming and soon would find him.
But when he came, his quarry would already be dead.
Posted on 2007-12-06 at 21:32:58.
Edited on 2007-12-06 at 21:51:44 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: A Macabre Rhyme
Madness.
He blinked back the stinging tears that hung like icicles on his eyelashes. A wild urge to turn back time and renounce his ways overcame him. He had not been able to stem the vicious flow of words until it was too late, until he revealed more of his story then was ever heard or understood by mortal or god. They poured from him like viscous blood, rushing unhindered from a wound of the heart. He considered this superb analogy grimly.
If one word could fascinate him for his entire life that word was ‘incognito’. He was ‘incognito’. Like a slithering shadow or a creeping mist he wandered, a creature more monster than man. He was, therefore, clumsy hero of a good heart and temperament that was soured by a violent upbringing and by constant fear of reprisal.
He undertook all deeds by nightfall, and although he was of a distinctive appearance, he was rarely, if ever seen. If one was vigilant enough, perhaps in the rising mists of the ocean, one would see the dark prow of his ship that slid forward calmly, soothingly, without an air of menace. Below the blood-red flag and sails (and indeed they were stained with blood, sailors swear), stood the crew, only dark outlines against a billowing background. And if the poor doomed souls had been chosen worthy as prey, they would see the black, slender outline of a lone man, apart from the motley masses behind him. His face would be shrouded, but within the folds of fabric twin emerald gems would glimmer. They would hear a single word escape his lips, soft and surprisingly melodious.
Fire.
And as they watched the hypnotic man, the creatures would become consumed by flame.
It was his name that mothers evoked when they wished to chastise and frighten their rowdy children into good behaviour. It was of him that old sailors told tales of in the dank and glittering pubs in every corner in every port. And it was of him that children whispered of to terrify and entertain their peers. At the time of his daughter’s birth, Septimus had even heard two children singing a strange little ditty whilst they played at their games.
Dark Man, Dark Man, waiting at the door
Something tells me I’ve seen him there before
Try to run away; don’t know if you can,
You’re just too afraid of the Viper in the Sand
He weeps when he’s cheerful
And smiles when he’s sad
His manner is fearful
And his eyes are quite mad
You’ll fall down in fire
He’ll take you away
Where death is desire
And wild ghosts play
Dark Man, Dark Man, waiting at the door
Something tells me I’ve seen him there before
Try to run away; don’t know if you can,
You’re just too afraid of the Viper in the Sand
They say he’s immortal
And shies from the Day
He laughs and he chortles
At death and decay
The Dark Man is coming
He’s picked out your grave
The Dark Man is coming
You’d better behave!
Dark Man, Dark Man, waiting at the door
Something tells me I’ve seen him there before
Try to run away; don’t know if you can,
You’re just too afraid of the Viper in the Sand
He shook his head, breaking out of his thoughts as he noted a distinctive piece of architecture. “The shrine “, he murmured, giving the dark stallion his head. His long, coltish legs stretched out and gracefully carried him, as Septimus`s steed kept in stride with Dae`s mare. He brushed back the tears, a tall man who was so thin it looked as if his cheekbones had been sharpened on whetstones, a man with ungainly limbs that made him look uncannily like a wall spider, a man with translucent, creamy skin and beautiful green eyes, thickly lashed, seductive, and completely without soul.
It was not sorely missed.
The Dark Man is coming
He’s picked out your grave
The Dark Man is coming
You’d better behave!
Posted on 2007-12-03 at 22:00:04.
Edited on 2007-12-03 at 22:03:50 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Ashes in the Wind
Window panes come crashing down
Amidst the tears and pain
Vanishing hopes are gone and flew away
Up above through twilight
Bloody hopes and bloody love. What uses were they to him? Aye, he had loved once, when he had been a younger man, with smoking blood running hot in his veins. He smiled grimly. Too oft had he seen his own blood, pumped fruitlessly from his wounds by a healthy but dying heart. He had despaired and had cast off his own nature, driven by his body’s blindness he had found himself a mate, and like all good creatures, reared a family. But in troth, this was but a shadow and a dream, for he was always apart. He guarded them devotedly, and followed their child’s’ adventures with padded footsteps, helplessly in love with his golden-haired girl, his green-eyed boy.
Shadows cast across the floor
Reflections of the past
Trembling thoughts of one
Dwelling deep within the soul
“They will find me, you know”, he intoned softly, breaking the seemly impenetrable silence between them. He shook his head. “Were you never curious to know of why they search for me so diligently? Of why those damned hounds intend to track me until the ends of the earth?” His words were cautious, carefully chosen. “I killed a man “, he whispered hollowly. His head was down, his dark hair obscuring his murky emerald gaze. “No, not killed”, he reconsidered, clutching his hands on the reins until his knuckles showed- bone-white, yielding up the faint pink scars of legendary fights across them.
“I slaughtered him”.
He laughed suddenly, harshly. “I was only a child when I did it”, he murmured brokenly. “I did not know then that death is permanent. I was angry. I wanted only to silence him. But he kept moving. And screaming. “. He shuddered violently. It was if he was reliving the memory, not simply speaking of it. He bared his teeth in a grimace. “I plunged my dagger into his chest. A nick would have sufficed; even then, I knew the uses of poison. But I drove it into his chest up to the hilt. Blood flowed out, splattering on my face, my hands”. He shivered. “My arms were drenched up to the elbow, like dark-red gloves. And all the while he was screaming. Begging. Pleading. I struck him until he was still. And the worst part was that I felt nothing. No sadness. No fear. No remorse.”
“I slaughtered my brother”.
A mystical sense of reality
Captured by the craze
All in bewilderment
Of the shock in the wave
His eyes were far away, a demon dwelling within the pupils. “ I have been paid twenty times oer for the death of my brother Primus. My body still bears the marks of his beatings that I suffered as a child. And my heart bears the knowledge that although I never laid a hand to them, I slew my family in cold blood. “He smiled bitterly. “ Vengeance. It is the way of beasts and men of the ocean.” Tears shone in his eyes. “I found their bodies on a winter morning, in our cottage by the sea. My wife…she was holding the children. She was holding their hands”.
An awful click sounded in his throat.
“They were all dead, shot through the heart”, he whispered, the salty tears cascading violently from his eyes now, his slight shoulders shaking. His pitiful, emaciated form seemed to draw up on itself, and his eyes were sad.
“All dead”, he whispered softly, like an incantation.
“All gone”.
Creatures of the dimness
Chattering amongst the green
Everything slows in stillness
What is this we see?
Posted on 2007-11-30 at 21:58:24.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: OOC
Whose post is it?
Posted on 2007-11-28 at 20:42:20.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Scarebaby
Scarebaby, scarebaby
Where do you run?
Out in the graveyard to have you some fun?
Dancing with skeletons
Up from the ground?
Doing a jig
On the burial mound?
Few, if any, could understand the twisted emotions that had reeled through that brilliant brain, the sense that he somehow was not, the sense he could not understand. Wit and might combined to form a cunning strategist and an acerbic wit, but there was one area of expertise in which he was utterly ignorant, and that was matters of the heart. His eyes were closed as tightly as a newborns, fear and doubt melting into complete surrender. He could not control this. Fascinated and repulsed by the sensation of his flesh knitting together, he remained in silence. Sarcasm he had relied on his entire life, a way to attack and wound those stronger and braver then him, ay, there had been so many. It was only now, feeling the glowing swaths of lights entwine, wax and wane like the arrogant moon that he understood his wit to be what it truly was.
The protest of the weak.
His eyes opened for the first time.
The look in those emerald eyes was half-mad, half-frightened, but there was an underlying and poignant sanity that was not there before. He withdrew his hand cautiously and saw that it was whole. ‘Witchcraft’, the shadows spat within the cage of his mind. Septimus whimpered softly at the insistent torturous crawl of his thoughts. He shuddered at the edges of the shadows that crept in, claimed him. He hated them. Her words were ripping through his lacerated heart that by a miracle of willpower, still beat. They were kind and undeniably vicious. She was hurting him, cutting him apart with words. “Thank you”, was all he could say, his voice tinged with despair, the sound of someone who walked in the abyss. And maddeningly, slowly, he gazed into her eyes.A sudden wild sense of rebellion overtook him. “My friend”, he stated firmly.
The shadows retreated, hissing in agony.
Together they rode, in silence and solidarity.
Scarebaby, scarebaby,
Horrid you are!
With the wings of a bat,
And a face with a scar
The fangs of a vampire,
The tail of a snake
You open your mouth
And the noise that you make
Is a song that the Devil sings,
Bitter and loud.
Tell me, my baby,
Was your mother proud?
He closed his eyes, the movement of the animal beneath him regular and smooth, lulling him as they rode along. From within his thoughts rose a waxy vision of a little boy with bright green eyes and unkempt dark hair, a little boy who laughed when he was sad, and cried when he was happy. An unwanted, unhappy boy who ran by riverside and cried out an ancient song to a bloated, yellow moon, uncaring as any beast. Who played by the graveyard, and sang in a storm. A boy who wept as he plunged a dagger into his brother's heaving chest...
Scarebaby, scarebaby,
Where do you run?
Not out to the morning,
Not out in the sun.
You live in my nightmares,
You hide from the day;
And there, little baby,
Is where you shall stay.
A tear ran down his cheek.
He wiped with the back of his hand, like a small boy.
Posted on 2007-11-27 at 19:29:31.
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Topic: Santa Baby...
Subject: Considering...
I want a BOAT.
A tall ship, with flying colours.
Posted on 2007-11-26 at 20:51:37.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Snakeskin
His eyes shifted over to her, silent and grim as her steed was directed near to his. A faint flicker of worry and distrust shone in his painfully bright eyes for an instant before it was shrouded in a maelstrom of indifference. A harsh, biting laugh escaped his throat. “You creatures of Light”, he spat derisively, his rich deep voice coloured with jealousy and uncertainty and yes, even fear.
“Cannot you leave us well alone?”
He stubbornly angled his face away from her. “Perhaps I am happy the way I am, yes? “. He shrugged painfully. “Perhaps to you good creatures… my…injury…is a type of atonement, a way to repay the many many wrongs I have done in my lifetime”. He shook his head. “But no, it is nothing so noble, for it shows nothing but my lapse of judgment, my temporary stupidity. Pain is good, child, it reminds us of our failings”.
He glanced at her, confident in his argument.
She was reaching out to him.
He shuddered violently as if she had struck him. The Light was calling to him, calling to him from her in a burst of pure light and sound, like an airy aura, almost tangible in its reality. He stared at her in wonder, a masked longing in his dark eyes. He had been a creature of shadows his entire life, shrinking from light, a creature of darkness, waters, and swaths of mist. And here was life, here was freedom, here was Light. Blessed Light! Wicked, Tempting, Light! The Light that poured from the sun, that nourished the earth, the Good Light. Like a decaying snakeskin, he longed to slough away the years spent in the darkness, straining for a voice, believing himself chosen. It had been a lie.
“Don’t let go”, he murmured quietly, heartbreakingly.
“Don’t let me fall”.
The man of shadow breathed through the agony and clutched her hand with the desperation of the drowning.
And surrendered to the Light.
Posted on 2007-11-25 at 20:13:06.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: OOC
((Let us head out. ))
Posted on 2007-11-23 at 13:58:14.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Hell's Chorus
He was in terrible pain.
Although his pride was too great to admit it, it muddied his aura and sent flashes of horribly potent waves of emotion flickering from his feral eyes, like chips of glacial ice. He closed his wounded hand, crying out softly at the insistent fire that burned throughout his upper body. His dark hair was drenched with sweat. Silently, gingerly, he tucked his wounded hand securely against his body, wincing as the sharp, stabbing pain subsided to a dull throb that sent waves of darkness rolling over his conscious mind. He gritted his teeth and bore it. This was not the time to show weakness. If he should weaken now, one of his comrades could suddenly cast off their guise of a friend, and be right on top of him. And yet, he wondered listlessly, why did he care? What reasons had he to live anymore? He simply went through the motions of survival, like a well-rehearsed dance, but thought no more of it then the most savage beast. He had been defending his life bitterly as long as he drew breath. And never before had he thought of why. He had nothing to go back to, no smiling child, no loving wife, and no family that would bear him up and support him. He felt utterly and completely alone.
He most likely was.
But like the tiger that stalked in menacing silence, or the coiling serpent, or the devious leopard, he was to be alone. One could not have then called him bestial, for beasts have dignity. He was apart from nature, beyond it, in a way that no one could possibly understand. From his ancestors, who had hunted together, and slept together, body to body, for warmth, he was apart. He was the proverbial lone wolf, who ran by riverside and cried out his ancient cares to an uncaring and bloated moon. The creature that looked upon the monstrosity that was himself in mirror or shimmering water pool and understood.
He understood.
The hateful tears that threatened to cloud his eyes, how he loathed them!
A piece of metal was held out to him, and he clutched it instinctively in his good hand. A ring and a token of good-will. He admired its cold beauty. “We are spirits of a different sort, you and I”, he replied gently. “There is no reason to fumble and to be ashamed, after all…what else would one expect from a thief”, he smiled bitterly. “But we are friends”, said he without thinking. “Aye?” He slipped the ring onto his left hand. “And I would have you trust me”. He settled back in the saddle, a tall man, and rail-thin, in black. One had the sense that if he positioned his limbs in a certain way, he would resemble a spider often found in people’s closets.
He looked at her and his eyes were steady, lion’s eyes, as he turned his stallion towards the light. The sense of adventure and dread boiled in his stomach, the sense of journey begun, and the sense that was right and wild. He was mastered by the power of life, the perfect union of body and soul, everything that he was, and everything that came before him. He was a ranging creature now, overtook by blood-lust, hunting down living meat, the forest wraith, drawn by warm, flowing blood. He was the warrior that knew the old tricks that lived within him, old as life itself, and that took delight in the work of each seperate muscle and sinew. And he was the lone wolf that ran alone and exultantly under the indifferent stars, and when the day was done, that sounded the ancient wolf-cry, a quiet song in a day and time when all songs were sad, save the love-song.
And even that was not his.
Posted on 2007-11-22 at 01:19:18.
Edited on 2007-11-22 at 01:22:49 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: OOC
(( Brianna`s post... ))
Posted on 2007-11-20 at 21:48:06.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Logic is God
This was bloody ridiculous.
Septimus had sauntered into the stable with the rest of the party, his temperamental friend in tow, when he noted Zara’s choice of transportation. No words past his lips. It was well known that many people thought that he had no inner censor, but the truth of the matter was he too often held himself back. His only reaction was a quick, incredulous glance to Zara’s sibling. ‘You are a much greater fool than I ever could have fathomed’, his cold green eyes seemed to seethe silently, ‘if you have actually led me to believe that you, in good conscience, will allow your sister to ride out on that…thing…’ His eyes spat emerald fire, but his expression remained carefully tranquil and like the serene crocodile that floated calmly within muddy waters, so his viciously logical, reptilian nature kept his temper in check. He floated innocently, dreamily, and kept his glimmering fangs well below the surface.
Not so did his stallion.
When Oko passed him, the great black beast drew his ears back flat against his skull, and his great, sharp-edged hooves drummed the packed earth in nervousness. He was not afraid of the metallic, predatory scent, like many prey animals in the situation would find themselves to be, he was spitting furious at it. Oko was occupied at the moment with the big grey mare, and not paying attention to his secret enemy. The scarred equine snorted and launched his long dark body towards him. Acting by instinct, Septimus looped the reins about his left hand and gave a sharp pull, cutting the bit into the tender flesh of the horses’ mouth by accident. His warhorse was too big for him to control effectively in this state, and in his anger, Sindal simply dragged his master with him. The animal felt an extra weight behind him, and in his sudden, wild fear, he whipped his broad neck around and crushed his master’s hand in his strong jaws.
Septimus swore.
That was enough to surprise the creature as he recognised his master’s voice. He stopped pulling frantically, and was almost comically shocked. By the comic nature of the encounter ended as one looked at Septimus. He was collapsed on the earth, one hand still looped around the reins, the other clutched to his chest. His eyes were half-closed and he was breathing heavily from the exertion. He forced himself to his feet and glanced at his wounded hand, muttering quiet obscenities. Any other man would have screamed in pain, or perhaps beaten the horse, but Septimus was a man, one would feel, that was accustomed to pain. He looked calmly at his right hand, thanking the gods that his sword-hand was unharmed, noting the way his ever-present leather glove was soaked with blood. Gently, he removed the glove and groaned quietly at the crimson liquid that poured freely from the deep, swollen lacerations. He stared at his own blood as it poured, fasinated.
He unclenched his hand and hissed through gritted teeth as a wave of exquisite pain flew up through his arm. It was almost certainly broken. “Put him in the bag of holding”, he said quietly. His voice was not loud, nor was it angry but it was laced with pain. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the stallion was gone. “Never hurt him”, he muttered softly. “He didn’t know any better”. He grimaced. “I have been…too lenient with him”.
Without another word, he drew his sword and cut off a piece of his shirt and dropped the weapon, wrapping the piece of fabric around his wounded hand. He inhaled sharply as he tied it tight, holding one of the ends in his teeth. He watched the fabric become bright crimson. Again he tore a strip off, binding his own wound calmly until it was swathed in fabric. A thin trickle of blood oozed from beneath the makeshift bandages. With a faint nod, he seemed to agree with Dae that he could use a bit of help.
He sheathed his weapon and mounted the already outfitted bay carefully, clutching the horse’s dark mane in his uninjured hand. In spite of the incredible pain that read in his eyes and roared through his body, he sat straight and tall in the saddle. He turned the stallion effortlessly, and despite everything smiled almost bitterly at Dae`s request. “But my dear”, he inquired lightly as the two horses left the darkness and pranced into the sun,” how would I know anything of deceptive behaviour?”
(Posted the reply. Post away. )
Posted on 2007-11-18 at 23:00:16.
Edited on 2007-11-19 at 03:09:27 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Heavy Losses
His back was turned from her, his gaze unyielding.
He could hear her footsteps as she walked towards him calmly, and shifted slightly at the sound of his name. He glanced up at Dae as she reached his side, his expression terribly weary. He had little use for remorse or explanations and he had locked everything out. The only clue to his emotions was his aura. He had always had a distinctive aura, which cloaked him in an intimidating and dark cloud that covered him wherever he went. Normally his aura would be seen to be a rather impressive and lofty shade of muddled greens and blues, and dull grays, like the lulling ocean. His aura now, if it would be viewed, would be revealed to be an ominous, muddy and violent black in which there floated serenely tiny specks of crimson, like serpentine tongues of fire.
It was not a good sign.
He was getting sicker.
Life suddenly flooded into those flat, expressionless eyes. The windows to his soul had been opened, at those welcome words that soothed his soul like a rich balm. He did not smile, did not give any indication of what that meant to him, but his eyes were shining brightly with happiness and a thin veil of tears. “I have lost so many”, he whispered hoarsely. “I could not bear to lose him too”. He put his hand lightly on her shoulder, and although it was an awkward gesture of thanks, it was a kind and well meaning one.
‘Thank you”.
Without another word, he again entered the corral and found his friend munching contentedly on the oats and grain that the animals had been provided with. The battle-scarred black was alone. The other animals had moved as a unit to the opposite side of the corral, staying as far away from the bad-tempered creature as possible. He took the ornate halter that had been hanging over the rails and clucked gently to get his attention. His horse lifted his head and nuzzled him, looking for treats, or some other handout. While the horse’s attention was diverted, Septimus slipped the crownpiece over his ears and the bit into his mouth. The horse snorted violently, and stared at his master accusingly. He had been tricked.
Septimus only smiled.
He led the stallion past Oko to the stable, watching his friend carefully for signs of anger. The horse’s ears were flattened when he caught the wild feline scent of the Felani, and his neck was held with a certain tension, but he did not attack. Despite his apparent agreeability, his dark eyes never left the face of the fighter and his dislike was apparent.
Posted on 2007-11-14 at 21:12:18.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: A Reluctant Fool
Two immovable personalities met and locked.
Ignoring the anger that flared in his eyes like a brushfire, Zara ambled over to the creature contentedly. Septimus turned his face stubbornly away. He did not take kindly to be rebuked, and was less than pleased that his rare instance of caring had gone unthanked and unnoticed. He crossed his arms in front of his thin chest, all worry gone from his features. His brow smoothed and his eyes hardened. The ruddy beast could go to hell, aye, and the brat too, for all he cared. He had his own life to worry about and swiftly reminded himself that he was in this little misadventure for purely selfish reasons.
Chivalry was never his forte.
But in spite of his stoic manner, he winced slightly when she put her hand on the animal, imagining all the horrid things that could happen. He had seen the mangled injuries that resulted from horses’ hooves, the crushed limbs that resulted from evoking his own stallion’s fear. He closed his eyes, waiting for the scream. Silence. Odd. He opened his eyes reluctantly. The animal kept on eating, its tail swishing contentedly as it gorged itself on oats and grain. Finally it raised its head and a pair of comical ears was revealed.
Septimus was absolutely livid.
Another man would have found the situation funny, the rash decision of the maid, the expression of confusion and surprise on her visage when her beloved steed revealed its true nature. But even though he did not know in what capacity, Septimus understood that he had made a fool of himself. “You were stabbing at shadows, and fist fighting the wind”, he whispered quietly to himself, remembering a particular line from an ancient poem. “As no man can tame the sea, no man can go against his own nature”. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
It fit grotesquely well.
He heard Dae`s footsteps and turned his head slightly to regard her. His gaze was flat and reptilian, unchanging. He winced slightly at her words. Her thanks was like a dagger in his heart.
“It was wrong of me to do it”, he replied quietly.
He had thought of the idea of splitting up, a decision that he was at once uneasy and comfortable with. He was an iconic loner, a creature accustomed to a life of danger, and without the possibility of aid. It fit naturally to his nature to travel by himself, or perhaps with one other person. However, in a smaller group, they were more prone to dangers, and without the resources to battle the dangers, the likelihood of death rose considerably. Septimus grimaced.
He was looking a few days ahead and into a black hole.
He listened to her list the pairs without much enthusiasm, nodding when he thought it was appropriate. He hoped to whatever gods were watching over his wretched soul that the girl Zara would not be left in his care and let out an auditable sigh of relief when she was paired up with the cleric. He noted that Jason and Oko were paired together, a logical choice, and waited patiently to hear his placement. He glanced over to her sharply in surprise. “You wish to leave with me”, he muttered in mild astonishment. He weighed his options, and saw that she was by far the safest choice. “I agree”, he answered curtly.
He turned to go but her next sentence caused him to pause.
He glanced over at his battle-scarred stallion and a visible expression of sadness suddenly flooded his emerald eyes. Sindal. His Riverfoot. The creature was pawing nervously, eager to be on the road again. He understood for he knew inaction always made him restless. He forced back the emotion that suddenly washed over him like a bitter wave. He had saved the stallion’s life when he was only a colt, and the stallion repaid him twenty times over. He had carried his bleeding master from screaming bandits; he had escorted him safely through hails of arrows, and past murderous swordsmen. The creature had braved battle, had been wounded himself, but had fought valiantly despite.
He was his only friend.
Ignoring her other words, he excused himself from the corral and went with a heavy heart to where Sindal, the valiant war-horse was tied. Septimus reached up with a gloved hand and tenderly stroked the rare white marking on the creature’s brow, the sliver of white that seemed in likeness of a blade. The creature snorted his shimmering eyes lively and curious. “I cannot keep my promise, my friend”, Septimus murmured, his voice soft and sad, the kindest anyone alive had ever heard it. “And knowing you, you will never forgive me for it”. He smiled as the stallion bumped his shoulder playfully with his nose. “We’ve been through much, yes? And we are friends. So I ask you only one thing, behave yourself when I am gone". He glanced over to the corral where several mares were grazing.
“Do not leave me too many grandchildren to see when I get back”.
Somehow the animal sensed the threat of death. His dark eyes were solemn and Septimus saw the fire in his eyes reflected in his own. “I will return”, Septimus said firmly, sounding much more certain then he felt. He playfully pushed his stallion’s nose away.” You believe me don’t you?” He patted his broad neck and turned away as a stable boy approached. It was the same nervous lad with straw-coloured hair that he had spoken to before. Septimus untied the stallion, and with a nod, gave the boy permission to take his friend into the corral. The stallion followed, strangely obedient.
He understood.
He strolled up again to where Dae stood, and made an unconvincing attempt at a smile. “I have made the decision to change mounts”, he stated simply. “You are correct in believing him too memorable, and I have chosen the dark bay stallion with the star marking, as I have much heavy equipment, which he should be able carry easily.” He paused. “I also agree to the disguise ring, although as always, I will lament my individuality”.
If Zara was a flash flood, Septimus was a mountain.
Posted on 2007-11-13 at 21:24:16.
Edited on 2007-11-14 at 01:12:43 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: A Question of Motives
Septimus had little need for a new mount; the great scarred beast below him had proven his loyalty. Like his master, he was aloof and unpredictable.
His liquid eyes shone with black fire and shimmered like opals, his mane was in constant disarray, long, half-healed scars from previous battles laced their way through his thick glossy coat. He was of the kind that knights rode in battle, huge and powerful, differing from the light, pale-coloured steeds that were typical on the coast, and that power was a terrible danger considering his temperament. He was notoriously bad-tempered, and prone to biting.
As a foal, he had been feral and vicious, and as a result marked for slaughter. But a young man had pity on the creature, back when pity was still in his capacity, and saved his life. They had a silent friendship, tempered in steel and blood and the hot-blooded stallion, with Septimus alone, was as gentle as a babe.
A young stable boy made his way out of the stable wearily, going about his rounds. Noting Septimus and his stallion, he approached them. “Do you wish to change horses, sir”, he inquired, unease upon his face. Master and creature both looked distinctly untrustworthy. Septimus shook his head, and looked away. His thoughts were someplace else.
The stable boy shifted nervously. “You have a fine animal, sir”, he remarked, trying conversation. “What is his name”, he added, reaching towards the horse to touch his soft coat. Septimus glanced towards him with some interest as his war horse laid his ears flat upon his skull. “His name is Sindal, Riverfoot”, he answered smoothly. The horse curved his neck, as deadly as a viper and moved forward quickly. His enormous hooves stopped a centimeter away from the stable boy’s foot. The boy glanced up to him, eyes wide. “And I would not suggest touching him”, Septimus added, indifferently.
His eyes were cold as the boy made a quick excuse and rushed away.
Septimus patted the great broad neck and crooned to him gently in a language of woods and waters. Although man, the softness of his tone served the Elvish tongue well, and soothed the savage beast. “I am not leaving you here, my friend”, he murmured. “You and I will fight together, and perhaps”, he whispered, with his eyes far away, “and perhaps even die together. It is as it should be”. He smiled as his old friend’s ears pricked towards the source of his voice.
“As good a plan as any”, he replied quietly to Dae. He did not know the terrain well enough to offer any hints. He would improvise, he considered grimly. That was all he could do. He glanced at her curiously. Septimus had not known of the many prayers she had said for him or the time that she and her sister had stood guard. Deep in his rogue’s heart there was fear, and fear glinted strangely in his green eyes as he understood that after the steeds were chosen, the mission would be begun.
He watched Dae closely.
Unlike her sister, she had a strength and sense of authority. He decided quickly that should they be split up, travelling with her would best guarantee safety. But again, he wondered, as the price on his head was considered so tempting, why did it not tempt her? Why did she not slay him while he slept that night at the inn, or before, when his grief caught him off guard? He had been nothing but unkind to her.
His thoughts were broken again because of that high childish voice. It sliced through his dark dreams and fears like an arrow, and a look of displeasure unwillingly crossed his features as he discovered that the source of the fuss was nothing more then a horse. He listened silently as the stable-master argued his case. Zara would be thrown, she would be injured, and she would distract the party. He said nothing, but simply ground his teeth and looked away.
Because his choice had already been made, he was left outside while the other adults and the wayward teenager went to choose their mounts. No matter. He had found a cheap sort of entertainment in watching the poor stable boy attempt to bring back Zara`s stallion.
So caught up in the fun was he, that he was caught terribly off guard when adolescent in question grabbed the halter, left the stable, and leaped into the corral. He abandoned thought. Moving in simple pure liquidity, like a jungle cat, he dismounted and scaled the fence after her, adrenaline and worry forcing him into the corral. He could not have felt more concern for the girl’s safety if they were trapped in a tiger cage. Making his way to her side, he shot her a glance of pure anger and masked loathing. “What the hell do you think you are doing”, he fairly snarled.
“Don’t you ever think?”
Posted on 2007-11-12 at 15:03:51.
Edited on 2007-11-12 at 15:16:46 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Misanthropic
He yawned.
His cold eyes shifted faintly, tracking and recording the reactions of the people that had recently begun to flood the marketplace. His tall dark form seemed utterly out of place in the bustling marketplace, and he was the subject of more then a few curious glances by the masses.
He didn’t care.
Like a crocodile in the marshes, his outward serenity only served to cover up the highly intelligent and deductive mind that seemed never to rest, and never to dream. It was considering at full speed now, thinking not on the outward stimuli of the world around him, but the inner machinations of itself.
He turned and gazed lazily into the fountain, watching his reflection in the rippling water. His visage seemed drawn, the lines that bisected his brow furrowed. His eyes were a dull emerald, like a pair of jewels lost in the abyss, half-obscured by his dark hair. His expression was grim as he combed through his hair with his fingers, vainly attempting to untangle the stubborn snarls that fell to his shoulders. Was it possible that he was losing his mind?
And even the more terrifying question…
His head jerked up as a voice called to him, young and shrill. He peered around alertly, like a bird, shocked from his thoughts. As Jason and Zara approached him, he raised his gloved hand in reply. He did not speak, but his eyes flickered quickly to her at her whisper. Was this a secret? He would not dignify it with speech.
He trailed purposely behind,seeming as if he was making every attempt to ignore the inane chatter, while secretly, he was glad to have it. Fear was crippling him, although even mild discomfort refused to register itself on his features, and the chatter, although idiotic, helped the group retain some sort of normality. His eyes softened slightly, and he turned his head away, hiding a smile.
Thank the gods for children.
Posted on 2007-11-11 at 21:48:42.
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Topic: A Morbid Shopping Trip
Subject: I Must Agree
That’s what I wanted, harsh criticism, because without blunt honest criticism you cannot grow as a writer. I want to give you my thanks for taking the time to read my writing and to critique it, so now I know what I can fix next time!
Thanks for your time!
Posted on 2007-11-10 at 18:25:16.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: OCC
(( Septimus is at the fountain already... ))
Posted on 2007-11-08 at 21:19:38.
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Topic: Garayon - Reign of Darkness Q&A
Subject: The Charming Madman
Name: Captain Septimus Sandalwood, also known as the Seventh Death or more commonly, The Sea Serpent.
Status: Legendary criminal. Wanted DEAD in all major ports for 1,000,000 guineas.
Race: Human, with faint elvish blood
Languages spoken: Common and Elven
Age: Twenty-Seven
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Class: Pirate/Rogue
Armor: Light
Level: 3
Weapon proficiencies: Dagger, cutlass, javelin, staff, long sword
Religion: Cardista, Goddess of the Sea
Height: 5’10
Weight: 140 lbs
Hair: Black
Eyes: Golden Emerald, a feral shade.
Place of Birth: Reylmoen, currently residing in Corelan
Group Affiliation: Sea Reavers of Corelan
Ship: The Acheron, a black frigate with blood-red sails.
Description:
Septimus possesses a gaunt beauty, one that he flaunts openly, often accentuating the pallid hue of his skin, a hue that climate and sunshine have been unable to change, by wearing the intimidating and rather dashing colours of ebony and emerald. He wears a long woven black cloak with a deep hood, with silver accents that seems to have some sort of magical property that hides him effortlessly in the shadows and is reputed to be of Elven make.
Beneath his cloak he wears a black linen fencing shirt with wide, flowing sleeves and over this a vest of fine leather with seven buttons and a wide baldric over his shoulder. He wears a dragonskin belt about his slender waist with beads, small bones such as teeth and other odd objects hanging from it. He wears simple drop-front trousers that are tucked into his knee-length kid leather boots that are cuffed (inspired by the fashion of eighteenth century buccaneers). The boots are embellished by silver spurs.
He wears elbow-length snakeskin gloves, which serves a particularly important array of uses. One, it repels the poison he enjoys using, and two, it covers the tattoo of a seven upon his left hand which serves as his identification mark. As he is a Wanted man, this is immensely important, and he never removes those gloves.
He is considered attractive, even though he is of a slighter build then most Men. He has feral emerald eyes that often seem to have a blatantly feline aspect to them; they are hard and cold against the world, unyielding and cunning. They can be piercing to the degree that they burn like cool flame, or reptilian and impassive, but always with a certain degree of insanity. His hair, typical of rogues, falls in a tangled snarl to his shoulders and over his forehead, and is pitch black, contrasting shockingly with his pale skin. It is often tied back by a crimson bandanna to keep it from obscuring his vision. He has a straight, noble nose that is slightly aquiline in profile and a thin introspective mouth. He has a thin scar that runs through his left eyebrow and two bullet scars upon his chest. A thick scar winds its way up the underside of his right forearm.
His body language is effortless and graceful, but consistently tense, giving the impression that he could spring into action at any moment. He has, as jewelry, a ring that consists of a little silver serpent making a circlet of his body by biting his own tail. He always wears a simple woven necklace that he wears constantly. It contrasts with the rest of his lavish attire, and is of a childish make. However, his oldest child, a daughter, who was slain three years ago, along with his partner and infant son, made it for him, and he keeps it for sentimental value. The notoriously cold and distant Septimus holds it as his dearest possession.
Personality:
Besides being emotionally unstable, Septimus commonly expresses a profound and innate disappointment in the fallibility and inferiority of other people. As a protagonist, many aspects of his personality are the antithesis of what might be expected from a person of relatively good intentions, or even the classic definition of a hero. He never seems to miss an opportunity to exercise his cunning and biting wit, and spends a great deal of time picking people apart and mocking their weaknesses. He does not suffer fools gladly; further, he seems to regard most people as fools.
He has a strong sense of charisma and a wry sense of humour, but is intimidating and difficult to approach. He also is resistant to social etiquette, criticizing it for its uselessness and apparent lack of rational purpose. Septimus appears to enjoy deciphering—with startling accuracy—people's motives and histories from aspects of their personality and appearance. This is useful both for unraveling potential allies, and enemies and, apparently, for his own amusement and displays of intellectual superiority. He also possesses a strong non-conformist or anarchistic streak. Consistently, he displays sardonic contempt for figures in positions of authority.
He is often unpleasant bordering on cruel, coarse, abrasive and dislikes mandatory politeness in all its forms even going so far as having nothing but disdain for optimism and sometimes going to unusually brutal lengths to prove that humans are in essence selfish, predictable liars, and that any kind gesture or intent is meaningless. This seems to bud from the death of his family. This misanthropic outlook frequently puts him at odds with other people and as a result he has few allies and many, many enemies. Life as the youngest brother of seven made him quick to seize opportunity when available.
As a character, Septimus is hedonistic and irresponsible, self-centered almost to the point of solipsism, and often extremely insensitive to the feelings of those around him. He is moody and difficult to decipher, as well as notoriously untrustworthy. His natural cunning sets him apart from the standard criminal, and makes him a deadly opponent as well as particularly talented in his field of sea thievery.
He is introspective and distant, often to the point of ignoring others completely. He is bitter and egocentric, and refuses to trust anyone, as he banks on personal experience, and has a tendency to hold spectacular grudges. He is amazingly intelligent, but has difficulty in society. He is quite calm most of the time, but prone to dangerous and unpredictable rages, which are made even more lethal by his rapid reflexes and formal training in swordplay. His crew of the Acheron was quick to dub him the Sea-snake for the quickness of his attacks and his reputation for treachery, not to mention for his ability to escape capture and his knowledge of serpent venom. His favoured creature is a serpent, and his crew of rather loud and ungainly men are dubbed the Bears who walk in the Viper’s shadow.
He is one of the most well-known of the Sea Reavers, for his eccentric mannerisms, intelligence, the coins on his head, one of the highest bounties in Corelan, his ability to escape capture, and reputation as a ladies man.
History:
Septimus Sandalwood was born in the small town of Reylmoen, which is well known for its tolerance of piracy. He was born to one Adan a successful merchent and Una, a wealthy prioress, and was the youngest of seven sons. His brothers were Primus, the eldest, Secundus, Tertius, Quartus, Quintus, and Sextus. His mother died giving birth to him which created a very strained relationship with his brothers.
When his father died, there was a question of who would take over the shop, and his personal possessions. Primus, because he was the eldest, was set to inherit all his father had to offer. Quintus, the brother who connected most with Septimus, who was a rather quiet child, dared his younger brother to kill Primus and attempt to take the inheritance for himself. Septimus was already considering this, and at the age of ten, he killed his brother with a poisoned dagger (the dagger is still in his possession, he calls it his Kiss). Quintus however turned on him and told the authourities. Wracked with terror and grief, Septimus was forced into hiding for his life.
As a homeless boy at ten, he managed to subsist on petty thievery, finding a talent in this. In the city of Corelan, he joined a boy’s gang headed by an ancient beggar. He lived in this gang until the age of fifteen, when the beggar suggested piracy as a career; as he was getting old, and could no longer protect his young wards.
Bright-eyed and determined, Septimus convinced a small-time pirate captain named Glenn Fenris, to hire him as a cabin boy. Taking to the sea to avoid the authourities and to find his fortune, the young teenager grew up into a young man, going from ship to ship, learning the trade, soon becoming in great demand for his talent at swordplay and seamanship. Securing a sizable fortune from his plundering, he eventually became first mate on one of the most reputable frigates in the area, the Golden Falcon at the age of eighteen. Enjoying his youth, he went to a nearby tavern to celebrate his promotion and new found infamy, and fell in love with a tavern wench working there named Lily. They had a long, stormy affair, eventually culminating in the birth of their daughter Rose.
Lily persisted Septimus to relinquish his dangerous occupation and lifestyle for their daughter, and although he loved them both, the call of the open sea was too much to bear. At twenty-two, after the birth of their second child, a son Septimus named Luka, Septimus left on another voyage with the crew of the Falcon. While he was away, his brother Quintus, who had become the leader of the Sea Reavers, tracked down his budding family and killed Lily and their two children. Returning after that particularly long voyage, he was given the news and immediately went to slay his brother for the death of his family. This tragedy was seen as the changing point, where the bright-eyed and determined lad that was the young Septimus was killed swiftly and violently, and was replaced by the bitter and efficient Septimus that is known today.
He never managed to slay his brother, however. Quintus, although a criminal, was an unknown, extremely wealthy and influential one. Septimus however did not have that advantage. He had hesitated at the vital moment, his better nature keeping him from repeating the same mistake. Quintus took advantage of Septimus`s nature, and held a blade to his throat, threatening not to kill him himself, but to hand him over to the authorities to be hung. However, seeing his younger brother’s potential, he decided to allow him to live if he worked for his piracy guild. Furious, but above all, self-serving, Septimus accepted and was given his own ship (the Acheron, the sister ship of Quintus’s frigate, the Sea Wolf,) and his own crew. Now he is one of the highest-ranking Sea Reavers, a man of great wealth and power, but also of great bitterness and anger. More then freedom, more then plunder, he wishes for an opportunity to slay the brother that thus enslaved him.
Equipment and Belongings:
Septimus allows his clothing to express his wealth, and tends to travel light. He is heavily armed, as befits his class, but also has in his possession some sneaky objects indeed.
The Kiss, Poisoned Dagger:
Hidden in his left boot is a deadly poisoned dagger, his favourite weapon, even though he is a talented swordsman. The dagger is decorated with a long winding serpent with emeralds for its eyes. Near the top of the hilt there is a small compartment where he loads the poison, and the poison, when the dagger enters flesh, exits near the serpent’s mouth at the tip of the blade. He calls it affectionately his Kiss, and favours the poison of the rare sea snake to make his kills. It is very beautiful and of a deceptively small size. It is also very rare. There is no other one like it in the world.
It takes only the lightest scratch for the lethal poison to enter the bloodstream.
Hanger Cutlass:
A wide baldric is slung over his shoulder and into it is thrust carelessly his hanger (a weapon that is slightly longer then a cutlass, Septimus prefers as much distance as possible). The sheath of the hanger is leather and snakeskin and deceptively simple, while the make of the hanger is very complex and gives the impression of both classical and tribal make, and is covered by intelligible runes.
Shortbow and Loaded Quiver:
His third choice of weaponry is a narrow ebony shortbow and quiver. His arrows are unique because they only have two feathers, instead of the usual three, and his feathers are always from the common raven. Within the quiver he carries repair kits and even at times small trinkets he picks up on his travels, especially if they are shiny or unique.
Saddle Bags:
As Septimus normally travels by horseback, his belongings are usually kept in the saddlebags, which are constructed of soft deerskin with simple flaps and drawstring cords. The items within are as follows:
Flint & Steel:
Septimus often finds himself in situations where a flint and steel would be useful. Traveling alone, he relies on this simple piece of equipment to create fire to cook his meals when he finds himself away from his native town and ‘on the road’, so to speak. Fire is an effective way to keep wild animals at bay and also to discourage insects from entering his camp.
Kit, Disguise:
Septimus is a wanted man and there are certain situations in which he needs to disguise himself in order to escape undetected. Within the kit are the staples of disguise, including simple costuming pieces and facial pieces.
Wineskin:
Septimus is not well known for sobriety, especially now, in his depression. In this wineskin he carries a mixture of water and rum, which makes a rather weak alcoholic beverage known as grog, and he refuses to travel without it.
Pipe Supplies:
Septimus often enjoys a good smoke to pass the time and acknowledges that he is too set in his ways to break the habit. In this category he owns a Pipe, Smoking, and a small pouch of Tobacco.
Rations:
To eat on the trail, he has a single smoked fish, exotic spices, a salted fish and enough dry rations for one day of travel.
Small Sack:
His most prized possessions go in this bag, which he always has on his person. It is a simple deerskin bag of tribal design and is covered with intricate and enigmatic beaded patterns. Within it you can find…
Thieves Tools:
Every thief needs the tools of his trade. In this collection he owns a collapsible grapple, a rope ladder, a lock pick, pliers, certain herbs, such as ANSERKE, COLEWORT, DEADLY-NIGHTSHADE and THROW-WAXE, as well as his own personal touch, vials of serpent venom from some of the deadliest creatures in the world. A dark frosted glass vial is within his reach.
Plunder:
It is in this sack that he keeps his money, guineas, and rare coins from distant lands, jewelry and even raw uncut gems. It is so well hidden, and his reputation is so prevalent, he has never been stolen from. Also, maps of thin vellum mark him as a devoted treasure hunter. Rare objects, including a signet ring with a seven engraved on it, are kept with his plunder.
Transportation:
Septimus owns a light Friesian stallion named Sindal (Riverfoot) that was given to him as a gift from one of the merchants of Corelan. The stallion is only four years old and is 16 hands high with an ebony pelt and mane and ebony eyes. The stallion is equipped with an elaborate bit and bridle, a saddle blanket, horseshoes, saddlebags, an ornate military saddle, and a halter.
He owns a 120ft frigate with a 27 gun broadside and blood-red sails named the Acheron. He has a crew of 50 men.
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The Blackened Path that You Tread
Baleful eyes flickered uneasily from face to face, his body held tense, with an air of aggression. The confrontation unsettled him deeply and a flush of high colour touched the normally alabaster canvas of his cheeks. It was when he transferred his energy from brooding to edgy and suspicious that he was considered most dangerous. Septimus was already well known to be notoriously moody, and many men had not had the opportunity to be surprised or awed at the deadly mood swings and even more lethal reflexes that had categorized him as one of the most unpredictable Sea Reavers ever to be seen on land or sea.
His gloved hand had transferred to the hilt of his weapon without thought, only to relax instantly.
It was because of this unpredictability that songs were sung of him by bards, who antagonized him against a favoured hero of old, and rumours of him were transferred from port city to city. It was because of this fearful unfathomness, viewed with the kind of fascination that is often given to disasters of nature that mothers told horror stories of him to their wide eyed youngsters, and when ill-tempered children fought with their siblings or argued with their parents, it was his name the adults evoked as a warning. He was emulated by children, feared by men, and desired by women. He was a legend of his own time.
He was absolutely miserable.
He seemed restless within his own skin, and uncomfortable with the fact that he was taking the time to speak with a person of the female persuasion. Females were not allowed on the ship Septimus commanded, and the few smuggled on board had been killed instantly. The goddess of the sea was fickle and jealous, and the competition of another female was not to be tolerated. Rather then tempt fate; the few females that had managed to avoid his watchful eye had been slaughtered quickly and efficiently by his crew. There was no room for disaster aboard the Acheron, and there was little to no tolerance for blasphemy. The only other experiences he had had with women had been the relatively impersonal sessions in taverns and inns, for Septimus had loved once, and vowed never to love another.
A less cautious woman could have conceivably been attracted to him, and this incident had happened on several occasions, when a bar maid or travelers became taken with his youth. His waifish figure, sad eyes, dark curls, and way with children endeared him to certain women. It was true; there were times when he appeared more the part of a poor little orphan boy then a wanted criminal, which had served him to advantage time and time again.
Like many criminals, he had a renowned place in the hierarchy of the underworld. But unlike most criminals, he was extremely intelligent, and this was probably the main reason he was still alive. Among his own crew he naturally assumed the position of leader, and ruled his men with an iron rod. Because of his particular talents, he often did most of the intellectual work, and while he did not have an entirely unearned reputation for doom and destruction, he carried out violence reluctantly. While atypical for a pirate, he had an unknown side that was oddly altruistic, and saving another person at the risk of his own safety was not an unknown occurrence, particularly if that person was a child. In battle he was reserved, killing when necessary with a mixture of deadly, complicated moves that put to use his considerable agility. It was noted that the destruction of the Golden Falcon, the previous flagship of one Glenn Fenris, marked the beginning of Septimus`s distain for violence.
Many legends had been told of that day, when the noble frigate was torn asunder by the flagship Sea Wolf. A hundred men strong had set out that day on a path for plunder. Eight men returned, Septimus among them. It was a cold day, a red day, a day when sharks swarmed and the seas turned crimson. When the rogue was checked into an inn in Corelan, carried upon the shoulders of an injured sailor, he was barely conscious. Eyewitnesses had reported that the youth had been shot twice, the bullets narrowly missing his heart.
Involuntarily Septimus felt his hand brush over the left side of his chest. Two half-healed scars marked the smooth skin below his flimsy fencing shirt. He closed his eyes for a moment and recalled.
Withdrawn, he had leaned against the doorframe of their tiny cottage, watching his daughter play with her mother while his infant son Luka slept peacefully in a makeshift crib. He marveled at the likeness between them. His daughter Rose had been slim like her mother, and beautiful, with pale skin, rosy cheeks and lips, and shining blonde hair. But her eyes had been Septimus`s own, exactly like his had been before the tragedy, a golden-emerald that was strangely feral, alive and laughing. He had called her to him and held her to his breast. A tear had fallen and marked her faded cobalt dress. The girl looked up at her father and smiled into his face, and watched with wonder his wild eyes. “Why are you crying, Daddy?” she asked in her child’s treble. He could only close his eyes as she lowered her soft golden head against his dark, snarled one.
“You must promise never to leave me”, he whispered hoarsely.
“I promise”, she whispered back, pressing the necklace into his palm.
He found her body on a cold Monday morning, just when the mists parted and the rooster crowed and he staggered home, distorted visions through a haze of tears plaguing him. Tormented by physical agony and worry he threw open the door of the cottage and stared into the darkness. His world was darkness. There could be no more light.
Mother and daughter and infant son.
He covered his face with his hands and wept.
That had been three years ago.
Three years since he had adopted the sea as his mistress, the murderous, bloodthirsty wench who sailors adore. She abused him for three years, offering him happiness, but snatching it away in her cruel, guileless hands. She tormented him with loneliness and drove him close to the brink of insanity. But like an innocent child returning to its abusive parent, Septimus always returned to her as she poisoned his mind slowly and deftly, he loved her and his corroded heart was hers. For he did love her. More then he loved life itself.
Posted on 2007-11-07 at 20:32:47.
Edited on 2007-11-07 at 20:48:10 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: A Morbid Shopping Trip
Subject: The Greenclaw District
He was going to go shopping.
Not a traditional pursuit for the average male, and certainly not one undertaken with enjoyment, there were certain objects that had to be obtained. As much as he loathed being out in the open, the items he was searching for were very unusual, and not under the jurisdiction of law.
Whilst Zara skipped happily into the desolate and sun-dappled square, followed closely by the more savory members of the group, Septimus was turning his animal unto a deserted section of the town. The smooth cobble-stones of the square switched effortlessly to packed dirt and the houses and establishments that neatly lined the streets gave way to buildings that leaned like crooked teeth, and sordid establishments that marked the corners like the charred bones of some mystical beast of old. There was little to be seen here, here in the infamous Greenclaw district, where businessmen feared to tread. He was well acquainted with its bitter stench of hopelessness, its filthy streets, and no stranger to the tattered souls that hopped, jumped, walked, and crawled within its gutters. This was his whole world, where pigs wandered in the guise of men, and nothing was the way it seemed.
A one-eyed goblin leaned against a brick alleyway, cradling a bottle of liquor in its trembling claws. As Septimus passed, it leered at him from the shadows, its one eye blazing in yellow fury, the vacant socket raw and empty. A gorgeous young woman made her way down the street, her long, pointed tail flicking lazily behind her. Septimus`s dark eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. He marveled at how easily one slipped into one’s old ways. What his party knew of him was that he was a cynical young man, a little more. They knew he was capable of killing, they knew he was protective, but they did not know to what extent his childhood had destroyed him. No. He was not evil, and yes, his heart was basically good. But he had been hurt so many times by the world that little good could come from him.
He tugged gently on the reins, stopping his steed before a depilated building that wavered precariously on its foundations like a drunk. Tying the animal to one of the hitching posts outside, he dismounted and padded into the shop silently. The inside of the shop was dank and dim, curios stacked randomly on its few tables. A mad fruit bat clawed at its perch, wrapping its scabrous wings around itself. A double-headed parrot screeched his arrival. “Betrayer”, squawked the first head loudly. “Murderer”, lamented the other, and Septimus’ eyes burned like the fires of hell.
“Septimus”, an ancient voice wheezed, all at once sounding as if it came from nowhere and everywhere. An unimaginable ancient man sat before the counter. He was small, and crooked, with a face so seamed it hardly looked human. He was totally blind from age, and his eyes were milky and vacant. Suddenly, Septimus dropped to one knee, emotion over coming him. “Master”, he breathed helplessly. “How did you know it was me?” The man smiled. “Two things wrong with that sentence”, he cackled. “The rhythm of your footsteps are inimitable, you walk like the arrogant seaman you are. And secondly, I’m not your master, not anymore”.
Septimus glanced up, puzzled. “You raised me for much of my life. In fact, I owe you my life. You were the only one who would take me in after…” He could not go on. “After you killed your brother”, the old man replied patiently. Septimus nodded dumbly. The man laced his withered hands before him. “Interesting turn of affairs, that. You did something of great evil, at a very young age. Primus was fathers’ favourite. You were the scum of the earth. You were jealous, so you slit his throat while he slept.”
He sighed.
“You were always talented at killing, my boy, even before I met you. Talented at causing harm. And yet you are no murderer”. Septimus blinked away tears. “I was only ten”, he muttered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean…”
“And yet you did it”, the old man cut him off serenely. “You took a life, and when I hired you eighteen years ago as a cabin boy on my ship, I could see that in your eyes. No boy has eyes as old as yours. You are a tortured man, Septimus.”. Septimus wiped his tears away with the back of his hand like a small boy. “I’m just like my brother”, he snarled listlessly. The old man patted his hand. “But you had your chances at killing those who disobeyed you. And yet you did not. You are nothing like Quintus, my son. Your father knew that. And even an ancient man like me knows it. You have a good heart. “. He shook his head. “You will never end up like me or your brother”.
Septimus rose to his feet, his eyes haunted and far away. “I want them back”, he hissed. He turned suddenly and drove his fist into the wall. “I want them back”, he snarled, energy draining out of him after the outburst. Blood ran from his knuckles. He closed his eyes. ‘I must be going mad’, he thought calmly. The old man waited in silence. “I know you want your family back, Septimus, but that is not possible. All you can do know is destroy the man who has enslaved you. Kill Quintus. Set yourself free”.
Septimus’ voice trembled as he spoke. “He took your ship didn’t he? He took your money”. The old man shrugged. “He is an evil man”. He waved his hand casually around his surroundings. “This is my home now”.
Quietly, he rummaged in the drawers of the counter with his searching hands. Finding what he was looking for, he held it out to the pirate with shaking, arthritic fingers. Septimus took it in wonder. It was a thin vial, made of dark, frosted glass. Some clear liquid sloshed inside. Septimus froze, recognising it.The old man winked. “I heard you were out of poison. Very unwise to waste it on that sea rat. This, luckily for you, is a hundred times more potent then what is sold on the black markets. It is the deadliest substance in our world. Use it well, but do not spill it. Unlike your poison, this substance prolongs death. It causes the worse pain a sentient being can undergo. And it is fit for only one person. Your brother”.
Septimus looked at the vial in horror.
"Don`t believe me", the old man inquired. "Bring me that fruit bat over there". Silently, Septimus went over to the perch where the poor thing squeaked and thrashed. He took it in his hand, hating the feel of its smooth, hairy little body, its unbearable warmth, its sharp teeth as it craned its neck, frantic in its need to bite him. Disgusted he threw the beast down on the counter. The old man reached for it, and held the animal down. "Uncork the vial, but do not inhale the fumes", he instructed.
Holding it away from him, Septimus uncorked the vial, and saw a wicked blue steam. He opened the creature`s convulsing mouth and allowed a single drop to touch its tongue. A terrible unearthly shriek filled the air as the wretched creature writhed before his eyes. The substance was burning the hair off its body, its skin blistered and bubbled and the scent of burning meat filled the air. Its wings shriveled and dropped like bits of charred paper, and near the end, in a final act of horror, its eyes popped. With dreadful fasination Septimus watched the death throes of the creature, now entirely wreathed in blue flame. It moved in the flame as its skin contracted, like a fiery dragon from childrens' tales come to life. In a few minutes it stopped moving. In another five minutes the flames were extinguished.
It was only a skeleton.
Without a word, Septimus corked the vial and put it away in the secret compartment of his dagger’s sheath.
He bowed his head. Tears coursed down his visage. “I will kill him for you Glenn Fenris…my father”. The old man smiled toothlessly. “Good boy. I always knew you were a good lad. Keep in mind, he is searching for you, oh yes, he wants you dead badly, and he is waiting for you to make a mistake. He wants to pierce your heart with your own dagger.” Septimus’ eyes flashed dangerously. “He will find it between his own ribs soon enough”. The old man grinned and the double-headed parrot started to scream.
“Murderer”, shrieked the first head. “Betrayer”, cried the second.
And deep in that darkness Septimus started to laugh.
****************************
He rode casually over to the fountain at the centre of the market, his features hidden in the hood of his cloak, despite the sun-dappled heat.
His hand caressed the tiny vial that he knew held the future.
A hidden smile touched his lips.
It would be a good day.
Posted on 2007-11-06 at 21:34:54.
Edited on 2007-11-06 at 21:36:03 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: A Morbid Shopping Trip
Subject: A Morbid Shopping Trip
The following post is the best writing I`ve done in a while. I think it tells a lot about my character Septimus. Anyway, just want to know what you think about the character or the style. Cheers.
Posted on 2007-11-06 at 21:34:06.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: The Greenclaw District
He was going to go shopping.
Not a traditional pursuit for the average male, and certainly not one undertaken with enjoyment, there were certain objects that had to be obtained. As much as he loathed being out in the open, the items he was searching for were very unusual, and not under the jurisdiction of law.
Whilst Zara skipped happily into the desolate and sun-dappled square, followed closely by the more savory members of the group, Septimus was turning his animal unto a deserted section of the town. The smooth cobble-stones of the square switched effortlessly to packed dirt and the houses and establishments that neatly lined the streets gave way to buildings that leaned like crooked teeth, and sordid establishments that marked the corners like the charred bones of some mystical beast of old. There was little to be seen here, here in the infamous Greenclaw district, where businessmen feared to tread. He was well acquainted with its bitter stench of hopelessness, its filthy streets, and no stranger to the tattered souls that hopped, jumped, walked, and crawled within its gutters. This was his whole world, where pigs wandered in the guise of men, and nothing was the way it seemed.
A one-eyed goblin leaned against a brick alleyway, cradling a bottle of liquor in its trembling claws. As Septimus passed, it leered at him from the shadows, its one eye blazing in yellow fury, the vacant socket raw and empty. A gorgeous young woman made her way down the street, her long, pointed tail flicking lazily behind her. Septimus`s dark eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. He marveled at how easily one slipped into one’s old ways. What his party knew of him was that he was a cynical young man, a little more. They knew he was capable of killing, they knew he was protective, but they did not know to what extent his childhood had destroyed him. No. He was not evil, and yes, his heart was basically good. But he had been hurt so many times by the world that little good could come from him.
He tugged gently on the reins, stopping his steed before a depilated building that wavered precariously on its foundations like a drunk. Tying the animal to one of the hitching posts outside, he dismounted and padded into the shop silently. The inside of the shop was dank and dim, curios stacked randomly on its few tables. A mad fruit bat clawed at its perch, wrapping its scabrous wings around itself. A double-headed parrot screeched his arrival. “Betrayer”, squawked the first head loudly. “Murderer”, lamented the other, and Septimus’ eyes burned like the fires of hell.
“Septimus”, an ancient voice wheezed, all at once sounding as if it came from nowhere and everywhere. An unimaginable ancient man sat before the counter. He was small, and crooked, with a face so seamed it hardly looked human. He was totally blind from age, and his eyes were milky and vacant. Suddenly, Septimus dropped to one knee, emotion over coming him. “Master”, he breathed helplessly. “How did you know it was me?” The man smiled. “Two things wrong with that sentence”, he cackled. “The rhythm of your footsteps are inimitable, you walk like the arrogant seaman you are. And secondly, I’m not your master, not anymore”.
Septimus glanced up, puzzled. “You raised me for much of my life. In fact, I owe you my life. You were the only one who would take me in after…” He could not go on. “After you killed your brother”, the old man replied patiently. Septimus nodded dumbly. The man laced his withered hands before him. “Interesting turn of affairs, that. You did something of great evil, at a very young age. Primus was fathers’ favourite. You were the scum of the earth. You were jealous, so you slit his throat while he slept.”
He sighed.
“You were always talented at killing, my boy, even before I met you. Talented at causing harm. And yet you are no murderer”. Septimus blinked away tears. “I was only ten”, he muttered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean…”
“And yet you did it”, the old man cut him off serenely. “You took a life, and when I hired you eighteen years ago as a cabin boy on my ship, I could see that in your eyes. No boy has eyes as old as yours. You are a tortured man, Septimus.”. Septimus wiped his tears away with the back of his hand like a small boy. “I’m just like my brother”, he snarled listlessly. The old man patted his hand. “But you had your chances at killing those who disobeyed you. And yet you did not. You are nothing like Quintus, my son. Your father knew that. And even an ancient man like me knows it. You have a good heart. “. He shook his head. “You will never end up like me or your brother”.
Septimus rose to his feet, his eyes haunted and far away. “I want them back”, he hissed. He turned suddenly and drove his fist into the wall. “I want them back”, he snarled, energy draining out of him after the outburst. Blood ran from his knuckles. He closed his eyes. ‘I must be going mad’, he thought calmly. The old man waited in silence. “I know you want your family back, Septimus, but that is not possible. All you can do know is destroy the man who has enslaved you. Kill Quintus. Set yourself free”.
Septimus’ voice trembled as he spoke. “He took your ship didn’t he? He took your money”. The old man shrugged. “He is an evil man”. He waved his hand casually around his surroundings. “This is my home now”.
Quietly, he rummaged in the drawers of the counter with his searching hands. Finding what he was looking for, he held it out to the pirate with shaking, arthritic fingers. Septimus took it in wonder. It was a thin vial, made of dark, frosted glass. Some clear liquid sloshed inside. Septimus froze, recognising it.The old man winked. “I heard you were out of poison. Very unwise to waste it on that sea rat. This, luckily for you, is a hundred times more potent then what is sold on the black markets. It is the deadliest substance in our world. Use it well, but do not spill it. Unlike your poison, this substance prolongs death. It causes the worse pain a sentient being can undergo. And it is fit for only one person. Your brother”.
Septimus looked at the vial in horror.
"Don`t believe me", the old man inquired. "Bring me that fruit bat over there". Silently, Septimus went over to the perch where the poor thing squeaked and thrashed. He took it in his hand, hating the feel of its smooth, hairy little body, its unbearable warmth, its sharp teeth as it craned its neck, frantic in its need to bite him. Disgusted he threw the beast down on the counter. The old man reached for it, and held the animal down. "Uncork the vial, but do not inhale the fumes", he instructed.
Holding it away from him, Septimus uncorked the vial, and saw a wicked blue steam. He opened the creature`s convulsing mouth and allowed a single drop to touch its tongue. A terrible unearthly shriek filled the air as the wretched creature writhed before his eyes. The substance was burning the hair off its body, its skin blistered and bubbled and the scent of burning meat filled the air. Its wings shriveled and dropped like bits of charred paper, and near the end, in a final act of horror, its eyes popped. With dreadful fasination Septimus watched the death throes of the creature, now entirely wreathed in blue flame. It moved in the flame as its skin contracted, like a fiery dragon from childrens' tales come to life. In a few minutes it stopped moving. In another five minutes the flames were extinguished.
It was only a skeleton.
Without a word, Septimus corked the vial and put it away in the secret compartment of his dagger’s sheath.
He bowed his head. Tears coursed down his visage. “I will kill him for you Glenn Fenris…my father”. The old man smiled toothlessly. “Good boy. I always knew you were a good lad. Keep in mind, he is searching for you, oh yes, he wants you dead badly, and he is waiting for you to make a mistake. He wants to pierce your heart with your own dagger.” Septimus’ eyes flashed dangerously. “He will find it between his own ribs soon enough”. The old man grinned and the double-headed parrot started to scream.
“Murderer”, shrieked the first head. “Betrayer”, cried the second.
And deep in that darkness Septimus started to laugh.
****************************
He rode casually over to the fountain at the centre of the market, his features hidden in the hood of his cloak, despite the sun-dappled heat.
His hand caressed the tiny vial that he knew held the future.
A hidden smile touched his lips.
It would be a good day.
Posted on 2007-11-06 at 20:47:23.
Edited on 2007-11-06 at 21:19:02 by Septimus Sandalwood
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