[IC] Trid: The Vaults of Tornal (e6)

[nazgulnine]

In the ancient days of the world, an ambitious sorceress known as the Sable Lady craved power and in her hubris subjugated all manner of beasts and demons, using the darkest magics in tomes considered ancient even in her antediluvian epoch. Mastering untold circles of magic, the Sable Lady created an empire of darkness spanning the lands from modern-day Aranmor to the Bandit Fiefs, and called out to the Old Gods and the Lords of the Infinite Emptiness, in her folly calling forth the Keeper of the Gate to bring to her feet the untold powers of the arcane. Instead of groveling at her feet and bearing witness to her arcane majesty, the Old Gods cursed the Sable Lady, keeping her encased in a rift between worlds from which she could not escape. In the following days, the men and elves rejoiced, their overlord seemingly gone, but times were still difficult for the peoples of the world.

While the Sable Lady's ancient realm fell into obscurity and legend, life moved on. For nearly seven thousand years, the dwarves and elves found themselves enslaved by human hands, forced to labor under the reign of one emperor after another. It was only in recent millennia that they won their independence, though many still hold positions of subservience in the human lands, and many still harbor raw emotion over events and trespasses none alive have recollection. Still, some rare few have banded together in like-minded cadres to discover and preserve the ancient histories of their world. Thus enters the Adventurer's Guild, an order of scholars, warriors, and rogues alike who delve into the darkest dungeons and caverns to recover lost histories and knowledge. A recent request has been placed upon the Guild by the rogue Locke Kirkwood, a venture-captain with word of a fabulous, untouched trove recently unearthed in the woodlands near the Tornal Mountain Range, calling together the Guild's bravest explorers to find the truth buried within the ancient vault.


http://i.imgur.com/ZPXCaXc.jpg?1
Trid: The Vaults of Tornal

The midwinter sun stands still at high noon in the Bright Hills as your carriage sways this way and that, the Adventurer Guild escort bringing your party together on the Fifteenth day of Chillmonth nearing the final destination of your over two-week journey. Leaving the city of Delmore on the last day of Oktobar you were sent off in a carriage driven by your guildmate Brer Longhorn, who made few stops along the journey, intent on saving as much daylight as possible for travel. The weather has taken on a biting chill as the cold air stings your skin even within the confines of the warm oaken carriage, and your coachman, a middle-aged human man of Elsaurian heritage, calls from the outside to "Bundle yerselves up, we're headin' into the hills now! Ye'll be seein' a lot more of this blisterin' hot weather I know you're just dyin' to enjoy!" The sarcasm in his tone is palpable, and with a rough, hoarse laugh you hear him crack the reins in his rugged dark hands and sends the cart off on a chase through the pass, taking the occasional sharp turn, but otherwise leaving your journey a peaceful, if bumpy, impel through the hills. "We'll be nearin' the Silverheart Bridge in about an hour!! From there, it's a two-hour ride to Steelhold! Ye'll wanna speak to Locke when ya' get there, she's waitin' for ya in the town!! Til then, jus' make yerselves comfy back there! But don't go fallin' asleep on me!"

(Feel free to roleplay among yourselves for a time!)

[bryn0528]

Valerie Briarjack, a handsome young lass but certainly not pretty, sat hunched in the wagon as it rode along. She already wore her armor, a suit of laquered dark leather that seemed to drink the light out of anything less than full sunlight. It covered her body entirely, though a bit of a snug fit, from the thick high collar to the arm length gloves and full riding boots. It had many pockets, just the thing for spelunking, from which she produced a set of metal pins and hooks. Her wild mane of vivid red hair obscured her pale face as she very intently balanced the delicate tools on their ends. It wouldn't have been a very difficult task normally, but somehow every bump and hiccup in their journey found itself magnified through her fingertips. Still, it occupied the time, as she waited solemly to arrive at their much awaited destination. Anxiety growing all the while.

[Redshaw]

"Chubby" would have been the polite way to describe Finnegan, but the fact was that he was fat. Fat and ugly: his eyes were too small for his head, his nose was too large for its face, and his hair, thin and weedy. His grand rotundness reclined on a sack of burlap in the wagon and he spent most afternoons and mornings asleep, which was characterized by gentle snoring. Dressed in linen clothes with a knapsack that hung from his shoulder by a stick, the barefoot halfling did not look heroic in the slightest.

The coachman stirs Finnegan from his sleep and his double-chinned head lifts up to look out the rear portal of the covered wagon, blinking the drowsiness from his beady eyes. Then, assured they were not under immediate duress, he unfolds his knapsack to reveal a bundle of clothes, a bag of decent quality, sewing supplies, and his lunch: an apple, a half-loaf of bread, a skein of fermented cider, and some cheese of questionable quality. He lays the array out in his lap and begins the mid-afternoon feast with almost unduly cheerful demeanor.

"Oh I do love autumn," he boasts cheerfully as he sips from the skein.

[Sønderjye]

Constantine removed a lock of red.. black hair from his sight and looked at the sleeping Finnegan from out under his hood. Wish I could be that relaxed, he must have done this many times He thinks.

His head jerks up towards the driver when he starts speaking. He feels as if the cold air creeps into his chest and pulls his coat closer as he repeats with fear in his eyes d-dying?

[PersonMan]

Airessendria had given her new companions a curt nod as greeting, deciding to leave a proper introduction for a later time - they were still on the way to meet Locke, after all, and she'd rather explain who she was once to everyone than need to do so twice or even three times. So until now she's sat silently, directly across from the red-headed westerner who had piqued her interest. The Aurelian's gaze wanders between the passing scenery, which for days she had been sketching and writing passages of description on, and the inside of the carriage. The portly small man garnered next to no attention from her after her raised eyebrow at his presence. The pretty boy, just as unarmed as herself, doesn't hold her interest for long either, although Airessendria does wonder what he was planning to do on their journey given his lack of equipment. Unless he had a talent for magic, something she doubts, he would probably prove useless. His response to their coachman's words draws a contemptuous snort from her, and she shakes her head at his obvious fear.

After days of writing and sketching the western lands from the carriage, Airessendria has grown tired of it - and no longer sees any point in continuing, as the terrain is all similar to what she's already put to paper. So, as their coachman speaks, she turns her attention to the others who travel with her. Specifically, to the one she hadn't dismissed or seen no reason to pay attention to. It was unusual to see red hair outside of Aurelia, and even more so to find them this far west, so the pale woman had occupied Airessendria's thoughts for some time as she considered whether it was more likely that she was simply unusual, or if somewhere in her line there was a name from the far east. In addition to that there was her build. She looked like the type to be an aspiring nosehorn rider, but wore the type of garb Aira's devoted wore. The small tools she was now fiddling with only reinforced the second. A smile comes to Airessendria's lips as she briefly thinks back to the last western woman she had met who practiced the trade she suspected this woman of being involved in.

After mulling it over for some time, and resting her gaze on the woman's balancing game, she decides to ask rather than simply idly consider. "Thief girl," Airessendria begins, words leaving her lips with a honeyed tone that ensures that, despite her choice of words, her friendly intent is not lost. The westerners could be quite uncomfortable with some words, so she was sure to weave welcome into her voice. If the tall woman looks up from her tools, she finds the Aurelian smiling, pleased with her own method of finding out what she wanted to know. "Would you be averse to telling me what you know of your heritage? I do believe you may have some Aurelian blood in you," Airessendria explains, posture and expression reinforcing the friendly tone of her voice.

[bryn0528]

At the words for her, Valerie dropped the tools back into her palms and punctuated the action with a heavy sigh. She looked up, her curly hair quite opposite to Airessendra's neat braids. A small scar that ran through the left corner of her upper lip transformed her face into a constant half-sneer. She shied slightly away, as if to hide the deformity, which had enough presence as to show a glimmer of tooth. Her watery blue eyes examined the woman critically, head to toe and back again. She spoke with a slight lisp and a muddy accent. “You talkin‘ bout my hair, outlander? Guess you folk en‘t gotta worry ‘bout slavers,” she laid that word on thick, “Stealin‘ you off inta the night to make you the good luck of his wretched life. But I en‘t gotta worry about that any more; been a long, long time since I was a virgin.” She sputtered to a stop, a little embarrassed to have said as much in mixed company. “Dunno my family. Orphan,” she ended.

With a moment‘s hesitation, she pocketed her lockpicks and aptly joined Finnegan on the back of the wagon. “Got somethin‘ good to drink, friend?”

[Sønderjye]

Oh no, are they going to fight? Constantine thinks as he firms his grap on the trusted (http://www.giantitp.com/comics/oots0154.html) crossbow on the bench beside him, which Sindra gave him before sending him off to his first mission. He doesn't look threatening though. His arms are so thin that one would be suprised if he was able to hold it upright, let alone fire it.

His interest however is peaked at the mention of the red-haired color, since his red-haired mother rarely talked about her family. He sneaks a peak at the two scary women but if he's caught he will quickly look away.

[PersonMan]

Airessendria seems amused by Valerie's speech until she mentions slavers, at which point she frowns. "These lands are still plagued by their ilk? I thought this was a more enlightened place than that," she says, half to herself, gaze growing a bit distant until the woman continues. Her awkward halt brings the Aurelian to raise an eyebrow, but she says nothing. "Hmm. Shame," she muses, watching as the woman stands to join the round-bellied small man with his meal. Disappointed in how the conversation had gone, Airessendria pulls her book into view, drawing a pen into her hand and flipping the tome open to a page where she begins to write. Her handwriting is long and flowing, quick despite the embellishment that seems to be in every movement of the quill across the page. Focused on her own thoughts, Valerie or what she's writing, Airessendria doesn't seem to notice Constantine's stolen glance.

[Redshaw]

Though he never mentioned it, Finnegan would have admired the bard's attempts at capturing the landscape on paper. The halfling had an appreciation for artistic pursuits; something he never had the time to practice in his old life. Envy was beneath the wizened half-man, but he could honestly wish he possessed a similar skill set. Perhaps it was time to start learning...?

Finnegan's beady eyes flicker back and forth between the nimble-fingered woman and the artist as the trip-long silence is finally broken. He smiles kindly at the blonde woman's sudden very defensive posturing, though his eyes grow quite sad in their expression; here was someone who had seen more than their fair share in life. The halfling could not begin to imagine the tortures of her life, of course, but he felt an immediate desire to protect her from the world. It had been years since Finnegan held a father's responsibilities, but he could not kill the patronizing instinct.

As the woman approaches his end of the wagon, Finnegan's cheeks turn red. "Aye, 'course," he nods his head, offering the small skein toward the girl, along with a half-eaten apple. "I think I can tolerate to miss a meal or two, aye?" he pats his mighty stomach, chuckling at the self-deprecating joke without a hint of seriousness in his tone.

She'd find the wine sour, but palatable. Despite his small size, he uses a skein that is normal for a human. When she takes it, he interlocks his fingers and rests them on the midline of his wide belly, causing his stubby arms to stretch in order to make the distance. "M'name's Finnegan, by the way. Finnegan Tosscobble. And I'll promise you, m'lass, th'pleasure is all mine, so'tis." He speaks with the brogue accent typically harnessed by humans in the poor district of Delmore.

[bryn0528]

Valerie gladly accepted a drink from the skein, though she politely declined the apple with a simple wave of the hand. "I think you're quite fine the way you are," she said, only a bit humbly. She rolled her eyes at Aissendria's additional comments, and personally scoffed at the idea of all the note taking. They weren't even there yet, but she kept these comments to herself.

She made a face at the sourness of the wine, but bore it well and took a second swig before handing it back. "My thanks, Finnegan," and she extended a hand to him as well. "M'name's Valerie Briarjack, but feel free to just call me Val."

[Sønderjye]

Relaxed that nobody seem to want to bash each others head in, Constantine loosens his grip.

Slaves huh? He had heard stories of people owning other people but nobody in his village.. or more correctly the village he used to live close by were rich enough to have slaves. Except if you counted old pete who would do just about anything for a cup of mead, which he supposed one could count as slavery to the mead. He smiles sadly at the memory, he actually liked the old geezer. From what he heard Pete was one of the only people who defended his mother, at least until innkeeper told him to shut up or be dry for the next month.

He sends a long look after the ale. His mother had never had brewerage in her house so he had never tried tasting it. Judging from Valerie he probably didn't want it either.

He's unsure of what to make of the name exchange, if he should share his name too or if they were sorta sharing a moment. He decides to remain silent.

[Redshaw]

Finnegan bobs his head, "Miss Val. He repeats her name to seal it to memory. What a handsome young girl. He sighs and bites into the returned apple, unable to help himself. It was delicious, the wagon was warm, the company was pleasant to look at. This adventuring thing wasn't so hard after all.

His mouth still full, he gestures toward the healer. "No 'eed t'shtop introducshuns there. Wash y'name, lad?" He swallows and smiles, apple juice dribbling down his double chin.

[Sønderjye]

Constantine isn't sure what the fat hobbit just said but since he was staring at him so directly he just have said something to him. He tries to concentrate on the words and manages to remember "name, lad?". He doesn't really want to speak up in this company but remembers his mother telling him that one should always be polite to a strangers. And answering questions was polite. ​Constantine, sir.