Search Posts
Drail steps past the boy, moving toward Etta. He bows elaborately to the kobolds, looking at the young gunslinger. "Queen...Big-Bang, apologies," he murmurs, looking slightly uncomfortable, "there are many...flames...to which...you have to speak, yes? We should depart and leave your loyal...subjects...to guard this...mighty...statue?" He extends an arm, as if offer it to the 'queen', to guide her gently away.
Drail looks down at the sword. He takes the proffered blade gently in two hands, one just under the guard, the other along the scabbard. He stays quiet, simply looking at the weapon. Finally, he takes a firm grip under the guard, twirling the hilt into his other hand. His fingers brush along the guard, pressing in a deft motion. With a soft click, a hidden compartment at the end of the hilt cap springs open. He smiles softly, removing a tightly-rolled document. He looks back to the boy, the smile now gone.
Drail stands nonplussed as the kobolds drop down to their knees and begin clamoring for Etta. He shakes his head and his expression shows just the slightest hint of a smile as he murmurs under his breath, "We are never going to hear the end of this one, as if that girl's head wasn't swollen up enough already." He looks to Etta and calls out a bit louder, "Oh, Queen...Big-Bang...perhaps it would be wise if we left your subjects in peace, now?" He watches the boy pick up the sword. "We have what we came for."
Drail suddenly cocks his head, staring intently at the closed door to the east. He holds up a fist, glaring at the rest of the party to keep silent as he slips nearer to the entry way, one hand gripping the hilt of his sheathed blade. He turns back to the party, and murmurs, low and quiet, "Voices beyond the door." His brow furrows and his jaw sets tightly as he listens, finally straightening up and gesturing for the group to draw in close. "It is a language I have never heard...the sounds are strange...but..."
He quietly utters a few of the strange phrases he heard, to the best of his ability, then looks intently at the others, in turn, searching their faces for any traces of understanding.
Drail stands quietly near the elderly wizard. His eyes narrow at the sudden rumbling appearance of the elemental, but he makes no aggressive moves upon hearing the words of Archibald and Adebisi. Nevertheless, he slowly rolls his shoulders, the large haft of the warhammer slung alongside his traveling pack within an easy drawing reach. He makes no move for the weapon, yet he slowly sidesteps slightly, subtly providing a firing lane for Etta should the need arise.
Drail looks to Etta, his sword held high for a killing strike as he guards opening to the hallway. See her holster her pistol, his posture relaxes and he sheathes his blade in a graceful downward movement across his body. "That was well done," he says to the young gunslinger, "you almost looked like a real Pathfinder, for a moment there." Striding down the hall, broken pieces of beetle carapace crunching under his boots, he steps over the boy rolling and laughing on the floor and looks to the wizard. "Anything of import?" he murmurs, looking around the room, one hand resting easily on the hilt of his blade.
Drail follows a handful of paces behind the wizard, his face expressionless. One hand lays loosely on the hilt of his sheathed katana and he smiles thinly as Archibald mentions the Li family blade. He looks back toward Etta, noting her presence as he appears to keep watch around the chattering wizard.
Drail grits his teeth as he blindly whirls his blade in a defensive posture, grunting as the creature's teeth find purchase just above the vambrace on one of his arms. He pulls back, blood dripping from his arm to the stone floor. He cocks his head as he hears Etta, shifting his posture as she lays a hand on his shoulder, yet appearing unsurprised at the touch or her presence. "That is the pot calling the kettle black," he murmurs, "you are easily recognizable, for the other child smells of perfume and oils, while you reek of black powder and petulance." He smirks slightly, adding, "But your suggestion has merit, little girl." With that, his sword whips upward into an offensive posture and upon hearing the creature skitter backward, he presses forward, stepping toward the sound of movement and bringing the blade rushing downward in a flashing strike...
"I cannot see you, creature," he murmurs, under his breath...
"...but thankfully, you smell terrible..." Drail feels the slight shudder of the razor-sharp katana meeting the resistance of flesh...and the faintest trace of a smile crosses his scarred face.
Drail whirls back for another attack, his expression hardening into a grim mask of determination as the Blindheim rips into the elderly wizard yet again, felling Archibald. He steps up as the creature withdraws into the doorway, spinning to face it...
...and roars in pain and anger as the creature's blinding gazes catches him clean in its sights, his vision going instantly white. Stumbling, Drail lashes out in a rushed, almost defensive cut of his blade, in the direction he last perceived the creature to be in...
...and his katana cuts nothing but the fetid air...
Drail sweeps his katana downward to his side, ichor spraying to the floor as the blindingly quick motion cleans the blade of the remains of Maurit. He immediately turns, concern clearly written across his face, toward Etta. He smiles thinly as he sees the boy tend to Etta's wound and he gives the young one a nod of gratitude. Hearing the panicked shriek from Archibald, he whirls into motion and strides past Hooli, his blade held point-down near his hip.
Drail narrows his eyes, his face a hard mask of determination as he stalks forward toward the creature that is attacking the elderly wizard. The light emanating from its eyes is nearly blinding, but gritting his teeth, Drail focuses on the creature as he draws up his blade for a sweeping downward strike... - ...and grits his teeth as the darting creature dodges the sweep of his katana...
Drail whirls as Etta cries out in pain, cursing. His eyes narrow, taking in Maurit, his hand falling to the hilt of his blade. "Now, you die," he murmurs, his eyes displaying the rage that his voice did not carry. He steps forward toward the creature, his sword still not drawn...
Drail draws his blade in a blur of motion, the weapon sweeping out and up in an arc through Maurit as he closes to within striking distance of the woman.
The warrior closes his eyes, his sword held high in completion of the upward sweeping strike against the creature that had attacked Etta...
Drail purses his lips as Etta's firearm discharges. Nevertheless, he nods in seeming approval at the results of the shot, his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed blade. "Maybe it was going to surrender," he murmurs to the girl as she reloads her firearm. His face is expressionless at first, but finally shows the slightest hint of a smile. At the screeching words from Maurit, however, Drail's expression hardens. He looks arounds, his grip tightening on the hilt of his scabbarded sword. "If that...woman...even looks at you cross-eyed," he says under his breath to Etta, "pull one of those toys of yours and put a shot between her eyes." He turns, just in time to see the elderly wizard examining the fountain. His eyes go wide as he realizes the wizard is about to yet again utter a translated word. He reaches for Etta's arm, as if to pull her out of the way, then sighs audibly in relief as the wizard is interupted by the other woman. He murmurs to Etta in a near whisper. "If I ever get that addled in the head in my old age, you have my permission to put me out of my misery."
Drail looks at the woman as she offers to pick the locks. He straightens up, wiping at his mouth as he appears to be regaining his color. He gives her a long look, then turns to inspect each of his other compatriots, one at a time: the boy, the elderly wizard, the dwarf and finally, Etta. "Physical might," he murmurs, "does not appear to be this party's strong suit." He sighs softly, then hefts the crowbar once again. "While your offer of dealing with the locks is appreciated, they do not appear to be the problem. The ravages of time have dealt with them, just as those same ravages have made the cell doors wedged tight." He smiles, shakes his head and murmurs, "Once more, into the breach." With that, he takes a deep breath and strides back into the room, crowbar in hand.
Nearly gagging as the remaining two doors break free, Drail quickly examines the corpses, taking a sheaf of tattered and aged papers from the body dressed in the remains of Tian garments. Stumbling from the room, dry-retching, he puts one hand on a knee, coughing and taking ragged breaths. Nevertheless, he wordlessly holds up the papers to the party, as if in offering.
Drail watches the dwarf come stumbling out of the room, wretching. His jaw sets tightly and he peers into the room, checking for signs of threat or any movement. Seeing nothing, he kneels down, unhitching his pack and pulling a sturdy iron crowbar from within. Re-slinging his pack, he looks at Etta. "Stay here," he murmurs, before striding quickly into the room, crowbar in hand. The stench hits him immdediately and Drail immediately gags slightly, his eyes watering. "I know this smell," he gasps under his breath, "and everyday I am thankful I have never grown used to it." He hefts the crowbar, spitting on the floor to keep from retching.
Wrenching at the three doors, one is forced open. Drail takes a cursory look around then steps away, wavering slightly, from the room. He takes a series of deep breaths as he clears the doorway, bent over slightly, eyes closed. "Bodies, long dead," he says between breaths, still trying to recover from the overwhelming stench. "Tian garments on one, or what is left of the clothing, at least...one door is open, the others need further effort...or teamwork."
Drail cocks his head quizzically at the slimy ball as it wiggles toward him. Smiling thinly at Etta's words, he murmurs, "They so rarely are," as he sidesteps in a smooth practiced motion. His sword is still sheathed as he drops one hand to the hilt of his blade.
Drail shows no reaction to the startling report of Etta's firearm, already well-used to the cacophony her little experimental toys make. As he completes his sidestep, he suddenly draws his blade in a blur, the weapon sweeping free of the scabbard in a whipping upward slash through the slime ball.
Drail's eyes are closed, his body still, his pose frozen in completion of the slashing strike.
Drail narrows his eyes, watching Maurit skitter away. He then looks at Etta. "Age before beauty, I suppose, yes?" He shrugs softly. "Well, seeing as how both of those mean me, here we go." He gives Etta a teasing grin, the smile pulled lopsided by the scar running from his temple to his cheek. Without waiting for a response, Drail then strides forward toward the doorway, following the path of the woman, the boy and the elderly wizard.
Drail watches the elderly wizard shuffle forward, his jaw setting tightly in apparent frustration. He keeps Maurit in his line of sight, while glancing sidelong at Etta. "You are either getting more wise," he murmurs, "or more rude, it is difficult to tell." Drail then slips sidelong, to stand by Etta, keeping Maurit in front of him and one eye on the doorway. "Ladies first," he murmurs, "and since Etta hardly fits the term, I mean you, Maurit."
Drail narrows his eyes, yet finally removes his hand from the hilt of his sheathed blade. He cocks his head toward the now-open doorway. "Maurit, is this the way that you are familiar with? Is this the way that you took into the keep?" He looks up toward the young woman who had searched the doorway. "I mean you no disrespect, but perhaps it would be best to consult our newfound...companion, upon the defenses of this fortification."
Drail makes no move toward the door, his eyes staying locked on Maurit as she scampers and chatters. He speaks sidelong to Etta even as he watches Maurit. "Venture Captain Li made mention of a report from other Pathfinders," he murmurs, "but not of casualties or missing field agents." He cocks his head at Maurit. "Where are your compatriots, Pathfinder? Did you come to this place with others?"
Drail travels in near silence, his pace measured, his breathing low and quiet despite the rigors of the journey. His finery from the gathering has been replaced with banded and looped armor worn over broken-in leathers. The ornate blade from the previous evening is still belted at his waist, the ribbon that peacebonded it into the scabbard now gone. At the sudden scrabbling leap and appearance of the ragged, emaciated woman, Drail instantly sets his booted feet, his hand flashing to the hilt of the ornate blade. He does not draw, but his eyes remained locked on the crouching figure.
His eyes narrow, noting a detail among her tattered rags. "You are a Pathfinder," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving the woman. Drail cocks his head slightly, keeping the elderly wizard in his peripheral vision as the man begins to prattle at the woman. He takes no action, but his grip seems to tighten on the hilt of his blade, his knuckles whitening.
Drail stands toward the back of the party, listening to the words of the Andoran man while seeming to watch the gathering. As Maldris departs, Drail notes the beckoning Qadiran, following in the wake of the other Pathfinders. As Prince Aaqir al'Hakam introduces himself and begins to speak, Drail's expression begins to harden, his jaw setting tightly. He stares at the Qadiran, his eyes narrowing, appearing to study the man carefully.
At the Prince's suggestion of an agreement, he remains silent, his face expressionless, his eyes never leaving al'Hakam.
At the conclusion of the meeting with Amara Li, Drail stands with the ease of a man well-used to wearing a sword. He passes by Etta, meeting her eyes and with a wry grin, looks askance toward the elderly wizard. "And you call me old," he murmurs to her in passing. Drail stands at the doorway, allowing his newly met compatriots to walk out past him, giving each a slow measured nod as they do. Finally, he falls into step with Etta at the back of the group, walking back out toward the celebration. Seeing the beckoning wave of the Andoran with the medals, he looks to Etta, arching an eyebrow slightly, then watching as the rest of the party gravitates toward the man.
Drail, having taken the proffered cup of tea in both hands, raises it in respect toward the Venture Captain, taking a polite sip before placing the cup gently back down in front of him in a practiced motion. While listening to Amara Li's explanation, Drail glances sidelong at the seated Etta. Having ignored the young woman's earlier affectionate verbal jab with his customary stoicism, the faintest trace of a smile crosses his face at her obvious discomfort, then widens further into a warm approving grin at her words of respect toward the Venture Captain. Well, she did not put her feet on the table, and she actually used some manners. Perhaps she really is learning... At the concluding words from Amara Li, the warm expression instantly disappears from Drail's face, replaced with a look of firm resolve and respect. Meeting the eyes of the Venture Captain, he places his hand on the hilt of his peace-bonded katana, gripping it firmly. Without looking away from her, he slowly bows his head in acceptance of her request for aid. "This will be done, for the honor of your family."
Just FYI, Wakedown, my crunch/fluff is all set. You can find anything you might need on my character profile, linked up and good to go. AC / Armor Check penalties are currently set with my armor on, but as far as I know, I'm not wearing any of it at the festival gathering, so I'll post up some alternate fancy-clothes numbers later on today.
Entering the grounds of the lodge, Drail Harlon paused, his pale blue eyes scanning the crowd and taking in the activities of the revelers. Drail breathed out softly while his hands pulled at the lapels of his waist-length jacket, fashioned of supple leather with decorative trim at the collar and cuffs, worn over a pressed white tunic. A pair of pressed and clean dark trousers were tucked into calf-length boots, the buckles on them freshly shined. Drail smiled thinly, the expression pulled slightly lopsided by the scar running from his temple to the corner of his mouth on the right side of his face. Freshly shaved, his now-smooth cheeks and chin display the faint hint of other much lighter scars. He runs a hand over his freshly cut salt-and-pepper hair. Continuing to scan the crowd, Drail's hand falls from his hair to the hilt of the sword worn at his waist, coming to rest comfortably on the weapon. Sheathed in an ornate gilded scabbard, the long curved weapon appears of Tian Xia design and smithing, the hilt elaborately peace-bonded into the scabbard with yellow ribbon in what is a clear display of deference to the occasion. Now, to find Amara Li, Drail thought to himself, as he stepped forward into the revelry, moving through the crowd. His motions appear light and smooth, displaying the clear ease of a man used to wearing a sword. |
