As Vhalantru declares the increase on taxes upon both citizens and merchants alike, Maxim scowls and blows an angry stream of smoke from his mask.
Damned council. Strongarmin' the citizens an' businessfolks into partin' from well earned coin...
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Maxim smiles and raises his glass in both toast and affirmation of the request; "'Course my Lord, I will keep my eye and opportunities justly open." Looking around the gun-mage spies Lord Vhalantru calling for attention and takes that as his cue to rejoin his Uncle. "Lord Aslaxin. Until our next meeting." The demonic clad dwur bows and makes his way to look for the older merchant.
As Maxim-Nabthatoron gets his bell rung, the demon reels theatrically: "NO! I am ended! Curse you Surabar! CURSE YOU ALL!" ...then collapses to the ground. As it ebbs, wisps of smoke drift from his nose and mouth of the fallen demon-king. Clearly "dying" it utters its defiant last; "(Hack) You may have won Spellmason... but know this I return to the Abyss to plot once more... (Wheeze) For a millennia I will stew, and scheme! (Gurgle) While you and the fair nobles of this Cauldron will fade in power... (Gasp) Then I will have my reven..." Nabthatoron lies still.
Maxim-Nabthatoron takes the hit with mock aplomb; leering through toothed maw at the strike; "Call that a strike Spellmason? I am not one of your assembled bed warmers who will break like cheap china..." The demon-mage snaps his claws either side of Surabar's ears; "Perhaps you would prefer a succubus to teach you the art of hand to hand! Har!"
: Having been less than positive about the whole shindig until his Uncle's persuasions, Maxim eyes the Spellmason with quizzical eyes. God's be damned. No idea who that fella is... Got to be mindful an not rock the boat fer Adrick! The demon responds to psudo-Surabar's challenge with a mocking laugh; "It is you who will be homeless Spellmason when we demons oust the petty nobles and do-gooders of this city. We will empty the Cauldron and boil up a feast for all the Abyss!" Once again Maxim-Nabthatoron turns to his demonic legion; "Should I defeat this fool so we can dine on Founders Flesh?!" He spins and extends a crab like claw in the direction of a jug-chugging JJ; "When I do. Eat the water lover for our fish course!"
At the head of the demon horde Maxim listens to the taunts and playful jibes. The dwur flashes a hard smile within the mask, realising he can cut loose with his tongue at these peacocks and lofty nobles; Maxim-Nabthatoron rears up, blowing smoke from its scale'd nostrils in mock anger; "Har! Big talk from such soft little mortals. Judging by how frail and pathetic most of you are we will do this world a service when we flay your flesh and claim your souls!" He beckons with a claw first at the Spellmason, then JJ and his assembled cronies; "Come here and wipe our arses for us then O' Great Founders, for that is all you are fit for! Shoveling nightsoil and cowering at your own shadows!" The mighty demon then turns to his horde whipping them into a frenzy!
Maxim dutifully marches ahead of his Uncle, keen to showcase both the costume and the Garthûn business status. He allows his Uncle and those more inclined to such events to soak up the atmosphere, but endeavors to play his part - menacingly roaring at the crowds (and Cauldron founders who get too close); and bowing in gratitude of any compliments paid; "The vision an' meticulous attention to detail is down to Adrick Garthûn. Traits he values in both pleasure an' business..." Whilst unarmed for the ball, Maxim did wear his fine mithril chain under the costume and was judicious in selecting spells to ensure the mighty Nabthatoron was far from toothless...
This is Black Dow's Brawler... decided to make him (with your blessing Mark) Middle Aged - a world weary scrapper... Currently a placeholder profile - crunch being crunched as we speak Will give him an oirish gypsy feel :) |