Aye, sir.
Search Posts
Staring across the town square, Sarlene uses the statue of the Cold Woman to block out the vantages of the tavern. After a quick survey, she sees a small footpath behind the village chapel. I'll have to make my way around the entire f%!+ing square then, eh? Shit. No telling what's back there. A stiff breeze chills Sarlene and lifts her spirits. F&~~ it. Alright, sirs. I'll move behind the little temple and those few buildings to our south. If I wiggle past that... She squints again to the south, barely able to discern what lays beyond the tavern and barn. I guess that's a f~*@ing cemetery. Gods. Sarlene shivers, though it seems more a case of the "willies" rather than an actual shiver. She turns back to her companions. I'll see if there is an entryway in the rear, or this plan is shit before it starts. I'll send Stephen back if something goes horribly f$$!ing wrong, eh? I'll see you gentlemen soon. She gives a quick curtsy as she turns to leave. Sarlene pulls her cloak about her, and sets of for the rear of the chapel, careful to mask her face from the tavern across the square. Stephen flutters and begins a low orbit overhead.
I'll sneak my ass around back and see if there even is a f~%!ing back door, eh?
Sarlene looks down at Stephen, who looks back up at her. He shakes his head side-to-side. No f%##ing way, lady. Sarlene admonishes Stephen before giving her gear an unnecessary but settling shuffle - as if that adjustment were all she needed to be ready for battle. She looks back to Jezzera. That bird is f!~*ing useless most of the time. Axel and I can handle this, eh?
We could approach from both sides. A diversion at the front door? Sarlene's face is grim. For once, she seems focused and logical.
Sarlene calls from outside the house. Jezzera! Axel's fox prints won't last long if it snows! she casts a wary eye to the sky and waits nervously for the tracker to lead her.
Sarlene gathers some dried meats and foodstuffs from the pantry and sets it out for the children. She pats each on the head before turning toward the door. As she passes Axel, she addresses him in a low tone. Thank you. Stephen squawks from the bowels of the pantry, emerging a moment later with some salted fish in his beak to join Sarlene as she heads out the door of the house.
Sarlene stops with Daegan's help, though she seems apt to leap out the door at the slightest provocation. She gathers herself emotionally, mumbling a string of obscenities in a variety of languages the children hopefully do not understand. With a fitful shake, Sarlene stops her antics and shepherds the children to her. She then turns to Axel, with all the concern of a mother. "Do we have no other plan than to hide them? Will they be safe in their mothers home?" She looks to Orm. Is there someone you can stay with? Someone your mother likes very much?
As te guards begin to take Nadya away, Sarlene looks at Daegan, tears forming in her eyes. We're just letting her f&%&ing go? Sarlene is incredibly distraught, believing her friends would've put up more of a fight. Not one of you will raise a damn blade in her defense? that's not f+$*ing right. I'm going after her. Sarlene stomps angrily toward the door, unaware of Axel and Daegan's intentions.
Sarlene holds back the children, keeping them from running to their mother. She whispers to them, "It's alright, loves. Cover your ears." Sarlene shows them how to cover their ears (earmuffs) and then turns with a snarl to the guards. Sarlene looks to Axel and Daegan. In a hushed but audible tone "I'm not f!$&ing going anywhere with these a!%+*!%s."
After a curt nod to Nadya, Sarlene takes to the boys as if they were kin, chasing after Orm and Mjoll as they chase after Stephen and Rod, calling after them in Skald.
The short walk to Nadya's house is marked by silence between Sarlene and her companions. The soft crunch of snow and slush underfoot becomes increasing apparent as the din of the town fades. Each traveler seems lost in thought - spellbound. Sarlene inhales deeply, the frigid air piercing her lungs like daggers, stirring her essence, chilling her soul. Her spirits are lifted as winter takes her in its embrace. She breathes out, letting the air go, feeling a part of her leave with it. She looks to Daegan, the looming trapper. He is adjusting his gear. Checking. Confirming. It gives him comfort. Kalhar loses his step for an instant as his boot contacts some obstacle hidden by snow. His demeanor unfazed, he trudges forward. Having seem him in combat, Sarlene knows his neutrality can give way to a ferocity reserved for violence. The Glacier... that's a good name for him. Slow, cool, eternal, unforgiving. Jezzera is unconcerned with his position. An outsider might label him aloof, but Sarlene knows better. His eyes are to the horizon, his nose trained to the breeze. He's collecting - sensing. Always on the hunt, that one. Sarlene cracks a small smile. Sarlene shifts her gaze, and her eyes meet with Axel's for an instant before he returns to his notetaking. How do you walk and write? F#~*, that's off. she thinks to herself. Deep in her, she is jealous. When she sees a sword, she sees a weapon - a tool. He sees endless wonderment, like that of a child but so much more intense - practical. F*@$in right. she says aloud, to no one in particular. Her words pierce the silence - and draw a short gaze or two from her compatriots. She looks at the house up ahead. Her hands move to her harpoon and she maintains her smile. We'll kill any f*$~er that comes at us. Me and mine.
Sarlene bursts in to a rage. F*@~ that! Nadya is our friend! What kind of man are you? Listen to yourselves, eh? It's f+#&ing NADYA. OUR FRIEND Nadya. She turns to each of her firends, her gaze questioning the possibility of Axel's accusation apparent in everyone's disposition. As she looks to Kalhar and Daegan, her initial certainty fades as she resigns herself to the objective fact that Nadya could, in fact, not be a true friend to she and her companions. Sarlene's eyes mist, but she is quick to hide that fact. She shuffles away from the group, shivering, disgruntled, and visibly upset. She mumbles and curses (as per usual), drifting between an outright damnation of Nadya to her annoyance at the fickle notion of friendship. F%#&... dammit... can't trust a damn person... stupid Nadya... all a trap...
Sarlene gathers her things, coaxes Stephen from his hiding place, and sets for the door. She continues to mumble a string of profanities, slowly cooling her demeanor. As her feet cross the threshold, she ceases to speak, and stretches her neck, eschewing a sick crackle as her vertebrae pop in sequence. Though she feigns serenity, her stress is immediately apparent to anyone that cares to notice.
F%#@in' right, yeah? Sarlene has shaken off her disbelief, and begun to gather her things about her. Never known a good man of the North to offer beer and then a shitty little crossbow. No honor. Absolutely f~@$ all. You daft bastards, thinking that a damn crossbow earns you the right to whatever the f#+~ you want. Shove it in my damn face, see what f~#$ing happens... She continues to rant, more to herself than anyone else - a string of obscenities and curses mumbled ad infinitum .
Sarlene is utterly confused. Aghast. Stephen cowers behind a barstool.
Sarlene finishes the the last of her beer with gusto, and slams the empty mug heartily. With her usual wide grin, she readily affirms her hoydenish character. You're f~*%ing right, sirs. I don't need a cock to hear a garish tale.
Sarlene drinks her beer, but keeps an eye out for trouble. Too many years in the shops of Kalsgard told her that free was never truly free. She cradles her coinpurse beneath the counter nervously. She studies the barkeep as he sets about his tasks.
Her wary expression eases. Ah, f$!& me, sirs, I've been rude. This beer is fantastic, eh?
The mention of shchi reminds Sarlene of the terrible, shitty shchi she had at sea. The cook was awful, their provisions were worse, and shchi was nothing to be excited about in the first place. She chokes back her gag reflex, and focuses on something that better suits her tastes. Give me something stout and heavy, sir. None of this pithy tea, eh? Never too early to drink in the North. Sarlene eyes the tea warily. Sarlene speaks as the bartender turns his back, and bluntly asks, So why such hospitality? I've never known such kindness where winters are long and life is harsh.
Brrrrrrp Sarlene burps, the foul odor of old, dark beer still on her breath. She looks at her companions, her sullen expression suddenly gleeful. Never too early for a good beer, eh? she suggests to the crew. Stephen waddles into the bar ahead of the group as Sarlene waits for a response.
Sarlene shakes off her chill, and wills her numb hands to grip her the hilt of Narlbane tightly. For the Southlands! she cries as she charges wildly at Balgruuf.
GM: Sarlene bears down on Balgruuf with gusto. She aims the blade towards the wizard's chest as she returns the wizard's sinister smile, never breaking eye contact, as she barrels forward.
Balgruuf! You son of a b!@~%! Come out and face me! The old wizard had disappeared into the fog, but Sarlene kept her sword poised to attack. I'll get that old bastard. No spell will save you this time.
GM: don't forget that I have a +1 from my goggles!
Sarlene is sitting on the floor, reading from the book she carries. She finally opens her mouth, her first words since leaving the blacksmith. I haven't seen her. Or the boys. She snaps to, suddenly rising to her feet. Her face is panicked. Could something have happened to them? I don't trust anyone in this f!~!ing town. If any bastard harms as much as a hair on their tiny heads I'll f&+$ his liver with my harpoon.
The door to the blacksmith swings open to reveal Axel, Kalhar, and Jezzera. Axel looks around the shop then looks to Sarlene. "How goes it?' he says in Hallit. "We've picked up everything we needed at the general store. There's just a few things left on the list here that we need then we can get going"
Sarlene's friends enter as her last words leave her tongue. She closes her eyes for a moment, and exhales. She sets the items for sale in a nearby counter and stuffs the list in Axel's hands. She storms out the door, cursing under her breath, visibly frustrated. Goddamn westerners... f##&ing about while there's coin to make... pithy steel... a$@%$*$... stupid girl... She seems equally upset at herself and the blacksmith. Outside, she settles herself and stops the first person she sees, asking for directions to the nearest tavern. With a curt nod, she's off for a pint.
Sarlene's dealings with the blacksmith continue to prove rather fruitless. Her attempts at using bombastic, childish, and overly complex communication have soured, and she has resorted to a low and crude manner of bargaining. Look, f*~+ me, I'm tired of this, and you too, eh? I've got yer damn gold. I've got some damn weapons. You're a gods-damned blacksmith. For f!#&'s sake, you're a man of the North. Will you accept no barter or trade of your paltry stocks? I don't need f&&$ing horseshoes or pitons or axeheads. Give me a f%!&ing sword, would you? A spear or three? Some scythes or pickaxes or anything at all that you can club, stab, or pierce a daft f&&@ing skull with? Sarlene is exasperated and furious. I remember this being so easy when I was young... how has shopping gotten so difficult? Too long at sea maybe? She thinks to herself. Her diplomatic options are running out, and her temper is rising. She snaps her fingers angrily behind her back at a slow tempo, each snap producing a small spark. Snap... snap... snap... Though the idea of burning this store to the ground passed through her mind, this action is more-than-anything a nervous habit born of frustration. Snap... snap... snap... Although to others, it might not be so obvious. Snap... snap... snap...
Axe blades and sledrunners? I expect to purchase a bit deal more than that, sir. Sarlene pulls a silver dagger from the assortment of armaments she has now laid on the counter. She turns it slowly in her hands, and looks the blacksmith in the eyes. I spose if you want to turn this into horseshoes, that's your business, but I hope you have more to offer than horseshoes and that lot. No blacksmith north of Varisia is worth three shits if he can't make a fine blade. There's money to be made if you have the time and energy to speak true with me.
That's no way to treat a lady, sir. No way at all. Can I be clumsy, or is that a crime in your shop? Sarlene is trying to play a curious mix of character: both the obstinate badass and the 'helpless girl.'
It's not working. Instead she just appears rude and clumsy. She struggles to gather up the items she had brought for sale, picking a variety of mortal instruments off the floor. She gathers herself together, and calms her nerves. In her most proper tone, she reasserts herself. I've come for a trade, fair and true. If you can not offer me that, I best be on my way, sir.
Sarlene keeps her pleasant smile, but darts her head about when the child(ren) aren't looking. She is smart enough to know that her ears will allay fears in some, and stir anger in others.
Sarlene stumbles through the doorway, and her armload of armaments crashes to the floor slovenly. She calls out in Skald as the hilt of a sword smashes against her toes. Shitty f#**in weapons can't even f$~*ing hold em gods be damned and f+#@in demons flayed... As is usual, her rapid obscenities seem limitless.
Dear Axel,
-Sarlene
Sarlene walks with Axel and Kalhar down the snow-covered central street, but leaves their company at the door of the general store, again warning them that Northerners are not easily bargained with (her tone lies somewhere between a joke and a dire warning). She continues to the blacksmith, the unmistakable sounds of metal being shaped on an anvil giving her direction. With a panoply of armaments cradled in her arms, she uses her back to open the door of the shop, and turns to give a warm greeting to anyone that will listen. Aye, you master of metal, I've come for your wares, eh? Give me steel and I'll give you lesser metals. The joke about 'lesser metals,' gold and silver, is a traditional saying in the Lands of the Linnorm Kings. In a land constantly under attack, a sword is worth more than its weight in gold.
---Nadya Peska's Place --- Sarlene looks at the boy, stunned by his question. W-w-why no, of course not! I'm from Kalsgard, on the Western shore. I lived by the ocean, and I used to be a whaler. She looks at the boy for a moment, unsure how to proceed. Her story is true, but she has been called a white witch or a snowcaster before. It made her childhood uncomfortable. She hid in her adoptive father's shop and read tales and scrolls of adventures and legends to escape the torments of others. Earlier she thought it was her elven ancestry that had worried Nadya. Now she realizes that she looks like Nadya's hated enemy. Sarlene chuckles at her own stupidity. I should've known better. She smiles, and squats down before the boy. I'll prove I'm not from the Pale Tower, how about that? She winks at the boy, and sets about removing her hood and wool cap. She pulls her hair back, revealing her pointed ears. Have you ever seen anyone from the Pale Tower with ears like these?
Aye, a fair plan. Pray your pursestrings are resilient, friends. Northerners strike a hard bargain. Sarlene wraps her scarf about her neck, pulls her mangy cloak over her shoulders, and begins to pile arms in her arms.
Once in the house, Stephen rushes about the house, toying with Nadya's children and searching for crumbs.
Sarlene is decidedly at home. She is ignoring almost everything of import, speaking excitedly in Skald to anyone she can. Her odd smile returns and her energy is contagious.
Sarlene scrambles to the ready.
Damn snow-f!*&ers... icicles and shit... ravens...
I have my harpoon and Stephen, that's all that matters, eh?
There is a ravenous efficiency to Sarlene's gastronomic enterprise. Sarlene beams an inappropriately joyous smile at the new guest as stew sloshes gracelessly from her lips, the last spoonful ending up as much on her chin as in her mouth. Stephen leaps up to her lap to polish off the remnants of her relinquished bowl. Sarlene reaches out and grabs Nadya's shoulder, as a sister or cousin might, and keeps her smile as she swallows the last of her stew.
Sarlene notices Jezzera's awkward expression and tone, and chimes in in Hallit. My handsome companion here is not a northerner, though he is a capable warrior. she turns to Jezzera to provide an answer to his request, and define his question more accurately. There are plenty of White Witches all over. Our objective is to the north, in Irrisen, if Daegan here is correct in suggesting that we are in Hoarwood forest. Sarlene turns back to Nadya, and continues in Common. What news from the capital? Any unusual news in the northlands? How do we get to the capital from here?
Sarlene matches Nadya's puzzlement with a stern gaze of her own. She's no stranger to Irrisen, and she's had trouble here before. Sarlene lowers the hood of her thick, furred cloak and takes off her cap. She pulls her hair over her ears, pretending that it needed some adjustment. Her gnarled and matted white mane deserves no such treatment, nor would it benefit from a brush of the hand. The move looks natural enough, but it is certainly intended to reveal her ears, which come to small points - revealing her mixed ancestry. She mumbles under her breath in Elven, F%*# this air feels great. Sarlene pulls her cap back on, readjusting her hair beneath it, and pulls her hood back up. She nods to Nadya, following Axel's request. In Hallit, I swear to ya, mam, we are great travel companions, tough as ice and dangerous as a blizzard we are. Certainly it'd be no great trouble to accompany you, eh? Plus, there may be another uninvited guest that needs to meet his snowy grave. She motions to the dead insect, Daegan's arrows still visibly protruding from its carcass.
Sarlene ejects a dagger from its sheath and adjusts the straps on her pack. I say we kill the damn bug and be on our way. Let's be f$$@ing quick about it, eh? She pulls her goggles over her eyes for an instant, only to be sure that the giant insect plodding through the snow is not a trick or illusion. Assured that it is real, she moves toward the creature, in concert with her companions. Her eyes dart about. These woods are unfamiliar to her. Daegan said it was the Hoarwood Forest, and she believes him. She's heard tales... travelers who've meandered through these woods on the way to Whitethrone or Hillcross and the smattering of villages in-between. Largely they said to avoid these woods. No reason why. She never asked for one. She was young, and the old men who told these stories were too drunk and barbaric to be taken seriously. Now she seriously regrets her youthful ignorance. A few days sailing from home, and still lost as shit. she thinks to herself. She laughs at the thought before focusing her mind on the battle at hand.
Sarlene takes a deep breath. Yes. Finally. The cold air fills her lungs and rejuvenated her spirits. Gods, I thought it would be years before I'd make it back north. she look over her companions. Kalhar, are you alright?
Sarlene goes from overjoyed from the potential of returning North, to solemn disbelief as the Black Rider takes his own life. The icy magic grips her heart, seizing her appendages, but she feels her mind uniquely unrestrained.
The magic leaves her, and she feels her body come back within her command. With a grim determination she faces the portal. Well, f+*% it, let's see what happens Stephen flutters to her shoulder, and the two follow Daegan into the portal.
Sarlene approached the small crowd slowly, taking in the conversation with interest. Something about Baba Yaga had always intrigued her. A trip to Irrisen? Fancy that. And here I thought it'd take forever for me to head north and back home. Sarlene is not talking to anyone in particular. Her amusement seems unbound. She continues to mumble incoherently and happily in a variety of languages before she notices the rider's strange glances. Aye! What's with the stare, eh?
gamespace? program?
Sarlene moves slowly, and looks over Axel's shoulder. Well shit. Her eyes glitter. Treasure...
Sarlene begrudgingly recovers her daggers from the snow, slush, and exposed mud of the battleground. Stephen joins her, fluttering down with a loud squawk from his orbit in the skies above. She joins her comrades, and squats in the snow wearily. Well, glad to know that even trolls can have friends, eh? Sirs, I hope you all find yourselves well? She surveys those around her, before realizing that the topic of conversation has turned to the instruments Axel recovered. Upon hearing his description, she shows visible disgust at the boar spear. Seems a bit cheap, eh? I prefer my trusty harpoon. if you care to observe diligently: Sarlene has no harpoon with her. She seems not to notice.
Round 8: Damn. Sarlene looks to where her blade has disappeared into the snow for a moment. She turns to the Mephit, swatting away at Kalhar. Back again... Sarlene trudges to Kalhar's rear, and uses her larger companion as a shield.
Round 7: Sarlene stands a few feet behind Daegan, and draws her second dagger. She closes her left eye, squinting in order to block out the white light and fire to focus on her target. Her fingers curl delicately over the tip of the blade, and she bites her tongue as she takes aim. She hurls the blade overhand, and it swirls towards the Mephit.
Round 6: Daegan, steady yourself! Sarlene shuffles back through the snow and slush between Kalhar and Daegan, looking over her shoulder at the hovering mephit. She maneuvers to Daegan's side, firmly gripping his sides and mumbling in Hallit. For an instant, Daegan loses his breath for a moment, and can hear ice crackling beneath his skin. His chest is cold, heavy, and frighteningly painful for a fraction of a second before he feels remarkably better.
|