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Snow? What the... Svartokshe listened as the dwarf warned about the incoming attack, his grip on the tankard causing his knuckles to whiten. Bad things happen no matter where one goes, I guess. Downing the rest of his drink, he checked his weapons and then walked over to the growing crowd, figuring strength in numbers.
"Aye." He took a long draught of the ale and then sighed. "I tried to escape the cold, but it followed me anyway." Noticing the elf and two "perfect" people looking their way, he sighed. "It's always the weird ones." He muttered into his mug.
Eventually growling at himself, Svartokshe decided that the coffee wasn't strong enough. Standing and placing the wooden carving in a pocket, he headed back to the Stoat. He passed by the group surrounding the silver wolf, and his frown deepened. That beast ... no, this isn't Irrisen. He thought. A winter wolf would never submit to that kind of foolery. He observed the she-elf and the two who seemed too ... perfect to be human. He slowed his walk, but only long enough to place at least two of them as being from the north as he was. Entering the Stoat once again, he casts a glare at Menander, who smiles sheepishly in return. His wife, Kale, smiles at the boy as he entered. "Welcome back, lad. Will you partake in breakfast with us?" "I thank you for your offer, but I'll just have a warm ale and some meat and bread at the bar." He felt like the woman was trying too hard to play a motherly type with him, but he tried to be polite in return. Menander met Svartokshe at the bar, bearing a mug and a plate. The boy paused, debating if he should pray first. Deciding against it, he began to eat slowly. He then noticed he was sitting next to another elf. Hmm, elves aren't that common in Taldor, I thought. Catching the elf's comment about festivals, he nodded, "I'll drink to that."
"Desna weeps," Svartokshe groaned as he was woken to a mop in his face. He glared hatefully up at Menander, who returned the glance with a smirk. "Up ye git, stranger, the sun already has." Not bothering to wipe his face, the Irriseni boy sat up and checked his gear. His axe laid beside him, with his cloak wrapped round his hammer, serving as a pillow. Satisfied that his effects remained with him, he stood and equipped himself. As he did so, he managed to overhear the rumors the morning patrons discussed among themselves. "It ain't natural, none of it." One said, "It's never been this cold in the middle o summer." Another piped in, "People have been seeing things lately. Creatures, white as the snow now in the Border Wood. Other things as well." As he passed, these gossipers cast uneasy glances at Svartokshe, noting his heritage and how he ignored the cold by not wearing his cloak, as these peasants did, huddling by the fire. He came up to the bar and asked for coffee, which he took outside after paying for it. He breathed in the crisp morning air, noting that though the smell was different, it carried the familiar yet hated bite of home. He took to wandering the town before stopping to marvel at the creations of the gnomish woodcarver, the detail and care put into the creations called to him somehow. He frowned, however, when he recognized why, for there were Irriseni symbols hidden within the carvings. "Thinking of home?" the gnome asked, his eyes keen. He sighed, "Aye, you?" The gnome shrugged. "This weather does that to us, does it not? How long has it been for you?" "Three years, to the day." Svartokshe realized that it was his eighteenth today as well, and a sadness took him. "How much for the butterfly?" The rest of the morning he spent staring at the carved wood, mentally comparing it to the rusty holy symbol of Desna he carried in a pocket.
Merry Kuthona's Day (or something like that :)
This may sound like a dumb quesstion, but are we starting the same time our fearless leader Tarfugal said earlier or shall we start sooner or later?
EST, New York time or whatever it is called.
Hail, fellow travelers.
"I am honored to be chosen, I vow I shall not fail."
"Indeed, may your weapons find their mark against your foes and may Desna-- ... may luck be on your side."
You missed the 52nd post of this thread, didn't you, Saga?
Under normal situations, I would have a larger, more detailed background, but my sponsor - the noble, albeit misguided, House_Arneste - tried for developing my persona rather than my story, as he tends to create characters "cut from the same cloth" with their actions and personality. If a developed backstory would be desired by anyone interested, one can and will be written up.
Venerable DM, my "fluff and crunch" is, I think, finished. Your honest review of my abilities and story would be appreciated. Also, a belated congratulations on celebrating the day of your birth!
Greetings, I am Svartokshe Mar- ... nevermind, call me Black-Ice, most do. House_Arneste sent me here after hearing that there would be others who would join me on an "adventure". He also warned me that they would be asking about my story, personality, and abilities. Well, here goes: Background:
I was raised in wintry Irrisen, a land corrupted by witches and their fell allies. My family were once their masters, but as the Jadwiga took over and spread their influence throughout the region, my family was forced into lesser social classes.
When I was six, a hag seduced my father and then deposited her changeling spawn on our doorstep. We named her Filla. At nine my mother was stolen away by a warlock and killed after he had his way with her. On my fifteenth birthday, a gang of cold fey kidnapped my siblings and I and tortured them to death, forcing me and Filla (the changeling) to watch. My father soon died from a wasting illness. Filla and I were taken in by another family, but I had had enough. I ran away from Irrisen, from the merciless cold, and somehow got past the guardians of the border and kept going south. I hoped that the warmth of the southern regions would thaw the ice in my heart, but the cold only got more intense. Eventually I stopped crying myself to sleep, but the nightmares remained. I will have my revenge, the winter and those who abuse its power will suffer at my hands. Personality:
Those who've known me enough often describe me as distant, as if my focus is elsewhere. Those who call me "Black-Ice" know of my hatred, comparing me to black ice, hidden from most's view till it is too late, and when revealed they soon know how dangerous I can be.
I am not without compassion. I understand suffering, especially from the cold weather and the ice in mortals' hearts, better than most. I will protect others from those who'd bully them, and I will fight those who believe that they can get away with anything. Appearance:
My skin is very pale, but not translucent, rather it looks like its been frosted. My hair is the color of raven's feathers, and it naturally settles into a feathery texture. My eyes are a very pale blue, almost silver. I am not bulky, but rather lithe and wiry. I think that is what you in Roleplaying-Land call fluff, so House_Arneste will soon create a "character sheet" to organize my skills for consideration in this adventure. Good luck all, may your blood run warm when you do what you love. |
