Thanks for continuing this one. Your descriptions of the environments are great!
Not to mention a mysterious lead character.
When curtains fall
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ChikenKannon
- Dasarian Hero
- Posts: 1268
- Joined: Tue Nov 14, 2006 10:34 am
- Main Player Character: ------
- Other PCs: Haven't touched these in ages:
Lok'Tok
Lorne Mearesworth
Mars Benedict
Cpl John Mackev
Gutsnikk
Lorne Xavier Sunderson Falderhouse Skulltickler Mearesworth
Oronar - Location: Somewhere over the rainbow
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Kell
- WANTED: Dead or Alive
- Posts: 2560
- Joined: Fri Sep 22, 2006 9:42 pm
- Main Player Character: Yvalee Serius
- Other PCs: Yvalee Serius | Ardaion Aeramin
Retired: Kell Dy'ner | Redboot Lieutenant Azrael Snapwyre | Aswaith Ravenash - Location: Third row, second grave to the left
Re: As the Curtains close
Eight years.. Eight years of wandering. Eight years of not belonging anywhere was coming to an end. Eight years had made him weary and tired. The coins he left Cear with back then were long spent, as was the hatred he felt back then. So he was going to turn back to Cear, returning to a home he walked away from as a youth.
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Kell
- WANTED: Dead or Alive
- Posts: 2560
- Joined: Fri Sep 22, 2006 9:42 pm
- Main Player Character: Yvalee Serius
- Other PCs: Yvalee Serius | Ardaion Aeramin
Retired: Kell Dy'ner | Redboot Lieutenant Azrael Snapwyre | Aswaith Ravenash - Location: Third row, second grave to the left
24
We’re in the Cear city gaol. I have just spoken with one of the commanders, who has advised me to go speak with another city official. I am trying to get my citizenship of Cear reaffirmed. I used to live here in Cear, eight years ago, with my mother. I lived here until she passed away. I was barely seventeen years old.
The appointed city official asks me for my name. I answer calm but confidently. “Milan Nemchinov.” He looks up to me for a moment before marking it down in the register. Perhaps he’s heard the name before. Perhaps he knew of my mother. I carry her last name.
He asks me for a place of birth. It isn’t Cear, but this is what I answer. Perhaps later he will find out that my birth was not registered here. But I doubt it that I am the only one who will claim that his birth was never registered. Speaking the truth is not an option.
This Varanite dog who is entering my name into this register as I file for citizenship; I doubt that he remembers the hardships, pain and grief his ancestors bestowed upon mine. But I remember. Here I stand like my fathers before in the shadow of the Empire, waiting for approval on my existence. I hold no love for Varana or Varanites. Still, I have learned to adjust and I strive to fit in seamlessly.
The dog smiles to me and now he asks me what happened to my mother. I tell him that she died of a stroke. He smiles again and tells me that he heard otherwise. I tell him that clarifying wild gossip is not one of my goals. His smile fades. He takes the hint and he nods. To appease me, I presume, he tells me about how he used to go listen to her. I could sincerely not care less, but I nod and this time I do present him with a smile because I recognize his insecurity.
I recognize much more; too many mouths to feed and being caught in the rut of taking names, registering them because some higher ranked official has demanded he did so. This here is a middle-aged man who never managed to grow out of performing mundane tasks for mundane people.
Consciously I straighten my shoulders, making my own form tall and broad. I have determined to be the alpha male in this conversation. I raise my head and ask him if this is all he needs to know from me to make my registration official. The man nods and explains to me that he will send the confirmation to my address. Then he asks me what my address is. He forgot to ask for it before. I explain to him that I have no current address, but that any papers can be sent to the Two Bridges Inn. Until I have found property in Cear. I make it sound as if it is only a matter of finding the right moment.
He asks me if I have any talents like my mother had and if I will be following her in her footsteps. The idea of following her in her footsteps sincerely amuses me. I shake my head. No; I will not be a carbon copy of my whore mother. I have come back for far different reasons but again, I stray from dead honest truth. I answer that unfortunately a singing voice is not something I inherited, but that I will be doing business in taverns, inns and pubs nonetheless. You see, I trade in cheap and dirty magic. I shake my stack of cards and present to you what you expect to see. I will make you gasp in delight with my trickery and deceit. You will pay me for pulling wool over your eyes. And you will love it. But of course, I don’t tell him that. I leave it in the middle. Instead I smile to him and we reach an understanding. Then I leave.
The appointed city official asks me for my name. I answer calm but confidently. “Milan Nemchinov.” He looks up to me for a moment before marking it down in the register. Perhaps he’s heard the name before. Perhaps he knew of my mother. I carry her last name.
He asks me for a place of birth. It isn’t Cear, but this is what I answer. Perhaps later he will find out that my birth was not registered here. But I doubt it that I am the only one who will claim that his birth was never registered. Speaking the truth is not an option.
This Varanite dog who is entering my name into this register as I file for citizenship; I doubt that he remembers the hardships, pain and grief his ancestors bestowed upon mine. But I remember. Here I stand like my fathers before in the shadow of the Empire, waiting for approval on my existence. I hold no love for Varana or Varanites. Still, I have learned to adjust and I strive to fit in seamlessly.
The dog smiles to me and now he asks me what happened to my mother. I tell him that she died of a stroke. He smiles again and tells me that he heard otherwise. I tell him that clarifying wild gossip is not one of my goals. His smile fades. He takes the hint and he nods. To appease me, I presume, he tells me about how he used to go listen to her. I could sincerely not care less, but I nod and this time I do present him with a smile because I recognize his insecurity.
I recognize much more; too many mouths to feed and being caught in the rut of taking names, registering them because some higher ranked official has demanded he did so. This here is a middle-aged man who never managed to grow out of performing mundane tasks for mundane people.
Consciously I straighten my shoulders, making my own form tall and broad. I have determined to be the alpha male in this conversation. I raise my head and ask him if this is all he needs to know from me to make my registration official. The man nods and explains to me that he will send the confirmation to my address. Then he asks me what my address is. He forgot to ask for it before. I explain to him that I have no current address, but that any papers can be sent to the Two Bridges Inn. Until I have found property in Cear. I make it sound as if it is only a matter of finding the right moment.
He asks me if I have any talents like my mother had and if I will be following her in her footsteps. The idea of following her in her footsteps sincerely amuses me. I shake my head. No; I will not be a carbon copy of my whore mother. I have come back for far different reasons but again, I stray from dead honest truth. I answer that unfortunately a singing voice is not something I inherited, but that I will be doing business in taverns, inns and pubs nonetheless. You see, I trade in cheap and dirty magic. I shake my stack of cards and present to you what you expect to see. I will make you gasp in delight with my trickery and deceit. You will pay me for pulling wool over your eyes. And you will love it. But of course, I don’t tell him that. I leave it in the middle. Instead I smile to him and we reach an understanding. Then I leave.
Last edited by Kell on Wed Aug 20, 2014 3:55 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Kell
- WANTED: Dead or Alive
- Posts: 2560
- Joined: Fri Sep 22, 2006 9:42 pm
- Main Player Character: Yvalee Serius
- Other PCs: Yvalee Serius | Ardaion Aeramin
Retired: Kell Dy'ner | Redboot Lieutenant Azrael Snapwyre | Aswaith Ravenash - Location: Third row, second grave to the left
9
I am nine years old. My mother is alive and we are traveling through the Whitesands Wastes. We have a caravan which is drawn forth by our horses. All of our worldly possessions are in this caravan, or being carried by us. It is as if I have always known how to ride horses and I have one of my own too. She is a white, docile mare.
My grandmother sells potions to those who look for easy cures. Her potions will potentially cure anything from making simple warts disappear to growing back torn off limbs. We never stay around long enough to see if the promised results come true though. We just stay long enough to collect the money.
My grandfather is a hustler. He pawns off whatever is worth the coin and plays his games. The odds seem to always be in his favor but occasionally it will end in accusations of unfair play. Sometimes the consequence is having to pack our bags and continue the traveling. To the next town where nobody knows or where they have forgotten about the first time we arrived.
My mother dances and sings. When she does, men come see her. She wears her dancing clothes; her colorful 25 yard skirt and her choli top that makes her breasts look full and voluptuous. Golden rings dangle from her ears and her lips are painted red. Around her head she wears expensive assuit. Around her hips little bells, to emphasize her dancing whilst she plays on their needs. It works. All of the men want to have her for themselves. But she never wants them back. All she wants is their money, so I pass them by with my hat and my cute little boy’s smile. Sometimes I will dress up like a girl. Because little girls are even cuter and irresistable.
Though we make coin in the cities, we mostly live a desert life. When the desert provides we will live off the land. We travel by night and rest by day. It is not an easy life yet it is rewarding. There are always new opportunities waiting for us, right over the next sandy dune.
I am nine years old and am just like any boy this age a little bit on the wild side. I am starting to discover what it means to be a man and every so often my grandfather will take me with him on his nightly scavenger hunts through obscure bars and pubs to teach me his trade. I am tall for my age but still my grandfather tells me to dress up smart so I look older. Sometimes he will smudge my face with soot and I easily pass off as fifteen. I learn a lot by observing him.
I learn a lot about how my people are perceived. We are called scum, thieves, dirty scoundrels. We are never welcome, yet when my mother dances or sings they all want to see her and come listen to her. I am becoming increasingly aware of the dual standards my ilk is met with and I am starting to hate what was done to us by the Empire, the position we are forcefully put in.
Every so often I will let them know that I know. I take one of their dogs or cats, put it down and lay it on their doorstep. Or I throw a stone through their window. Once I set fire to a house but nobody got really hurt. The fire was put out too soon. After that my mother told me that I shouldn’t do those things anymore. It will make people dislike us. I don’t care because they already dislike us anyways. It is not my fault that they hate us and treat us so poorly so I don’t think I am doing anything wrong. But if my mother wants me to stop making them dislike us, I suppose I will try.
My grandmother sells potions to those who look for easy cures. Her potions will potentially cure anything from making simple warts disappear to growing back torn off limbs. We never stay around long enough to see if the promised results come true though. We just stay long enough to collect the money.
My grandfather is a hustler. He pawns off whatever is worth the coin and plays his games. The odds seem to always be in his favor but occasionally it will end in accusations of unfair play. Sometimes the consequence is having to pack our bags and continue the traveling. To the next town where nobody knows or where they have forgotten about the first time we arrived.
My mother dances and sings. When she does, men come see her. She wears her dancing clothes; her colorful 25 yard skirt and her choli top that makes her breasts look full and voluptuous. Golden rings dangle from her ears and her lips are painted red. Around her head she wears expensive assuit. Around her hips little bells, to emphasize her dancing whilst she plays on their needs. It works. All of the men want to have her for themselves. But she never wants them back. All she wants is their money, so I pass them by with my hat and my cute little boy’s smile. Sometimes I will dress up like a girl. Because little girls are even cuter and irresistable.
Though we make coin in the cities, we mostly live a desert life. When the desert provides we will live off the land. We travel by night and rest by day. It is not an easy life yet it is rewarding. There are always new opportunities waiting for us, right over the next sandy dune.
I am nine years old and am just like any boy this age a little bit on the wild side. I am starting to discover what it means to be a man and every so often my grandfather will take me with him on his nightly scavenger hunts through obscure bars and pubs to teach me his trade. I am tall for my age but still my grandfather tells me to dress up smart so I look older. Sometimes he will smudge my face with soot and I easily pass off as fifteen. I learn a lot by observing him.
I learn a lot about how my people are perceived. We are called scum, thieves, dirty scoundrels. We are never welcome, yet when my mother dances or sings they all want to see her and come listen to her. I am becoming increasingly aware of the dual standards my ilk is met with and I am starting to hate what was done to us by the Empire, the position we are forcefully put in.
Every so often I will let them know that I know. I take one of their dogs or cats, put it down and lay it on their doorstep. Or I throw a stone through their window. Once I set fire to a house but nobody got really hurt. The fire was put out too soon. After that my mother told me that I shouldn’t do those things anymore. It will make people dislike us. I don’t care because they already dislike us anyways. It is not my fault that they hate us and treat us so poorly so I don’t think I am doing anything wrong. But if my mother wants me to stop making them dislike us, I suppose I will try.
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Kell
- WANTED: Dead or Alive
- Posts: 2560
- Joined: Fri Sep 22, 2006 9:42 pm
- Main Player Character: Yvalee Serius
- Other PCs: Yvalee Serius | Ardaion Aeramin
Retired: Kell Dy'ner | Redboot Lieutenant Azrael Snapwyre | Aswaith Ravenash - Location: Third row, second grave to the left
5
I am five years old and I live in Gulashir in a big house in the city center. I have a teacher who comes to my house every day, who tells me stories and teaches me how to read and write. I don’t really like my lessons but mother says that I should take them so I can become a big boy and go to find papa who lives somewhere else, in a place where it is cold. I really want to go find papa because I don’t remember ever having seen him. Mother says he’s really nice and that he would like to see me too.
Sometimes I cry because she tells me that I can’t go yet. I really just want to be older so I don’t have to wait anymore. I don’t like waiting so I go anyways. But every time I do she locks my door. Then she tells me that I have to calm down and promises me that when I do that I will be allowed to be outside again. It upsets me when she locks my door. It makes me cry even more.
Once mother gave me a rabbit. She said that I could talk to it and cuddle it when I missed papa. But I didn’t really think that would help. I don’t know what papa is like but I don’t think he is black with fluffy ears. Talking to the rabbit couldn’t be the same as talking to papa.
Once I tried to prove it to her. Papa would want to go bathe with me, because that’s what papas do with their sons. Someone told me. I told mother that I wanted to bathe with my rabbit. And she said that I could but that I should be careful that I wouldn’t hurt it. I told her that I didn’t think cuddling the rabbit was like cuddling with papa because the rabbit is not as tall as papa. Because papa is tall he can sit up in the bathtub and he won’t mind the water.
Mother did not like it when I put the rabbit into the water to show her the difference between the rabbit and papa. She took the rabbit from me and I never saw it again. She shouted at me and locked me up in my room for two weeks. When she unlocked the door again she said I could never compare a rabbit to papa like that again. She said that I had hurt the rabbit despite her telling me not to do that. I tried to explain to her that that was a lie because I never heard the rabbit scream. Rabbits don’t scream and they don’t hurt.
Sometimes I cry because she tells me that I can’t go yet. I really just want to be older so I don’t have to wait anymore. I don’t like waiting so I go anyways. But every time I do she locks my door. Then she tells me that I have to calm down and promises me that when I do that I will be allowed to be outside again. It upsets me when she locks my door. It makes me cry even more.
Once mother gave me a rabbit. She said that I could talk to it and cuddle it when I missed papa. But I didn’t really think that would help. I don’t know what papa is like but I don’t think he is black with fluffy ears. Talking to the rabbit couldn’t be the same as talking to papa.
Once I tried to prove it to her. Papa would want to go bathe with me, because that’s what papas do with their sons. Someone told me. I told mother that I wanted to bathe with my rabbit. And she said that I could but that I should be careful that I wouldn’t hurt it. I told her that I didn’t think cuddling the rabbit was like cuddling with papa because the rabbit is not as tall as papa. Because papa is tall he can sit up in the bathtub and he won’t mind the water.
Mother did not like it when I put the rabbit into the water to show her the difference between the rabbit and papa. She took the rabbit from me and I never saw it again. She shouted at me and locked me up in my room for two weeks. When she unlocked the door again she said I could never compare a rabbit to papa like that again. She said that I had hurt the rabbit despite her telling me not to do that. I tried to explain to her that that was a lie because I never heard the rabbit scream. Rabbits don’t scream and they don’t hurt.
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Kell
- WANTED: Dead or Alive
- Posts: 2560
- Joined: Fri Sep 22, 2006 9:42 pm
- Main Player Character: Yvalee Serius
- Other PCs: Yvalee Serius | Ardaion Aeramin
Retired: Kell Dy'ner | Redboot Lieutenant Azrael Snapwyre | Aswaith Ravenash - Location: Third row, second grave to the left
21
I am twenty one years old. I sit on the edge of a bed that isn’t mine. I have rented a small room above one of Gulashir’s last remaining shady taverns so that I won’t have to walk far to find my bed. I spend my days in these places and I do as my grandfather has taught me, to get by. I play my cards and roll my dice and as long as others believe my little tricks, I sleep on fair winnings. Lady Luck doesn’t always decide in my favor, but most of the times I can afford myself a comfortable lifestyle.
Usually I am alone. I do side with make-belief friends; they are rowdy men who, like me, live on a gamble. Some have been stuck here for years or decades even. Most of them have nothing to show for themselves but the lines in their faces carved out by the acceptance of their many losses. There are no wives and children here, but there are the ladies of the night to help us pretend that we are not missing out. They are voluptuous, curvy women who don’t pass by the opportunity to take their share of our profits in exchange for lust. Most of the times I turn them down. I have seen just how much their greed can cost a man and I’m not here for lust; I am here for fortune. But I can’t always be alone. So there are also times when I willingly let them take advantage of my situation and submit to their coaxing, silver tongues that whisper golden dreams into my ears.
I look at the men who play the rooms like I do, and I know that I am not happy here. I will not stay here forever. I tell myself that if I make enough crowns, I will get out of here. My plan is to buy myself a proper wagon and some horses, so I can once again dwell my beloved sands. But I’m going to need a lot of crowns for that. I want to travel back to the monastery, in winter, to find my beloved Klementina. I know that she is still waiting.
As I sit here on the edge of the bed, going over my dreams and wishes, I feel how this nights’ lady is drawing me back into her devilish clutches. For a moment longer, I think about Klementina but then the thought is gone. I get lost and anxiously anticipate the long, dark and restless road home. It will be a night in the arms of a woman whose name I barely know but her name is not important to me. What she is giving to me, all the more.
This particular woman I met earlier this evening. She sat opposed to me at the table and threw my cards in my face when she, one of the few who ever could, found me out. She laughed and said I had to buy her a drink if I wanted her silence, so naturally I did. Intrigued by her clever insights I invited her into a conversation and as the haze of the alcohol began to dull my senses, her burning eyes began to tell me the tales of what the rest of the night would be like. In what seemed like moments later, she had me stark naked, lying on this bed in a way I had never expected to find myself. Bound, tied and silenced, I was drawn into a whole different world where the boundaries between reality and make-belief faded, induced by torture, pain and pleasure. I was consumed by her fire as she burned the sheets to ashes.
She swayed me, this she-devil. She wore me out, used me up and then did it all over again. She observed me and learned about every fibre of my being within the timespan of a single night. The way she treated me and spoke to me was full of understanding of my being; it made me feel whole when I was at my most vulnerable. So I listened to her when she said that she could help me get everything I ever desired. I complied when she pulled the rag from my mouth and told me to repeat her words. Unthinking, I walked into her web. In the heat of the moment I traded my soul in exchange for riches and wealth. I did it for my Klementina. I did it, because I wanted out. I did it, because it was what she wanted me to do.
I won't recognize until much later that she has cleverly tricked me into my own private hell. Yet as long as I am here, I don’t care. Not now. I don’t know how much it will cost me or how great my sacrifices are going to be but right now, in this moment, I am suffocating and I cannot think. My body, my mind; I know I am dying but all I feel is bliss. All I want is for this demon to spread her wings over me and feed my addiction. I want to get out of this unending darkness.
I am not a victim. I want this. It might be hell, but it is mine. She will make me rise up and above and I will have what I want. This demon is my ticket out.
Usually I am alone. I do side with make-belief friends; they are rowdy men who, like me, live on a gamble. Some have been stuck here for years or decades even. Most of them have nothing to show for themselves but the lines in their faces carved out by the acceptance of their many losses. There are no wives and children here, but there are the ladies of the night to help us pretend that we are not missing out. They are voluptuous, curvy women who don’t pass by the opportunity to take their share of our profits in exchange for lust. Most of the times I turn them down. I have seen just how much their greed can cost a man and I’m not here for lust; I am here for fortune. But I can’t always be alone. So there are also times when I willingly let them take advantage of my situation and submit to their coaxing, silver tongues that whisper golden dreams into my ears.
I look at the men who play the rooms like I do, and I know that I am not happy here. I will not stay here forever. I tell myself that if I make enough crowns, I will get out of here. My plan is to buy myself a proper wagon and some horses, so I can once again dwell my beloved sands. But I’m going to need a lot of crowns for that. I want to travel back to the monastery, in winter, to find my beloved Klementina. I know that she is still waiting.
As I sit here on the edge of the bed, going over my dreams and wishes, I feel how this nights’ lady is drawing me back into her devilish clutches. For a moment longer, I think about Klementina but then the thought is gone. I get lost and anxiously anticipate the long, dark and restless road home. It will be a night in the arms of a woman whose name I barely know but her name is not important to me. What she is giving to me, all the more.
This particular woman I met earlier this evening. She sat opposed to me at the table and threw my cards in my face when she, one of the few who ever could, found me out. She laughed and said I had to buy her a drink if I wanted her silence, so naturally I did. Intrigued by her clever insights I invited her into a conversation and as the haze of the alcohol began to dull my senses, her burning eyes began to tell me the tales of what the rest of the night would be like. In what seemed like moments later, she had me stark naked, lying on this bed in a way I had never expected to find myself. Bound, tied and silenced, I was drawn into a whole different world where the boundaries between reality and make-belief faded, induced by torture, pain and pleasure. I was consumed by her fire as she burned the sheets to ashes.
She swayed me, this she-devil. She wore me out, used me up and then did it all over again. She observed me and learned about every fibre of my being within the timespan of a single night. The way she treated me and spoke to me was full of understanding of my being; it made me feel whole when I was at my most vulnerable. So I listened to her when she said that she could help me get everything I ever desired. I complied when she pulled the rag from my mouth and told me to repeat her words. Unthinking, I walked into her web. In the heat of the moment I traded my soul in exchange for riches and wealth. I did it for my Klementina. I did it, because I wanted out. I did it, because it was what she wanted me to do.
I won't recognize until much later that she has cleverly tricked me into my own private hell. Yet as long as I am here, I don’t care. Not now. I don’t know how much it will cost me or how great my sacrifices are going to be but right now, in this moment, I am suffocating and I cannot think. My body, my mind; I know I am dying but all I feel is bliss. All I want is for this demon to spread her wings over me and feed my addiction. I want to get out of this unending darkness.
I am not a victim. I want this. It might be hell, but it is mine. She will make me rise up and above and I will have what I want. This demon is my ticket out.