Post by daedric on May 17, 2009 19:07:07 GMT -5
[OoC: This RP is open for anyone to join. There is LANGUAGE. Also apologies for writing so much, I don't expect anyone to write this much. I need at least one other person (preferably a racial ally), you will see why.]
He had come across a sudden realization that morning: this island was boring. Perhaps it was a paradise to those who farmed or fished or did the average work of humans, but to him it was lackluster. Worst of all, he couldn’t stay here and make a living. He demanded very little from society. He relied on himself, for he carried a sword and a crossbow and he was an excellent hunter and he had no fear so sleeping outside did not bother him. He was what peasants called an ‘adventurer’ with envy in their words, although they all secretly knew how tiring this life was. Once one became an adventurer, it was hard to go back and this was the reason he was so bored of this island.
‘Once the tides recede I can leave this place…and hunt…’
He walked only a few miles from the beaches which surrounded this land. He was looking for a harbor, which meant he was looking for a town, because in particular he was searching for a boat. The trouble was finding anyone brave enough to take him out to sea and an even larger issue was finding someone who owned something bigger than an average boat. In the posh society, people had military restrictions on them and even someone as renowned as him was going to have a difficult time finding anyone to disobey those orders. So he was left looking for a very daring lower-class captain to take him somewhere else. The issue was: no one was as numb to the prospect of death as Cyril Daedric was.
It was unfortunate that by the time he had made any progress on foot, night was already coming. The only reason he hadn’t taken a horse was because then he was expected to return it (horses weren’t cheap) and he couldn’t guarantee that would happen. Besides, he had so much time on his hands that he could throw around that it didn’t much matter how he got where he was going. If he did find someone that could take him across the sea, a horse would just be weighing him down. Without a horse, he had definitely gotten somewhere, for a few miles off he could see the warm glow of fire lights. As he approached the place in the darkness he could now tell it was a village. Better yet, this was a village with a harbor and port. Since there was a port here that meant that goods were moving in and out, which meant there were traders and perhaps some more unruly ones. Since there were sure to be traders there were also sure to be pirates floating out in the waters and that also meant that these traders were probably well equipped and rather tough bastards. For once the night had smiled upon him and if he had a god he would have thanked it for this fortune. He could deal with it being dark. Night seemed to bring more benefits than day, sometimes.
The village was both unlike and similar to others he had seen before. Like most seaside towns, it had the heavy stench of salt and dead fish. The wood which built their homes and buildings was gray and worn looking, even when fresh and in some places it was crusted with a fine layer of white powder. Its differences were purely in a social aspect, for as he entered the town he noticed there were many people out in the streets even though the sun had already set. These people weren’t ruffians; they were laughing and drinking and seemed to be having a good time. Cyril didn’t think there was a festival going on, for although the dusty streets were extremely well-lit for a sea-faring yokel town there was a lack of decorations. Most of the noise in the town seemed to be coming from a wider building, where the door was left open, letting butterscotch light spill onto the ground outside. People were moving in an out of the door and some merely stood in it, making entry difficult for the average individual. Cyril had little trouble slipping in, as he was so small, but as he did slip in people had already started making remarks about his lack of height. As he stepped in his ears were bombarded with loud laughter and he resisted the urge to cover them to block out the noise. He knew now that he was most definitely in a pub, especially when he noticed the heavy curtain of smoke that hung overhead. Cyril was not surprised to smell tobacco, but he was a bit shocked to not smell the smoke of any sweeter substances. Although the people in here looked like the average drunkards and sailors, the place was rather clean. This was very odd indeed.
Upon entering he was immediately approached by a woman with two over-flowing mugs, one in each hand, who was not only tall but was also blessed with magnificently large breasts. Cyril immediately recognized her as a waitress, especially judging by her seemingly modest clothing which was worn in a loose-fitting way which only made her more desirable to the poor and drunk. Her hair was pinned up and although she had a lovely round face, Cyril found himself distracted from her beauty by her heavy scent of smoke and alcohol.
‘ All waitresses are definitely the same.’
“Hey hun, you look a little young to be hanging out in a place like this.”
‘Didn’t see that one coming,’ he thought sarcastically while resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Instead he offered an awkward smile, “Oh trust me- I’m old enough.”
She smiled in return, although her expression looked much more sincere, “I thought so. I could tell by that worn out look in your eyes. You look like you need some spirits.”
‘What? Didn’t she just get done saying I looked too young to be in a place like this?’
Cyril paused before answering her, “I’m not looking for a good time. I’m looking for…someone who can take me off of Thekla.”
He didn’t get a reply out of this woman- typical – for at that moment she decided to turn her attention to something else and immediately trotted off. Cyril resisted the urge to pick up a mug at a nearby table and throw it at her head; he didn’t want to spoil the good mood in this place. He glanced around the room, wondering what exactly he should be looking for in a ship captain, but most people returned his glance too directly which made him look away almost instantly. He was starting to get annoyed with the over-exuberant air of this place.
“What is everyone so excited about anyways?” he muttered.
One would expect that with the noise around him he would go largely unheard. The world had an interesting way of messing with Cyril Daedric and as he said it a large, burly, young man had pushed by him and somehow the low notes of Cyril’s voice had reached his ears. His head snapped around in an instant and before Cyril knew what was going on he was being pulled to a corner where a couple of ripped men and an old grubby looking man were sitting and roaring with laughter at apparently nothing. If Cyril was a cat, every hair on his body would have been bristled with both fear and rage, for he was scared of stranger and he hated strangers that manhandled him so easily.
“Get away from me!” Cyril snapped after he had been pushed into a chair and the big guy’s arm over his shoulder kept him pinned there.
“Hey, now, settle down little guy. I just thought you’d like to know what’s going on. You don’t look like you’re from around here,” the guy who grabbed him said with an innocent smile, although the scar on his lip said nothing innocent about him.
“You have no idea how many times I have heard that line!” Cyril snapped, still feeling outraged at being grabbed. “’You don’t look like you’re from around here’! Based on what? The fact that I’m not covered in head to foot with slime?”
“I think it might be yer fancy clothes there, bucko,” the older guy said, while pointing at Cyril’s chest. “Ye’ look kind of dressed up like yer on some business. Ye’ someone empor’ant? Like ah…from the big city?”
The whole group now regarded Cyril with suspicion. If that’s the way they acted every time they interrogated a new stranger it was a good thing they weren’t guards or police. Cyril was already aware of small-town people that hated big-town people or any kind of officials, so he was prepared for this situation. He felt like he was living in a world of unoriginality, for some reason.
“No. Nothing like that. I’m from a small village and my father died recently. He had such a large farm, you know, I got quite a sum selling it to my younger brother. I have no need for a farm since I am a hunter, but I picked up some clothes from the ‘big city’ as you would say and I thought I would try a hand at representing my village in hopes we could get more protection from the king and queen,” Cyril lied. It was a shoddy story, but yokels were easy to fool. “No point in throwing away these nice clothes, huh?”
They continued to look at him suspiciously and he was sure they were ready to take him out back and slit his throat. They hadn’t bought into his little story after all. He kept his poker face, for at the moment he had no idea what was going through their heads. The old man leaned forward, too close for comfort, and now Cyril was trying to hold his breath lest he vomit on the table from the stench on his breath. This wasn’t good.
“An’ what’s yer name, sonny?” he asked.
“Kurtis Falosol,” Cyril lied, once more. “Call me Kurtis.”
“Well!” The first man suddenly burst, interrupting this seemingly intense situation. “Nice to meet you, Kurtis! This is my father, Stormeye Anson, and I’m Peter.”
“’Stormeye’?” Cyril immediately scoffed at the name. “A sailor, huh? I can tell by how unoriginal your nickname is. Having a formidable name like that must mean you were a captain.”
“Now listen here, I am a captain, you no-good-rotten-little-“ he started ranting. Cyril did roll his eyes this time, mostly at the predictable behavior of this old man. “DON’T MOCK ME YOU LITTLE SHIT!”
Cyril sat up straight in his chair, shocked by the sudden yelling. He was certain this was the kind of person who would just rant on and on no matter what Cyril did. He hardly expected an outburst, but this guy was red in the face and Cyril was surprised he couldn’t see steam coming off of him. After a moment of silence (for even the bar had become quiet when his shout filled the air) Cyril’s surprised eyes shifted into indifference and he got up from the table.
“Well, I guess our business is done here,” Cyril told the man. “It’s a pity. If you were a captain I was looking for a tough man to take me to Anastas. Also, no one ever told me what you were celebrating, but whatever it is I certainly don’t want to be the one to ruin it.”
With that, Cyril turned to the door, disappearing in the mass of bodies which crowded the pub. As he walked, the corners of his lips twitched and for short moments he smiled. As he exited the pub he walked leisurely towards the docks and now he definitely was wearing a smile.
‘I give him twenty minutes before he finds me and begs me to let him take me to Anastas.’
He had come across a sudden realization that morning: this island was boring. Perhaps it was a paradise to those who farmed or fished or did the average work of humans, but to him it was lackluster. Worst of all, he couldn’t stay here and make a living. He demanded very little from society. He relied on himself, for he carried a sword and a crossbow and he was an excellent hunter and he had no fear so sleeping outside did not bother him. He was what peasants called an ‘adventurer’ with envy in their words, although they all secretly knew how tiring this life was. Once one became an adventurer, it was hard to go back and this was the reason he was so bored of this island.
‘Once the tides recede I can leave this place…and hunt…’
He walked only a few miles from the beaches which surrounded this land. He was looking for a harbor, which meant he was looking for a town, because in particular he was searching for a boat. The trouble was finding anyone brave enough to take him out to sea and an even larger issue was finding someone who owned something bigger than an average boat. In the posh society, people had military restrictions on them and even someone as renowned as him was going to have a difficult time finding anyone to disobey those orders. So he was left looking for a very daring lower-class captain to take him somewhere else. The issue was: no one was as numb to the prospect of death as Cyril Daedric was.
It was unfortunate that by the time he had made any progress on foot, night was already coming. The only reason he hadn’t taken a horse was because then he was expected to return it (horses weren’t cheap) and he couldn’t guarantee that would happen. Besides, he had so much time on his hands that he could throw around that it didn’t much matter how he got where he was going. If he did find someone that could take him across the sea, a horse would just be weighing him down. Without a horse, he had definitely gotten somewhere, for a few miles off he could see the warm glow of fire lights. As he approached the place in the darkness he could now tell it was a village. Better yet, this was a village with a harbor and port. Since there was a port here that meant that goods were moving in and out, which meant there were traders and perhaps some more unruly ones. Since there were sure to be traders there were also sure to be pirates floating out in the waters and that also meant that these traders were probably well equipped and rather tough bastards. For once the night had smiled upon him and if he had a god he would have thanked it for this fortune. He could deal with it being dark. Night seemed to bring more benefits than day, sometimes.
The village was both unlike and similar to others he had seen before. Like most seaside towns, it had the heavy stench of salt and dead fish. The wood which built their homes and buildings was gray and worn looking, even when fresh and in some places it was crusted with a fine layer of white powder. Its differences were purely in a social aspect, for as he entered the town he noticed there were many people out in the streets even though the sun had already set. These people weren’t ruffians; they were laughing and drinking and seemed to be having a good time. Cyril didn’t think there was a festival going on, for although the dusty streets were extremely well-lit for a sea-faring yokel town there was a lack of decorations. Most of the noise in the town seemed to be coming from a wider building, where the door was left open, letting butterscotch light spill onto the ground outside. People were moving in an out of the door and some merely stood in it, making entry difficult for the average individual. Cyril had little trouble slipping in, as he was so small, but as he did slip in people had already started making remarks about his lack of height. As he stepped in his ears were bombarded with loud laughter and he resisted the urge to cover them to block out the noise. He knew now that he was most definitely in a pub, especially when he noticed the heavy curtain of smoke that hung overhead. Cyril was not surprised to smell tobacco, but he was a bit shocked to not smell the smoke of any sweeter substances. Although the people in here looked like the average drunkards and sailors, the place was rather clean. This was very odd indeed.
Upon entering he was immediately approached by a woman with two over-flowing mugs, one in each hand, who was not only tall but was also blessed with magnificently large breasts. Cyril immediately recognized her as a waitress, especially judging by her seemingly modest clothing which was worn in a loose-fitting way which only made her more desirable to the poor and drunk. Her hair was pinned up and although she had a lovely round face, Cyril found himself distracted from her beauty by her heavy scent of smoke and alcohol.
‘ All waitresses are definitely the same.’
“Hey hun, you look a little young to be hanging out in a place like this.”
‘Didn’t see that one coming,’ he thought sarcastically while resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Instead he offered an awkward smile, “Oh trust me- I’m old enough.”
She smiled in return, although her expression looked much more sincere, “I thought so. I could tell by that worn out look in your eyes. You look like you need some spirits.”
‘What? Didn’t she just get done saying I looked too young to be in a place like this?’
Cyril paused before answering her, “I’m not looking for a good time. I’m looking for…someone who can take me off of Thekla.”
He didn’t get a reply out of this woman- typical – for at that moment she decided to turn her attention to something else and immediately trotted off. Cyril resisted the urge to pick up a mug at a nearby table and throw it at her head; he didn’t want to spoil the good mood in this place. He glanced around the room, wondering what exactly he should be looking for in a ship captain, but most people returned his glance too directly which made him look away almost instantly. He was starting to get annoyed with the over-exuberant air of this place.
“What is everyone so excited about anyways?” he muttered.
One would expect that with the noise around him he would go largely unheard. The world had an interesting way of messing with Cyril Daedric and as he said it a large, burly, young man had pushed by him and somehow the low notes of Cyril’s voice had reached his ears. His head snapped around in an instant and before Cyril knew what was going on he was being pulled to a corner where a couple of ripped men and an old grubby looking man were sitting and roaring with laughter at apparently nothing. If Cyril was a cat, every hair on his body would have been bristled with both fear and rage, for he was scared of stranger and he hated strangers that manhandled him so easily.
“Get away from me!” Cyril snapped after he had been pushed into a chair and the big guy’s arm over his shoulder kept him pinned there.
“Hey, now, settle down little guy. I just thought you’d like to know what’s going on. You don’t look like you’re from around here,” the guy who grabbed him said with an innocent smile, although the scar on his lip said nothing innocent about him.
“You have no idea how many times I have heard that line!” Cyril snapped, still feeling outraged at being grabbed. “’You don’t look like you’re from around here’! Based on what? The fact that I’m not covered in head to foot with slime?”
“I think it might be yer fancy clothes there, bucko,” the older guy said, while pointing at Cyril’s chest. “Ye’ look kind of dressed up like yer on some business. Ye’ someone empor’ant? Like ah…from the big city?”
The whole group now regarded Cyril with suspicion. If that’s the way they acted every time they interrogated a new stranger it was a good thing they weren’t guards or police. Cyril was already aware of small-town people that hated big-town people or any kind of officials, so he was prepared for this situation. He felt like he was living in a world of unoriginality, for some reason.
“No. Nothing like that. I’m from a small village and my father died recently. He had such a large farm, you know, I got quite a sum selling it to my younger brother. I have no need for a farm since I am a hunter, but I picked up some clothes from the ‘big city’ as you would say and I thought I would try a hand at representing my village in hopes we could get more protection from the king and queen,” Cyril lied. It was a shoddy story, but yokels were easy to fool. “No point in throwing away these nice clothes, huh?”
They continued to look at him suspiciously and he was sure they were ready to take him out back and slit his throat. They hadn’t bought into his little story after all. He kept his poker face, for at the moment he had no idea what was going through their heads. The old man leaned forward, too close for comfort, and now Cyril was trying to hold his breath lest he vomit on the table from the stench on his breath. This wasn’t good.
“An’ what’s yer name, sonny?” he asked.
“Kurtis Falosol,” Cyril lied, once more. “Call me Kurtis.”
“Well!” The first man suddenly burst, interrupting this seemingly intense situation. “Nice to meet you, Kurtis! This is my father, Stormeye Anson, and I’m Peter.”
“’Stormeye’?” Cyril immediately scoffed at the name. “A sailor, huh? I can tell by how unoriginal your nickname is. Having a formidable name like that must mean you were a captain.”
“Now listen here, I am a captain, you no-good-rotten-little-“ he started ranting. Cyril did roll his eyes this time, mostly at the predictable behavior of this old man. “DON’T MOCK ME YOU LITTLE SHIT!”
Cyril sat up straight in his chair, shocked by the sudden yelling. He was certain this was the kind of person who would just rant on and on no matter what Cyril did. He hardly expected an outburst, but this guy was red in the face and Cyril was surprised he couldn’t see steam coming off of him. After a moment of silence (for even the bar had become quiet when his shout filled the air) Cyril’s surprised eyes shifted into indifference and he got up from the table.
“Well, I guess our business is done here,” Cyril told the man. “It’s a pity. If you were a captain I was looking for a tough man to take me to Anastas. Also, no one ever told me what you were celebrating, but whatever it is I certainly don’t want to be the one to ruin it.”
With that, Cyril turned to the door, disappearing in the mass of bodies which crowded the pub. As he walked, the corners of his lips twitched and for short moments he smiled. As he exited the pub he walked leisurely towards the docks and now he definitely was wearing a smile.
‘I give him twenty minutes before he finds me and begs me to let him take me to Anastas.’
