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Post by Covert0ddity on May 4, 2014 0:04:12 GMT
There is heavy walking heard outside of the Tavern door for a moment, coupled with the sounds of jingling, and armor rubbing together. The tavern's door opens, and there stands the metal giant that is Scalvusa. He scans the room, and the brawl, with his empty, glass visor-eyes. There is slight clicking heard with each breath, and he slowly enters the room. The tavern creaks very lightly with each step, and his armour rubs together, producing a strange sound.
He pushes past the brawl, and stands near the bar, observing the brawl for a moment, his metal hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist. He stands there, motionless, thinking to himself. His other hands stays at his side.
Even though his suit protrayed no emotions, it was easy to tell that the man was standing at the ready, prepared for either a blow, or an embrace, in the tavern. Or, perhaps, that was how he always was. For a moment, he directed hsi attention to Jacques, and stares at him for a period that seems like ages, before turning to Christof. His gaze doesn't avert from Christof, and he seems to have lost all attention of the brawl near him.
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farcry11
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Post by farcry11 on May 4, 2014 1:25:06 GMT
Jacques froze up as the iron behemoth strode through the tavern, his sword dripping blood as he stared at the man. Acier Horreur, the beast was called in his homeland- Steel Horror. Jacques noticed that the rest of the Russians in the bar, who had been drawing their own weapons for a fight, had dropped or sheathed their weapons. The German had stabbed Jacques would-be assassin in the throat, but now he too was staring at Horreur as the life bled out of the cowardly Russian. Jacques cleaned his sword on the dying man's clothes, and then sheathed it.
"Ahrm... Monsieur Horreur. T-To what do we owe this visit?", Jacques spoke nervously, in clear German. He eyed the monster skittishly, jamming his thumbs in to his swordsman's belt. The craven bled out completely, letting out a gurgling death rattle.
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Post by halorocks22 on May 4, 2014 4:25:08 GMT
Christof momentarily looked at the gruesome outcome of the brawl in disapproval. The winners of the fight had won with brute force, not strategy; however, this was to be expected in a battle amongst drunken men. He diverted his attention away from the brawl and looked towards the tavern bar. A monster of a man clad in steel had moved there, and he momentarily locked eyes with him before averting his gaze. A terrible realization suddenly swept over Christof and he narrowed his eyes. The thing was staring at him with a hand on it's sword.
After an uncomfortable stillness, he heard the Frenchman in the middle of the bar utter something towards the "Horreur" and shook his head slightly in disapproval, knowing this would only incite conflict. Carefully and with deliberate movement, he snuck a quick peek at the strange being before slowly putting one hand onto the handle of the gnarled shortsword tied around his waist.
Although he had started to sweat from anxiety, Christof pulled his cloak tighter around him and shifted his body slightly into a subtle fighting stance, his cloak flowing and his weapons clattering as he moved. He didn't want to fight an adversary he had never seen before, but he was ready. The room had gone completely silent.
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Post by shadowdamon on May 4, 2014 10:42:55 GMT
Name: Gary Telorn Age: 14 Physical Description: A small teen with many sunburns and rashes. His skin is a deep tan and blemished. His face is covered in dirt and sweat. He stands at 5 foot 7 inches. He carries a hunting bow and a skinning knife. His clothes are tattered, simple cloth and leather. They are dirty brown and green, stained from the dirt and grass he works in. Home Fiefdom: France Profession: Hunter/Skinner/Gatherer Backstory: Orphaned to the new world, he is has made a living gathering materials for the higher ups. Learning to avoid combat with bribery or servitude he quickly became everyone's slave and no ones enemy. He became ignored but valued as dedicated to work. He works to live. Living is good.
Gary entered the tavern through the service entrance with a rack of meat from his recent kill. He peered around the corner and saw the crowd of large armed men. He quickly skitter passed and into the back and tossed the meat onto the table. The blood oozed to floor. The deer was skinned and ready to be prepared by the cook. The large man with the knife pointed to the front with his knife. Gary nodded and headed back up front to the bartender. Gary nudged the clearly distracted man and raised his hand in payment. The bartender looked down and grabbed a few coins and tossed into his hands. Gary closed his hands, bowed, and skittered around to the back. Peering back into the crowd. -I have the rest of the day to myself. Lets see how this turns out. Gary watched the group scuffle and the sprays of blood and flashes of steel.
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Post by Covert0ddity on May 4, 2014 22:45:17 GMT
Scalvusa seemed to stare at Christof for what seemed an eternity. His soulless eyes peering at hs green cloak. He adjusted his shoulder, making a clanking noise from deep within the extremely bulky, tough, and weathered armor. He brought one hands up to his side, turning a strange dial. Because of the silence, his low, muffled, loud mouth-breathing could be heard from across the room, clicking as each breath was let out.
After staring at Christof, he shifts his head slowly towards Jacques. He says nothing, other hand still on his sword. What could this metal giant be thinking about? Did he plan to murder? To add to his killcount? Or did he come to get a drink. To eat. It was unknown. He was, however, definitely focused on Jacques. His gaze was unnerving, yet some how... attentive. As though he was, and could, processing every word, every thought, and taking time to formulate an answer.
He slowly raises a metal hand, signalling for the bartender to bring him a drink.
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Post by Covert0ddity on May 5, 2014 23:53:28 GMT
((Post figgits))
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Post by tuiee on May 6, 2014 2:17:05 GMT
Artyom slunk out of the bar, nodding to a man in a green cloak that stepped aside to let him pass. The street outside the bar was rowdy and crowded; peasants suffering in various degrees of poverty, packed shoulder to shoulder, gloomily trudged through the slush of mud and waste that coated the road's cracked cobbles. Across from the bar stood a few stalls haphazardly constructed from rotting oak and arranged into the shape of a small, circular market, where peddlers, scrap dealers, and hunters all hawked their wares to a crowd of shoppers.
Slipping between gaps in the throng of passersby, Artyom approached a haggard, wiry merchant advertising exotic goods. Several display racks were placed around the man's stall, each covered with glittering metals, pouches of spice, and foreign books. After a moment of deliberation, Alyosha selected a ratty cloth bag filled with glimmering black powder, rigged it to a free spot on his harness, and placed a few coins in the merchant's outstretched hand.
Just as he was turning to leave, Artyom heard an odd clanking noise coming from further down the street. The sound was a mix between the scrape of metal against metal and a hissing noise, like steam coming off from a kettle, or perhaps even...
Machinery.
As the word entered his mind, it brought with it a host of images, stained in blood and baked by an unforgiving, scalding sun. Desert sands, hooded killers, families screaming in the night, the unholy melding of steel and flesh, loss of life, theft of virtue, tortured cries -
Artyom shook his head, dispelling the disturbing menagerie of memories. Reining in his thoughts, he watched the source of the metallic screeching rumble past: a stoic, intimidating warrior, wearing a suit of interlocking metal plates. The ground seemed to tremble with each thunderous step as the imposing hulk entered the tavern Alyosha had just left.
Something about the figure's armor piqued his interest. Perhaps it was the curious workmanship, or the quality of the metal. Whatever it was, it called to the wizened scrap hunter. A hint of something familiar to him radiated from within the armored shell. Deciding to find out what that was, he darted back across the street and into the alleyway behind the alehouse.
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Post by halorocks22 on May 6, 2014 2:18:41 GMT
Christof slowly relaxed his muscles and tentatively took his hand off his shortsword as he saw the man clad in iron turn his attention elsewhere. It felt extremely reliving to see that the strange being was not here to fight him.. at least, the man wasn't here to fight for now. He knew better than to put his guard down.
He took one more glance at the giant before moving from the entrance of the tavern to an empty seat at an old oaken table devoid of occupants resting at a dark corner of the west wall. Most of the people in the tavern had left as a result of the bloody brawl, and loose tobacco along with dented tin tankards half-filled with stale ale still cluttered the table.
From his peripheral vision, Christof could see a nervous bartender carrying a pint of brew move up to the metal man and hand him a drink.
Strange; he hardly believed the beast came all the way up here to drink. It didn't matter what the thing was here for, however. As long as the metal man doesn't interfere with him, he has no need to be concerned.
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Post by Covert0ddity on May 6, 2014 3:14:42 GMT
Scalvusa turns his enlarged helmet towards the pint. It seems ludicrous that the metalman would order a drink, seeing as he had to conceivable way of drinking it. Instead he stares at it for a moment, turning back to Jacques. The silence continues for a prolonged, awkward, and disturbing moment. The armor seems older than time immemorial, with deep cuts, and the metal itself does not look to be iron, or newly fangled steel. It looks duller than steel, yet shiner than Iron... perhaps it is its age? Even though, Iron degrades after a long time, and this set of armor had to be at least a century old. The sword's sheath is in similar order, and it is noticed an amount of daggers located about his armor. One at his shoulder, hip, and back leg, then others located at each wrist. His breath is slow and, almost pained. A rush of it was heard after every exhalation, filling the room with the only sound. The etched 'Equalibrium' insignia's seemed to move with the respiration of this metal giant. He easily stood as tall, if not taller, than the largest Russian in the room. The armour made him look immeasurably bulkier and hardened than anyone in the room. Finally, He spoke. " What... do... you... stare at...?" Where his only words. The words came out infuriatingly slow, in perfect Russian. The voice was hollow, and it sounded like metal scraping against concrete. His lifeless eyes continue to focus on Jacques, almost murderousley. ((What I envision him to look like, although in much less working order: Clicky ))
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farcry11
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Post by farcry11 on May 6, 2014 5:57:07 GMT
Jacques did his best to smile. He placed his hands behind his back, performing a small bow towards the Steel Horror. Looking the monster directly in his eye-ports, he spoke in fragmented Russian.
"I stare at living legend Scalvusa, killer of thousand warriors, best fighter in valley. Frightening man. Monster. Very, very useful."
Jacques stood at his full height, almost level with the sitting monstrosity.
"I pay good gold, many golds, to men that ride with me. Noble cause. Loot. Anyone interested?", Jacques asked, looking around the bar. He seemed to be regarding everyone, Scalvusa included.
"We get much loot. Best fighters get land! Titles! Who is with me, yes?" Jacques fragmented Russian speech was not as elegant as it could be, but it got the point across. He saw many Russians stand at his offer. The German mercenaries seemed interested as well. Jacques awaited Scavulsa's response- Acier Horreur would be a huge asset.
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mrimatool
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Post by mrimatool on May 6, 2014 10:52:46 GMT
Name: Cassandra Iben Age: 38 Physical Description: Cassandra sits at an enormous 6"2, her skin is pale and fair, with small freckles on her cheeks. When she smiles a small dimple appears beneath her left cheek, though Cassandra smiling is a rare occurrence. Cassandra's hair is a soft blonde, easy on the eyes. Her eyes are a sky like blue. Cassandra's body is in as perfect condition as you can get in post apocalyptia, with toned muscles and organs that still run. Home Fiefdom: France Profession: Archknight Captain for Lord, Adrien Clermont Backstory: Cassandra's parents were relatively wealthy, and paid a man known as Catiel Clemaunt to teach Cass to dance, Cassandra loved dancing, but realised it was a pipe dream these days, and aspired to do something more meaningful. So she took up arms, training all day, only stopping to eat and sleep.
By the time Cass was 19 she was accepted as a guard by Lord, Adrien Clermont and slowly worked her way through the ranks, it took her 17 years but she eventually made Archknight Captain and has served faithfully as Captain for two years.
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mrimatool
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Post by mrimatool on May 6, 2014 11:18:33 GMT
Cassandra had been sat at the bar, clad in a dark hood and a scarf over her face, she wore leather armour and at her waist was a sword, gas mask, and a small plastic water bottle. When the Monstrosity walked through the door, her first thought was to try and kill him, but she knew she wouldn't stand a chance against him in his armour, she would need to wait if she was to complete her quest. "I will make you proud My Lord," she muttered to herself as she kissed her rosary.
She sighed and raised her hand before speaking in perfect French in a rather masculine voice, "My Lord, I would join you!" She gulped her ale and nodded, the scarf and hood covering all but her sky blue eyes.
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Post by Covert0ddity on May 6, 2014 17:34:03 GMT
Scalvusa, before answering Jacques, slowly turns to the woman in the cowl at the bar. His armor shinks together, as he looks upon her. His eye-ports gazy over her for some time. Eventually... a dull... lifeless laugh eminates from the nozzle of the gas-mask like helmet, scratching and extremely deep. He laughs for a little, then quiets down, moving a metal hand up to his tubes, and adjusting one.
He turns his attention back to Jacques, and stares at him for a good long time. Then, he slowly rises to his full 6'8" height, and returns his hand to his sword. Looking down at him, Scalvusa answers in the same, droning, infuriatingly slow tone, but this time in very fluent French, "You... ask... me? Yes... I have.. not... worked... in some... time... I will accept. On one condition." He seems to pause for dramatic effect, before looking back at the woman, who he may learn later to be Cassandra.
"I... choose... who your... companions... will be. This is... always... the cost... of my service."
He stares at Jacques, tilting the metallic head. Artyom may feel somethign watching him, as perhaps the metal mans gaze wasn't solely focused on Jacques from under the monstrous eye-ports after all...
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Post by tuiee on May 6, 2014 17:58:15 GMT
Artyom abruptly shrank back from the tavern's window and pressed himself against the splintered wooden wall. He paused for a moment, adjusting his footing on the rotting ledge. Fifteen feet below him, a feral cat was tearing through a pile of discarded food scraps. The stink of decomposing fruit and meat assaulted his nostrils as the sound of the cat's starving howls drifted up to him.
The monster couldn't possibly have seen him. He was well above eye level, and had made sure to keep his surveillance of the bar as covert as possible; and yet, something about those obsidian glass orbs troubled him deeply. Although they were directed at someone else, it felt like they had regarded him as well.
Alyosha took a moment to consider his next move. The lordling's words concerning a journey had slipped out through a crack in the window, along with the behemoth's response. His kindled interest grew ever larger in size as he thought of what the goal of the noble's quest was - and more importantly, what the iron mercenary's purpose was in accepting with such expedience.
Many questions and no answers. This would not do for Artyom. Nodding to himself and returning to his observation, he resolved to tail the giant and its new entourage.
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Post by farcry11 on May 6, 2014 18:18:49 GMT
Jacques nodded at the masked man at the bar, before turning to Scalvusa. He nodded curtly.
"As you so wish, mon ami. You will have your pick of the men in this tavern, and from everyone we pick up from here on out. I will leave you to choose any men you find acceptable for the party."
With those words, Jacques turned and strode confidently to the door of the tavern. When he got there, he turned to Scalvusa.
"We leave at first light tomorrow. Come find me at the gates of the city, and bring everyone you've chosen for the journey. You have my confidence, Monsieur."
Jacques slipped out of the door, trusting the Horror to choose suitable troops for Jacques fledgling army. As he left, he tightened his scarf- very, very important to never let it get loose- for his secret could get him killed.
(( So, as soon as Covert chooses everyone, we fastforward to next morning. The RP will open up from there, with occasional time jumps on our journey South. And remember, if you haven't joined yet, you can do so at any time! ))
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Post by Leore on May 6, 2014 20:00:33 GMT
Bartholme nodded firmly, sheathing his dagger after wiping the blood from its cold, jagged steel. He gestured for his men to follow, as they began to pursue the Frenchman in a neutral gesture, talking amongst themselves as they pushed past the numerous inhabitants of the tavern, all eyeing the Germans with a distasteful, vicious look. Bartholme spoke out to the Frenchman in German, "We will aid you, Frenchman. But my compatriots and I request something of you in return, should this campaign succeed in its imperative..."
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Post by farcry11 on May 6, 2014 20:17:17 GMT
Jacques turned, regarding the German as he followed him out on to the street. It was getting on towards night now, and the streets no longer bustled quite as loud- peddlers and merchants were closing up shop. The streets belonged to the urchins and the strays, now.
"You will have ample reward when I come in to my lands and fortune, German. You have my noble word." Jacques spoke in clear German.
"I am setting up camp outside the city gates. You and any of your men are welcome to join me, while we wait for Horror and his selection of men."
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Post by halorocks22 on May 6, 2014 21:18:11 GMT
Christof looked with a keen eye and listened with an open ear as he saw the ragtag army, led by the Frenchman, assemble before him. He quietly scoffed to himself with an air of discontempt. How noble to assemble a group of men with the purpose to pillage, loot, rape, and murder.
Then again, he himself wasn't much different. Has he ever thought twice when he killed a man for coin, even when the man begged for mercy? No, he hasn't. The only times he spared his prey's life was when they offered to pay him more than what he was originally given.
He cleared his head and focused his mind. That wasn't the important subject, and he felt a slight sense of irritation for getting off-track with his thoughts. He never guessed that the armored man would work for someone like the Frenchman.
The steady clack-clack of boots against hardwood flushed Christof out from his inner thoughts. He looked up to see the Frenchman turn proudly and leave the tavern. However, before he left, he had announced the whereabouts of his camp. A rookie mistake. Such a mistake could cost you your life, especially if you were an ambitious lordling with an assassin after you...
Christof got up from the old oaken table and pushed in the seat. It was turning dark outside, and the sun had started to disappear under the mountains of The Valley. It was time to resign for the night. He walked his way over to the bar and left a small pile of copper coins on the counter to pay for his room before climbing the creaky wooden stairs that led to the musty upper floor where travelers slept.
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Post by tuiee on May 6, 2014 21:46:16 GMT
"I am setting up camp outside the city gates. You and any of your men are welcome to join me, while we wait for Horror and his selection of men."
Crouched precariously on the edge of a nearby roof, Artyom leaned in and attempted to catch a snatch of conversation from the men below. The night winds blew too fiercely in his ear, however, and the meaning of what few words he could hear was lost to him. Swearing softly to himself, he navigated carefully across the dilapidated shingles and leaped the gap leading to the top of the Sick Bear. A roosting crow, hidden from sight by a chimney, squawked in alarm and fled into the air, leaving behind a shower of oily feathers.
The name "Horror" most likely was directed towards the metal man. Artyom wasn't surprised to hear such an ominous moniker being used to identify the beast; no peaceful man would wear armor like that, nor be the recipient of the terrified reverence his companions offered him.
A clattering of boots against stone marked the departure of the lord's men. Alyosha pulled the quartz goggles hanging from his neck up to his eyes and adjusted a copper dial affixed to the implement's frame. The Frenchman below suddenly enlarged and sharpened as the crystal rangefinder enhanced Artyom's visual acuity. Lying down on the edge of the Bear's roof, he shifted his zoomed vision from the lord and focused directly below him, on the door of the tavern; his quarry, the Horror, would emerge soon.
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Post by Covert0ddity on May 6, 2014 23:08:49 GMT
Scalvusa does a curt nod, his helmet bumping into his chest plate a moment. The eyes scan about the room, and then lock onto Christof wandering away. With a stomping of his boots, Scalvusa trailed the strange acting frenchman for a moment, before looking at his wake. Something akin to a scoff ocurred deep within the suit, before he turns back to the tavern, the attention of the Russians.
Seeing no one that piqued the metalmans interest, he began to walk out of the tavern for a moment, before he turned slowly back to Cassandra. If she was looking at him, he would give a quick nod of approval. If she was not, he would turn away and exit the tavern.
...
The cold of Vasiliberg, Russia, seeped in even through the armor of the hulking man. He walked down the street of the town, attracting the gaze of Russians, Germans, and Frenchmen. A small child ran up to him, and stopped in front of him. Scalvusa slowly looked down, his hand on his sword. The child's friends were snickering at the other child, seeing the fear and intensity of his expression.
After some time, the child moves in, and hugs Scalvusa's leg, with shaking arms. Scalvusa moves his hand down to the child's head, ruffles his brown hair a little, then continues to walk down the street, scanning for individuals that had... traits he could admire. With every breath, a small white cloud of condensed breath emerged from his gasmask helmet, rising into the air and then eventually dissapearing.
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