The Valley RP

Jacques had stayed up late the last night, briefing Captain Bartholme about their journey. They had discussed strategy and tactics over mulled wine, warming themselves at a small brazier.

The mission: Take back Jacques' inheritance, either deposing or killing Adrien Clermont in the process.

Bartholme said it was doable, but they'd need a larger force than his 30 mercenaries. Jacques also had Scalvusa, and the strange hooded Frenchman. But still, he needed more- they would need to pick up forces along the way. Jacques had retired late that night, tightening his scarf as he lay down on his roll-up bed. He quickly drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, as Bartholme and his men lit their breakfast fires, and the hooded Frenchman snuck off in to the trees to make water (rather strange, but Jacques wasn't concerned), the French lordling sat atop his horse. The tents and other amenities had mostly been loaded up in to Jacques' and Bartholme's wagons.

Jacques hunched slightly forward on his horse, his Navy blue cloak fluttering slightly in the chill Russian breeze. He stared at the city gates, waiting expectantly for Scalvusa.

It was deep into the clutches of night when Scalvusa returned. Behind him, he a tugged a dead deer. No people followed him. He throws the deer down, next to the presumable fire, and, with shinking of armor, a small knife extends from the wrist of the suit, and he begins skinning the creature. The deer seems to have a broken neck.

His breathing is rythmatic and normal, and he says, after about halfway through skinning of the deer, "I found... none... worthy..."

His obsidian eye-ports travel up to Jacques for a moment, but then he averts his gaze, to Artyom. Something about this wastelander; one fellow to his kind, intrigued him. He stares at Artyom intsenely, somehow still skinning the deer with his hand.

The branch that Artyom had been perching on creaked in objection as he jumped back. He'd been peering out through a gap in the evergreen's emerald needles when the Horror had suddenly snapped his helmeted head up and stared right at him.

Letting loose a string of wasteland epithets, he sprung from his hiding spot and broke into a run through the canopy of the forest, jumping from limb to limb with measured, nimble movements. He was astounded with the frequency and ease that this foreigner had in spotting him; was he making too much noise, perhaps drawing too close? Whatever he was doing wrong, it had to stop now.

As the city wall faded onto the horizon, Artyom halted his treetop sprint and dropped to the ground, landing noiselessly in a pile of dead leaves. Panting from the strenuous pace he'd set for himself, he slunk along a nearby animal trail, searching for a stream. All around him, the forest was groggily waking as the first golden rays of dawn broke through the foliage overhead. Sparrows and morningbirds chirped excitedly from their nests, red squirrels scampered to and fro, and somewhere in the distance an elk bull issued its trumpet-like call for all to hear.

(( EDIT: Artyom is not travelling with the group! Covert's magic eyeballs keep spotting him, but for all intents and purposes, he is stalking Scalvusa and Co. ))

Cassandra obviously couldn't bath with the others, if she wished to stay anonymous, so she followed Jacques' horse, she hadn't seen the creature in years. As the horse wandered into a clearing away from the group Cassandra followed closely, letting down her hood and smiling before loosening the cloth mask revealing her face, her hair was cut short to help the ruse.

She took a seat next to the mare, "Hey girl..aren't you a beautiful horse?" She said softly, stroking it's long mane, the clearing was full of old flowers, the names of which had long been forgotten.

As she watched the horse eat the grass with glee, Cass unclipped her sword and put it on a nearby rock as she stared at the polluted grey sky.

Christof yawned and slowly opened his eyes. The sight of the small, musty tavern room he had slept in began to fill his vision. He was lying in the creaky linen bed that sat against the wall of his room and he could see that his apparel was waiting for him on the crude teak dresser he had placed it on.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Good, good. No robbers had broken in the night to steal his fairly valuable equipment.

Outside, looking through the tiny grimy window that was in this room, he could make out beams of sunlight penetrating through the gray cloud layer. How long had he been asleep for?

His body felt unusually sore and itchy as he carefully got out of the bed and began to dress. Christof sighed, immediately knowing what the cause was when he looked at the angry red rashes on his body. Bedbugs. It would be a pain to move around now.

After painstakingly getting dressed, he made his way downstairs; silently cursing as he almost tripped on the narrow stairs that led to the ground floor of the tavern. It was mildly surprising for him to see that the tables and chairs that had been overturned by the brawl the day earlier were not set in their proper places again. He guessed that the owner either didn't care, or that brawls occurred so frequently that it wasn't worth fixing the furniture.

Christof walked up to the bar slowly after examining his surroundings, slightly amused. An older Russian man with a big brown cigar in his mouth was sitting on a stool, minding his own business.

"A loaf of bread." Christof requested roughly as he placed two coppers onto the counter. He would need food for his journey.

The Russian man looked at him with one eye, sizing him up before reaching into a cupboard to take out a piece of stale bread wrapped in semi-transparent brown paper. He handed it to Christof carefully, still staring at him with one distrustful eye. Christof took it gently from his hands and tucked it away into his satchel as he turned around to exit the tavern.

The glare of the sun momentarily blinded him as he stepped out into the world. Rush hour had begun in the run-down Russian city, and people were moving in all directions. Remembering what the Frenchman had said the earlier night, Christof began to walk his way towards the location of the Frenchman's former camp, hoping they were not too far away as a gentle breeze caused his cloak to sway.

Jacques stood up suddenly from the pond where he had been bathing, completely disrobed except for his ever-present scarf. He looked up on the crest and saw the fight breaking out, but then decided to sit back down in the pond. He splashed some water on his shoulders.

Why stand up, he reasoned, when Bartholme and his men could clearly handle the bandits? He leaned backwards, letting his arms rest on the banks of the pond, and stretched his legs out. He enjoyed the feel of the water- not hot, not cold. He let out a long sigh, splashing some more water on himself before climbing out. He dried himself off with his cloak, then put on his underclothes, breeches, and boots, remaining shirtless. He tightened his scarf as the sounds of battle came to and end on the crest. He gathered up what clothes he had on the ground, and walked back to the glade.

Jacques stared at the Frenchman tending to his horse... But wait. He looked... Oddly familiar, Jacques squinted, throwing down his gathered up clothes and sword belt (sword included). He strode quickly across the glade and grabbed the French "man" by his shoulder.

As Cassandra heard the breathing of the Abomination she slid her hand to the sword on the rocks, but the heavy breathing of the metal man masked the light steps of the noblemen, as she felt his hand on her shoulder she knew she was discovered, but how could she play it off, would the Lordling even recognize her?

Cassandra knew there was only one,way to find out, Cassandra turned around to face the music, revealing her sky blue eyes, golden hair and fair skin.

Bartholme would grunt; the only signature of his slight disagreement with the decision made by Jacques. He had his men drag the leader away, to do exactly what Jacques had described. He nodded at Jacques after returning his gaze towards him, his usual poker face shrouded in a thousand emotions; distrust, humility, disdain, anger, yet none were so certain, and it was best not to assume his intentions so early. He returned to the campsite, and decided to lie down for some much needed rest. His men could be seen in the background sending what seemed to be a bare naked man spiraling town the road, laughing and pointing at the new-born fool.

Scalvusa reaches for his sword as Jacques put his shoulder on the 'man' that had joined the party. He seemed oddly... protective of 'him.' Scalvusa breathed slowly, and calmly, as he slowly approached the two. His stance was not identifiable; He could be priming for attack, or coming in just to distance the two.

He seemed to not care anything about the bandits that had raided them. Either they were too isignificant to bother reacting to, or that they had completely phased his mind, as he was focused on something else. It was likely the former.