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Fro
 Posted: Dec 4 2014, 08:26 PM
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There was a dust in the air, gusting about, like it had swept up from some old. rediscovered room by some poor man's luck, sending the layer of airy specks free. They moved with purpose, ceaseless, along the corridors and halls lined with grey-stones and mortar, jets of wind from people moving and wooden doors slamming flinging them farther along, around corners, between men, drifting clumped high along the ceiling as if to sneak. Their victim, if sneezing and general uncomfortableness for a short time was something that you could be victimized over, stood at the end of the passage, unknowing, almost bored. They spiraled even closer, beginning their dive.

The man stood somewhat lazily against the masonry, beside a door, eyelids barely even half open. He wasn't a slacker, at least, he wouldn't call himself that, it was just that waiting for these godforsaken meetings, no matter how important for a mercenary, always took so much time that he was certain it would be another day when he finally crawled out the front gates. Royalty was always busy. The life of freedom, the life of pledging no allegiance to anyone, like a pirate or something of the sort, wasn't all what it was cut out to be when he was young and they ran about with sticks. Nobody remembered your name unless you were one of the lucky ones, the famous ones. Nobody ever made enough to retire from this line of work and drink until their blood was wine, like they all hollered about. Nobody found anyone to stick with, bed with, because a mercanaries' life is fleeting, and he'll never settle down. "Tragedy," He hummed out, biting on the edge of his lip and looking with some disdain at himself and his ragged shoes "There's some I wouldn't mind sticking with..." His eyes traced a rather simple but, in her own sort of way, elegant woman balancing a bundle of some sort of cloth in one hand and a bucket in the other, doing errands around the keep without even a look towards him, though he vied for her attention with his own gaze. This was when, to his horror, the dust made it's approach.
It took him by surprise, with his mouth still open and his focus somewhere else. He sputtered, nearly doubling over, coughing to get rid of the dust that had sunken over him. The clump felt stuck, unwilling to leave after such a long trip. His knuckles rapt upon his own chest, before clutching his legs to keep himself standing while he fumed. It took seconds worth of forceful coughing before he even felt comfortable enough to let go of his knees, and stare back up.

The woman was staring with a sort of panic up at him, taking steps slowly back away from him. "D-dust!" He called out, trying to reassure her, still letting out a few deep coughs that sent her a few steps further "J-just dust!" But despite his warnings against him being ill in any sort of way, she still cautiously began to creep away around a corner. Her figure slipped away as noiseless and as quick as she could, leaving behind a piece of linen that he doubted she'd be coming back for. He huffed a quick 'damn' to himself, before straightening up and trying to gain his composure again.

Truthfully, he couldn't blame her. There was something irking about the greyish tinge to his skin and the thin structure of his body, like some sort of sickly person. It was never hurtful to be too cautious, even though he had been that way for nearly a decade, and getting odd, concerned looks for just as long. Getting an audience the first time with any figure had been a struggle, without getting people to testify on his behalf that, no, he wasn't ill, and that they had no reason to fear.

Not that faking sick hadn't had its advantages to him.

"Wonder if this'll be about the wedding." He spoke to himself again, finding nothing else to do with his time but vedge. "Not exactly good for that, unless of course the pay is good. Weddings are such-" He realized his tone was loud and quieted down "Weddings are such dreary things to watch. Hell if they do mean what they say, hell if they don't." He scratched his head, digging into the thin mane of black hair. "Probably not that anyways. I'll hope, anyways. Some adventure would be nice. Kill something, search for something. I'm sure some dragons need slaying, or some caves needing clearin'" He let out a yawn, shutting himself up for the time being and lowering his eyes once again, silent.

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Vandy
 Posted: Dec 5 2014, 05:59 PM
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((Starting somewhere else, can meet up when we get settled. Probably going to jump around characters for the first few posts, see what I like. tongue.gif))

The whole of the camp lifted their heads, straightened their backs, and turned towards the sound of the crash. Every man and woman felt a tug from a wide, intricately knit web, pulling them along to the center. Productivity ceased in the wake of this resounding boom.

At the source- the center of the web- the people converged, and looked upon a scene approved by none. A major portion of the wooden palisade, on the right (or, east) side of the North-facing gate, had collapsed under weight, due to poor maintenance. A group of men, workers, were active. With their assistance, the remnants were cleared, the surviving pieces of wood were rescued, and the shrapnel dispersed; during the clean-up, the web fell to pieces, and all returned to their work.

Nearing the end of their assignment, those at the palisade came upon a dismembered leg under the wood; shortly after, the body of Oran. This was the child of Long River, a resident hunter, a newer member of the clan. With a crash as loud as the palisade collapsing, the news spread the campsite, and a dark air settled above them.

The local shaman announced funeral rites to begin at dusk, on the selfsame night. Long River was informed upon returning to camp that his son was dead; none in the camp had seen tears on his dark grey flesh before that day.
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Fro
 Posted: Dec 5 2014, 07:09 PM
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((Sounds alright. I'll think over my character a bit, let you figure yours out too. Don't worry about it if you feel like jumping around in time or with characters.))

He wondered, truly, where his parents were, as his thoughts drifted from weddings to other things. Not a bastard child or an orphan, he had become a drifter and began to move out as soon as he was allowed, or at least, as soon as he was able to. There wasn't much doubt in his mind that they were still around, and most likely in the same spot of land they'd always been, but he always had an inkling that they had their own adventurous urges still deep inside their chest, waiting to break out. Maybe he'd have to look into that soon, after he had a little more freedom and a little less burden of needing coins and food day-by-day.

The castle bustled by as a blur while he stood still, flinging in and out of doors like bees, gust of cold air from the cellars mixing with gusts of hot air from outside, brushing against his cheek from either side. The linen was eventually swept far enough way where another maid felt comfortable enough to peer around the corner, snatch it, and move with a hurried motion to her walk. He opened his mouth to try and reassure her in some sort of way, but all the words that came to mind would simply be in vain.

He had learned that the hard way, he remembered, rubbing a mark along the crease of his side.

"Alan," He practiced his greeting with a joking over-pompous twist of the wrist, and a slight bow "At your service, Liege." He stopped, freezing in place, frowning to himself "Liege? Who am I, his butler? Maybe just call him Sire, or Sir?" He continued this mumbling to himself, working it out in faint mumbles with some outbursts at times.

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