- Pronouns
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GrapeFlavDragons
Evil
Medieval & Fantasy Minecraft Roleplaying
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Ced
- Thread starter Ced
- Start date
MossyMorel
Merchant
MossyMorel
Merchant
There was a light at the old war camp, visible from the road. The ruddy, amber glow doused the Arduin stag in dim warpaint and licked at the cracked monolith stones. Grimy fingers had found neglected chunks of blue gemstones, fallen from the old portal, in their search for tinder. They were laid out in a careful, pattern-less mess in the grass next to Ced, who had shed his boots and had his feet propped on a log by the fire.
His eyes were locked, unseeing, on the flames. His head was full of forest fire and daring necklines. Twenty years, he thought. No, thirty. Thirty years it must have been; at least that now. Yet he felt no older than he was the day he killed his first man, or lay with his first woman.
He leaned back until the cool earth pushed up against him, and wedged the rolled up cloak under the base of his skull. Murder is the catalyst of true success, he thought, and was happy at how sagely the voice sounded in his head. That's why the oldest people in the Kingdoms are the ones that slaughtered hundreds. That's why the most powerful men in the land are the ones that killed Gods. Strength is traded through blood-soaked handshakes. He had stopped focusing on the sentiment behind the ideas and was now lost in the cyclic labyrinth of his mind in search for even more poetic ways of saying awful things.
It wasn't until a memory hit him hard that he realized he had been dozing, and he half-rose, an elbow propping him up. His eyes widened momentarily as he listened to his thoughts, then he groaned in exasperation and flopped back onto the grass. "Where the fuck am I going to find fresh corpses?" he asked the sky.
His eyes were locked, unseeing, on the flames. His head was full of forest fire and daring necklines. Twenty years, he thought. No, thirty. Thirty years it must have been; at least that now. Yet he felt no older than he was the day he killed his first man, or lay with his first woman.
He leaned back until the cool earth pushed up against him, and wedged the rolled up cloak under the base of his skull. Murder is the catalyst of true success, he thought, and was happy at how sagely the voice sounded in his head. That's why the oldest people in the Kingdoms are the ones that slaughtered hundreds. That's why the most powerful men in the land are the ones that killed Gods. Strength is traded through blood-soaked handshakes. He had stopped focusing on the sentiment behind the ideas and was now lost in the cyclic labyrinth of his mind in search for even more poetic ways of saying awful things.
It wasn't until a memory hit him hard that he realized he had been dozing, and he half-rose, an elbow propping him up. His eyes widened momentarily as he listened to his thoughts, then he groaned in exasperation and flopped back onto the grass. "Where the fuck am I going to find fresh corpses?" he asked the sky.
MossyMorel
Merchant
Early morning. The cadaver. An old man laid flat on a marble table. Its lips are withdrawn, pulled back over pitted, abscessed teeth. The orbs of its eyes have already sunken deep into the face, which clings to the skull like melted wax. It still has hair; dead grass sprouting high above the forehead. The examiner lifts a pallid arm and studies the underside, where the blood has settled and darkened the skin. It might have been a clerk, or perhaps a man of office, judging by the lack of evidence to suggest regular exercise. The examiner thinks that the face might once have been dignified. Now it's horrifying.
Careful hands poke, and prod. They determine which parts of the body soften or harden in death. They note coloration, rigor mortis severity, and take special interest in the lower right abdomen where, despite the cold, pale green blisters have begun to form, letting off a smell not dissimilar to rotten eggs. He examines the body for an hour before he touches it again. When he does, it is with a blade.
It is now mid-afternoon, and he has learnt much. Firstly, he will need a specific set of tools. The bone knife only got him so far, and while the carpentry hammer got the job done, it was far from optimal. He has also learnt the value of an assistant; it is difficult to write notes when you are elbow deep in someone's chest. These, among other observations, he will write down and consider, just as soon as he finds a change of clothes.
Before heading back inside, he looks over the face once more. He wonders why the Sisterhood decided to let this man pass on, when so many others are wrenched back. Surely the threats to the population have moved on? The elements and Gods have both withdrawn, and no one even talks about Grief anymore. Why bring so many back? Maybe they've been doing the same thing for so long now that they don't know how to do anything else. Or maybe they know something we don't. The Bastion Stones. Clain. More Gods. The examiner sighs. Whatever it is, it won't be good. It's never good.
(Updates to clothing, ethics and motivations, relations, and skills.)
Careful hands poke, and prod. They determine which parts of the body soften or harden in death. They note coloration, rigor mortis severity, and take special interest in the lower right abdomen where, despite the cold, pale green blisters have begun to form, letting off a smell not dissimilar to rotten eggs. He examines the body for an hour before he touches it again. When he does, it is with a blade.
It is now mid-afternoon, and he has learnt much. Firstly, he will need a specific set of tools. The bone knife only got him so far, and while the carpentry hammer got the job done, it was far from optimal. He has also learnt the value of an assistant; it is difficult to write notes when you are elbow deep in someone's chest. These, among other observations, he will write down and consider, just as soon as he finds a change of clothes.
Before heading back inside, he looks over the face once more. He wonders why the Sisterhood decided to let this man pass on, when so many others are wrenched back. Surely the threats to the population have moved on? The elements and Gods have both withdrawn, and no one even talks about Grief anymore. Why bring so many back? Maybe they've been doing the same thing for so long now that they don't know how to do anything else. Or maybe they know something we don't. The Bastion Stones. Clain. More Gods. The examiner sighs. Whatever it is, it won't be good. It's never good.
(Updates to clothing, ethics and motivations, relations, and skills.)
MossyMorel
Merchant
Fireday - Mist6th - 2260
This is a record of Ced of Hawklight's account of the naval journey to new lands and our sorry attempts to survive on it.
We've been here for nearly a month, now. The island is fully explored, its coastlines and central crags roughly mapped. Game has been found in its forests, fish in the lakes and rivers. It's a cold and rocky place, but gently sloping fields on the northern and southernmost sides will accommodate crops, and the natural defenses are phenomenal. Well, against things that can't fly.
An expedition lead by Ashna of Grafjell landed here before us. Their camp is large, well stocked, and fortified. Ours is a tad smaller. We don't even have proper walls. Got a good cook though, if you like stew.
Oh, there's griffins here, too. The not-so-mythical-anymore birdcats of yore that eat sheep and shepherds for brunch and small villages for afternoon tea. At least, that's how most of the campers see them. It's hardly their fault that we've crashlanded in their territory and have begun eating all of their deer and salmon. I hope I can stem the hunt-happy attitudes of my kinsmen and come up with a solution that leaves both men and beasts alive and fed, but I'd be lying if I said I was optimistic about it all working out. Humans don't have a great track record of respectful coexistence with other species. The animal in question either learns to serve man, or it is killed by man. I suppose it's usually both.
Apart from that, there have been reports of bandits. Of the dozens of ships set off for new lands, at least a few must have been manned by an unsavory lot. Either that or they're just starving folk who don't know how to ask nicely.
Signing off, half a mile north of the Hawklight camp, predawn.
(Updates to skills, relationships, clothing, short and longterm goals, weaponry, and probably a few others.)
This is a record of Ced of Hawklight's account of the naval journey to new lands and our sorry attempts to survive on it.
We've been here for nearly a month, now. The island is fully explored, its coastlines and central crags roughly mapped. Game has been found in its forests, fish in the lakes and rivers. It's a cold and rocky place, but gently sloping fields on the northern and southernmost sides will accommodate crops, and the natural defenses are phenomenal. Well, against things that can't fly.
An expedition lead by Ashna of Grafjell landed here before us. Their camp is large, well stocked, and fortified. Ours is a tad smaller. We don't even have proper walls. Got a good cook though, if you like stew.
Oh, there's griffins here, too. The not-so-mythical-anymore birdcats of yore that eat sheep and shepherds for brunch and small villages for afternoon tea. At least, that's how most of the campers see them. It's hardly their fault that we've crashlanded in their territory and have begun eating all of their deer and salmon. I hope I can stem the hunt-happy attitudes of my kinsmen and come up with a solution that leaves both men and beasts alive and fed, but I'd be lying if I said I was optimistic about it all working out. Humans don't have a great track record of respectful coexistence with other species. The animal in question either learns to serve man, or it is killed by man. I suppose it's usually both.
Apart from that, there have been reports of bandits. Of the dozens of ships set off for new lands, at least a few must have been manned by an unsavory lot. Either that or they're just starving folk who don't know how to ask nicely.
Signing off, half a mile north of the Hawklight camp, predawn.
(Updates to skills, relationships, clothing, short and longterm goals, weaponry, and probably a few others.)
Last edited:
- Pronouns
- He/Him
GrapeFlavDragons
Evil
"Ced of Hawklight"
smh old man
smh old man
