The Sea Beckons (solo)

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Considered one of the most mysterious cities in Mizahar, Alvadas is called The City of Illusions. It is the home of Ionu and the notorious Inverted. This city sits on one of the main crossroads through The Region of Kalea.

The Sea Beckons (solo)

Postby Ulric on October 22nd, 2011, 9:06 pm

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18th of Fall, 511 AV

“Go away,” Ulric snarled. Not that it meant anything to the gannet. The gray, long-beaked seabird just gave a hork and hopped off the rock, where it stared at him curiously. That was the last straw. “Don’t make me reach for the net.” Through his words were laced with menace, the gannet just horked and angled its head to the side. Ulric felt his cracked lips curl into a grin. “Good bird,” he said, then reached into his pocket so he could fling over a crust of stale bread. The gannet’s long, sinuous neck thrust out, plucking the morsel from the air. Ulric watched, fascinated, as the bulge moved down, finally vanishing into the bird’s stomach. He gave a sudden chuckle. “You’re a greedy slut, aren’t you?”

“Win adubf wefo fjweado adubfub,” growled the Gasvik, leaning back on its broad, scaled back.

“You’re just jealous,” Ulric grunted, regarding his friend, servant, and relic through dark, smoldering eyes. Desank just snorted, went back to sharpening his tusks. That meant he was bored. That, or just that he enjoyed having sharp tusks. I wish I had tusks.

“Fain no aodn ubf oadn.”

“Don’t you worry,” Ulric gave a shrug, reaching for one of the throwing axes thrust into his belt. “Don’t you know what happens to greedy sluts? They get what they deserve.” He brought the squat, heavy weapon back over his shoulder, then hurled it at the gannet, watched as it struck with a spray of sand. He cursed, for the gannet was unscathed, wings beating at the air as it horked wildly, ungainly flight carrying it back to the rocks. Not so fast, he frowned, flung over another crust. He was lucky that birds were easy to fool. The gannet swiftly forgot that mad retreat, took a short hop toward the dry crust, then another.

Ulric didn’t move, just held the other throwing axe poised over his shoulder, waiting. The moments flowed together, but soon the bird was back in front of him, head jerking up cheekily as it pecked at the crust. He met the dark, beady eyes for a moment, baring his teeth in a grin. “Got you,” he growled, and flung the axe. The curved head stuck the bird just below the neck, making feathers burst over the dawn, scant threads of crimson lashing across the sands. There was a weak hork, and then his boot stamped down, put the bird out of its misery. “Not so greedy now, are you?”

Taking up his throwing axes, he wiped them down with a greasy-specked rag, then placed them aside. He undid the buckle on his worn belt, unlaced his trousers, jerked the tunic over his head so that he was naked but for the bands of bronze that encircled his brawny biceps, folding the garments by his worn boots, the dented edge of his shield. “Don’t you look at my fruits,” he snarled at the Gasvik, reaching into the tangle of nets at his feet. He draped a pair over his left arm, the hanks of rope lashed together in places, and throwing the third over his shoulder, he began to march into the sea. He flinched as the turgid waters closed around his thighs, then fruits, prickles rising on his skin, nets weighted down by the water. The briny scent of the sea was in his nose, the crash of the surf in his ears. He grinned.

When the waves began to lap around his chest, he began to swim. He kicked with his legs, flailed with his arms, managing a sort of awkward sidestroke that brought him further out into wine-dark waters. There was a surge of a breaker, frigid waters buffeting at his chest, hindering his progress. He brought a foot down, felt it scrape against a bed of sand, slimy kelp, and broken shells, and frowned. He needed to be further out. There was a broad rock poking from the sea, dark and gleaming with kelp, the lower sides encrusted with barnacles and mollusks. He made for it, heart pounding from the shock of the cold water, legs thrashing madly. Then he was close enough to reach out, drag himself onto the surface. The nets were soaked and heavy, the lead weights bearing them down, but he jerked them up with a grunt, muscles straining from the effort.

Fishing. For now, he was just a fisherman.

Ulric’s deftly separated the coils of nets, and then, carrying one in each hand, made his way to the spur of the rock. There was a crevice at that end, he noted with a grin. He lashed the first to a hump of the reef, spots of coral showing at the base, and then did the same with the other net, only on the other side. He let them slide down, until only the ropes were perceptible over the dark, gentle swell of the waves.

Making sure they were secure, he went back to where he’d left the other net, wrapped the thick cord around his wrist a few times. He took a firm grip on the tarry webbing, breaking it into sections, then opened them slightly. Then he grunted, turning his upper body away, then spun back around, flinging the net into the dark waters. The folds spread out as they descended to strike the surface with a slash, the tiny weights making the net sink quickly, until the leading cord went taut against his wrist. Then he hauled the net back to the surface, corded muscles straining, his labors punctuated by motley grunts and curses, until he beheld his silvery catch writhing against the heavy, sodden cords. He threw the larger fish onto the algae-slick rocks, deftly crushing their heads under his heel, and threw the tiny back into the dark waters. Laviku, do you see my mercy?

Ulric reached for the net again, a grin coming over his face, and flung it back into the breakers.

There was something calming about fishing that always made him appreciate the simple things in life, from the scraping of rope across his palms to the warmth of the sun on his back. He kept casting the net, hauling fish from the seas. He began to whistle as he bent, heaved, and knelt over his catch. The net wasn’t always full, nor was it often empty. The currents that ringed the spur of rocks were writhing with slender, slippery bodies, not to mention the rare dark, hooked fin far out to sea.

The heap of fish rose slowly, so that when the sun had just passed its zenith, he put down the net, sprawling out on the baking rocks for a nap. He dreamed of a shack on the strand, warm arms winding around his back, a dingy moored in the lee of a dock with a tapering mast pointing at a pewter-gray sky.

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The Sea Beckons (solo)

Postby Ulric on October 29th, 2011, 2:53 pm

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When he awoke, the sun was fading, and goose prickles covered his burly arms. He also had angry whorls of red running over his flesh. Wasn’t supposed to slumber for so long, he grimaced, cursing the Gasvik for not awakening him. Desank had never liked water, though.

Ignoring the dull ache, he got up and strode over the ridge of uneven rock, tongues of jade-bright algae sprouting from the exposed side. The tide had gone out, and now it was veritably high and dry. The fish trap hadn’t been particularly efficacious. Ulric stared down at the heavy, cross-hatched nets, a scowl creeping over his face as he discerned only a few, wriggling forms in the forlorn, lingering tidal pool. He could read a coast like the back of his hand, but sometimes his contraptions just didn’t work. There was no desultory regret in that, for the sea was fickle, and he’d enjoyed enough of its bounty already.

Hauling up the nets, he deftly unlashed them and strode back to the heap of his catch, idly tossing the larger fish in the centers of each net, and bound them into crude, heavy sacks using their leading cords. The rest of the fish he just left there, food for the sea birds. He made his way to the edge of the rock, lowering down the makeshift sacks, and then climbed down himself. The sheer rock face was difficult to descend, barnacles scraping against his bare feet, toes jamming into slimy fissures, but he made it down eventually.

And now, for the other part, he groaned, hoisting the sacks over each shoulder, every muscle shaking under their crushing burden. Every step sank into the wet sand, making the journey longer than it actually was.

Much later, he found himself nearing the city, and the cluster of sprawling, ramshackle structures by the coast that made up the Patchwork Port. They seemed to crowd against the undulating slope of wall, the worn, cracking rocks choked by orange-tinged ivy, undergrowth seeming to sprout up all around. Even here, there was no mistaking the hand of that chimerical trickster, for the shingled roofs seemed to sprout from where once there had recently only been a field strewn with boulders, uneven and drooping, wisps of purple smoke curling from squat chimneys into the blotchy sky.

Ulric made his way through the narrow, winding lanes, the Gasvik shadowing his steps. He saw buildings made of timber beams, others with frameworks plastered with cracking cob, even spindly struts raising up squares of brick and crumbling plaster. The denizens were of much the same variety. Their raised voices cut through the dusk, faces and light, garments ranging from sturdy jerkins to scraps of sack. There was a heady scent of brine on the air, salt-encrusted nets hanging from pegs, crazy, faded, colorful rowboats overturned for routine careening, docks stretching out everywhere, strewn with hanks of rope, stacked oars, firkins of tar, and bleached bundles of sails. Finding a fishmonger wasn’t that hard. Turning down a sandy lane, then making his way to the far end, he came upon a burly, dark-featured man whose jowls wobbled when he laughed. There were strips hung out to dry on timber racks, side by side with freshly caught fish, barrels of salt stacked by one corner. The man was clutching a mug of ale, the other hand flung laxly over his protruding belly, not concealing the straining laces of his faded tunic. “Bit late for that,” he gestured at the nets. “There’s not much for stragglers.”

Yes, because people prefer them fresh, you old shyke.

I already know that.


Ulric gave a shrug. “Dry them, smoke them, feed them to the pigs. I don’t give a petch.” The man squinted closer.

“Won’t be able to give you a goodly sum.” He smirked. “Wouldn’t even if I could.”

“So?” Ulric sank onto his haunches, face spreading in a wolfish grin. “I’m doing this for a lark.”

Rough faces lit by the orange glow of a brazier, they began to bargain. Just like old times.

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Ulric
The Warrior-Poet
 
Posts: 554
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Joined roleplay: May 20th, 2010, 5:51 pm
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The Sea Beckons (solo)

Postby Distortion on November 5th, 2011, 5:01 pm

Ulric
Awards :
Skills
Throwing Axe +1
Swimming +1
Fishing +1
Climbing +1
Observation +1

Lore
Greed Begets Death
Trapping Fish with Anchored Nets


Overall: Job thread completed. Not much to say beyond keep up the good work. Ulric’s threads are always a pleasure to read.

Please let me know if you have any questions or concerns about the XP or Lore awarded.
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Distortion
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Joined roleplay: September 30th, 2011, 11:06 pm
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