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A lawless town of anarchists, built on the ruins of an ancient mining city. [Lore]

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String 'em up

Postby Dale Hawthorn on April 27th, 2015, 9:45 pm

"The Mob. It's somethin' that outsiders just don't understand but for us the mob is in our blood, we can sense when one is brewin' and we all know to either join in or stay out of its bleedin' way."

55th of Spring, AV 515 - 7th Bell - The Sunset Market

There was no law in Sunberth. There was no black and white. No right or wrong.

There was only the mob. And the poor bastards that got in its way.

For days the tension had been escalating in the city, you could feel it in air of every street, home and tavern that bristled with the natives of Sunberth as they went about their daily needs. The troupe had rolled up to Sunberth a fortnight ago, eager to display their prowess of the arts to the citizens of this intolerant city for a price considered meagre by many though a day's wage for many more. And soon a mutter turned to a whisper which when was fed into the rumour mill that fuelled the Mob so quickly became a cold, hard fact that these were Ionu's Inverted.

Dale had hit the streets as soon as the sun has shattered the fragile horizon, cast a bloody shadow across the clear, crisp sky. For a moment everything was silent, the only noise came from the songs of birds and the laughter of children playing. It was the lull before the storm, the city held its breath for a moment before exhaling.

"Grab any of the scum you find!" There was no leader of the mob, no figurehead that could be reasoned with. The only thing anyone part of it could do was try to be as loud as possible in the hope that other people would listen. Dale obeyed the violent words that were barked down the once desolate morning market. Normally in a couple of hours this market would be bustling with merchants and con artists alike trying to flog their wares to passerby while a half of Sunberth's numerous pickpockets and cutpurses would be trying to empty their purses even faster.

Dale cut an intimidating sight, though he was unlikely to draw any attention amongst the sea of the rough faces. With his blade by his side he was better armed than most of his comrades. Most carried knifes and daggers, some had resorted to planks of wood while others realized their fists were the best weapon they owned as they encircled the troupe's residence.

A piercing scream announced that the mob had found its first victim. Kicking and screaming Dale looked back at to the woman desperately trying to free herself from the grip of the crowd, despite her ordinary, even attractive appearance she was being treated as if she was the most disfigured, detestable scum to ever walk Sunberth's street and still have the gall to demand money for people to gaze upon her foulsome, mind bending magic.

"Hang her! Hang her! Hang her!" Cried the crowd, the bulk of them shifting off in the direction of the gloomy Gallows, she was bound for date with Ol' Queen Kova and her anguished cries for mercy would do nothing to change that. "This had been a long time comin'" Dale thought as those that remained reformed, their mood only magnified with the first member of the troupe caught so soon it felt like that they were on a roll, soon the entire city would wake up to hear the cries of whatever filthy magic created these illusionist purged from the streets.

A large group remained gathered around the entrance of theatre troupe's main tent as other circles the array of smaller tents, dragging more and more performers out as they clawed desperately at the ground. Dale stood at, most were your average workers but some men stood amongst them that looked like they would be made of sturdier stuff. "Let's see who's hidin' behind 'ere then" He announced with a grim face before pulling back the heavy flap and stepping inside.
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Dale Hawthorn
Bloodshed Is Our Native Tongue
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String 'em up

Postby Jessor Yellowmoss on May 2nd, 2015, 9:50 pm

The animals had been restless all day. Badger had not stood still for a moment, and when Jessor tried to calm him with a brushing, he had bucked and nearly decapitated the girl. It was a near tragedy, but that didn't stop the Drykas from finishing the brushing.

The kits had been feisty too. At feeding time, they were at each others' throats, ready to nip and even tear at each other whenever they had the opportunity. Though Jessor was not usually one to interfere with the kits' self-induced hierarchy, eventually it got to the point where she had to use two different bowls; that way there was one for each kit.

Despite the animals' unease, Jessor felt good about the day. The sun was bright for Spring, and the day was warm enough that she could leave her cloak at home when she went out for a stroll that evening. She even made it far enough to pass by the theatre troupe's tent, around which there was a large gathering of people.

Jessor smiled good-naturedly and strolled over to see what the attraction was. But halfway there, her heart stopped. A bloodcurdling scream pierced the previously warm spring air, chilling the girl to the bone. Assuming there was someone in trouble, Jessor rushed forward, elbowing her way through the crowd to get to the center.

It was a few chimes before Jessor realized that there was no center to the mass. It seemed that the crowd was not gathered around the tents- the tents were merely an obstacle in the way of the mass of people. As were, it appeared, the occupants of the tent, for the way the mob tore them from their tents and lay them upon the ground was far from hospitable. In fact, it was rather hostile. But why...

It was then that a second scream tore through the air. Jessor whipped around to face the woman who had produced it, but was faced only with the mob. There was chanting growing all around her, "Hang her! Hang her! Hang her!". The sound was getting inside Jessor's head, pounding at the inside of her skull like the ache of a bad dream.

"No...No..." It began as a whisper, then grew to a shout. "No! What are they doing? She's innocent! No!"

Jess spun in a circle, searching desperately for a sane soul. "Someone stop them!" A voice came from off to the side, laughing gently, the words chilling Jessor worse than the screams of the theatre troupe.

"Don't worry, hon. We only hang the mages."
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Jessor Yellowmoss
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