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

[No Man's Land Tavern] The Messes of Men

Postby Orakan on October 9th, 2016, 10:46 pm

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24th of fall 516av ♦ mid-afternoon----
robern's reaches----

soundtrack :


Sunberth was a city that lacked many things: There was no government to be found, no law, no morals, dubious amounts of hope and, moreover, no sense of faith. That massive, crumbling relic from pre-Valterrian days that stood in the centre of the Castle Commons, sticking out like dog's balls amongst the ramshackle wooden shacks and buildings that made up the rest of the city, was no place of worship. No Gods or Goddesses walked amongst the poor and pitiless here in the city of anarchy. The gritty citizens had no need for masters, after all, and what else were those that dwell within the Ukalas but masters and mistresses of their followers? No, the only belief a Sunberthian needed was that in themselves insomuch it might mean they lived to see another day.

Because of this, the power of the various gangs that called this city of anarchy home was a constant ebb and flow, one rising only to fall. Power was hard-wrought and fleeting; the moment one seemed to rise up and dominate their peers, the city would push back. Mobs were commonplace and helped to keep the balance. Even nature seemed in league with the lawless city, humbling those who wished to make it theirs. Yet the battles would never cease; Sunberth seemed to survive off the blood of the fallen and the three continued their never-ending power-struggle as they jockyed amongst themselves for territory.

But now a new player had made itself known. The Vigilantes.

No one knew where they originated from or why. They were still so new to the city; their presence, nothing but a whisper at the start of the season, now slowly built into a roar with the opening of No Man's Land Tavern and the reveal of what they were. They were recruiting, drawing in those sick of the big three, sick of the constant power playing. The big three had watched. The Daggerhand, buoyed from their successful assault on the Sun's Birth the season prior, felt the need to pay this new group a visit.

Orakan had been chosen as one of the handful of Brothers and Sisters to 'welcome' their new neighbours to the city.. in true Daggerhand fashion.

Smoke billowed up from his pipe, bobbing with his movements as his bare figure moved about the dank, sparse room, paying no heed to the items spread neatly atop the unmade bed before him or those arranged upon the chest at its end. Instead his mind was empty, devoid of his plans, of his task for the day, made free to mentally prepare himself for all that would be involved. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring wide and open to suck the noxious cloud that drifted and curled before him down into his lungs. Keep the mind free. Keep it all free. Keep the pain at bay. Embrace the numbness.

He released his breath slowly through his nose, doing his best to resist the urge to push it out how his body naturally yearned to. Instead, he tried focusing inwardly on himself, identifying the constriction of his chest, the muscles that tightened there; his stomach and the flex of his abs; the feel of his breath on his skin and how it stung as it tickled the split in his top lip. Easy now, he reminded himself, working to find that place he used to go to in his youth. His place of escape.

Drugs had a way of speeding the process along.

His eyes opened slowly as he drew another breath in and ground his jaw as his cracked and freckled lips sought to fix their precarious grip on the mouth of the piece. They tightened around the stem as he sucked and he watched with his good eye as the contents of the chamber glowed, hissed and billowed. His chest burned against the hot smoked that filled his lungs and he shut his eyes once more, tuning everything out as he held the smoke in deep until the burning dissipated. His hand rose to pluck the pipe from his lips, his jaw growing slack as he tipped his head back, the thin ghost of the smoke he had inhaled earlier slowly creeping up from his opened mouth before, at last, he blew it out slow and steady upon an appreciative groan.

No need to rush. Relax. Feel it. Let it flow. Let it all leave.

He felt the tension in his upper shoulders slowly give way with each and every consecutive exhale, felt his body slowly begin to melt away – no, his worries and cares and fears, drip drip dripping from his fingertips to the warped floorboards below. A comfortable, pleasant numb took its place, settling into his chest and slowly spreading out, nice and warm, stretching and reaching down his limbs and up the back of his neck.

Now.


ledger-8gm for Gold Dust (single dose)


wc 816
Last edited by Orakan on March 2nd, 2019, 12:23 pm, edited 9 times in total.
“The means to every crime is ours,
and we employ them all,
we multiply the horror a hundredfold.”

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Orakan
Lost Boy
 
Posts: 183
Words: 101764
Joined roleplay: July 7th, 2015, 1:52 am
Location: Sunberth
Race: Human
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[No Man's Land Tavern] The Messes of Men

Postby Orakan on November 6th, 2016, 5:32 am

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He opened his eyes fully against the glare of the hazy light that poured in through his open window but made no move to shield them, his thoughts and focus turning to his bed as he made a slow mental check of the items resting upon it.

He had gone through the motions of preparation when he had risen this morning, slowly, languidly laying out his shirt, leather armor, pants, sash, belt, knuckle duster, dagger and kopis upon the unmade mattress to be equipped once he was ready, the trail of items ending with his boots which he had propped against the side of his chest. Upon that rested two candles – still flickering away, wax having dribbled down to pool at their bases – as well as his rings. A wooden bucket full of water that he had brought up the night before sat catty-corner to his boots in front of the chest, the candles' light dancing in the reflective surface.

He moved in that direction with a lazy ease while taking another deep drag from the pipe, returning to his earlier practice of holding it in to endure the burn as he gradually lowered himself to his knees. He shifted then, settling in and onto his heels and rolling his shoulders before his head lolled back. Releasing that held breath nice and slow, concentrating on the action, on the control, he took a moment to shut his eyes again and re-centre himself. Clear the mind. Enjoy the warmth. Free yourself for what is to come.

Without opening his eyes, he languidly leaned forward to settle the pipe upon the surface of the chest and then felt for the bucket, focusing on remembering where his surroundings were and straightened once his palm brushed against it. His knees walked him in that direction to angle him towards the bucket and he then shifted to scoop a handful out, splashing it onto his chest. He bent and then dipped both hands in, bringing the water up to splash it against his face, rubbing it soundly for good measure, fingertips digging and rubbing into his stubble-covered cheeks, savouring the feel. Again, he repeated the process, wetting his neck, nape, arms and back, rubbing each as best he could as he went.

Although the room was cool – as was the breeze that stirred the threadbare curtains, Ora did not feel it. No goosebumps rose as the water poured over him, the drugs in his system already taking effect and bolstering his heart and metabolic rate. In fact, the water felt good. It always did to him; a nice, refreshing cleansing process that he always looked forward to. He poured more over his head and felt is dribble down his frame, paying no mind as it slowly soaked the top of his underthings and began puddling on the floorboards.

He rose to his feet, chest heaving as he clenched and flexed his hands, physically hyping himself up and getting himself in the zone. His hands then moved up, palms sweeping roughly up the back of his neck, over the back of his skull and then down and off his head as he huffed loudly, the sound grating in his throat. Giving his head a hard shake to set the world around him in motion and further get his blood flowing, he swayed and stagger-stepped towards the bed and then quickly tugged on his pants and shirt, grinning despite his unbalance.

The drugs left him buzzing, fiending for the task at hand and he moved to the beat of his heart as it thrummed in his ears. He did not rush it, though, taking care with each article and piece he equipped. He took his time to roll up his sleeves so his thorns and dagger were on display, wound his sash neatly around his waist, added his belt and fastened his knuckleduster to it with a loosely tied piece of cloth and then slipped on his armor. He took extra care ensuring the straps were secure, giving the top of the thicker leather around the gorget a hard tug which sent him swaying once more. Another grin. Another huff of a chuckle out his flared nose. He closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders back, feeling the flex of his muscles along his shoulders and back. His pauldrons went on next and they, too, received the same attention as his cuirass.

Boots next, he bent to tug them on, wobbling a bit in the process, eventually swinging himself around to drop onto the bed, kicking a foot out as he pulled on his last boot. Righting himself, he gave himself a thorough pat down to ensure everything was in its proper place. Last but not least, he sheathed his kopis at his left side and dagger at his lower back and pulled his kopis loose in its scabbard. His rings lay forgotten on the chest, unneeded. He didn't want anything hindering his grip.

He was ready.

The time was now.

He bent, blew the candles out and took one last long drag from his pipe before turning to leave.

Ledger-2cm for 2x candles

wc 856
Last edited by Orakan on March 2nd, 2019, 12:23 pm, edited 4 times in total.
“The means to every crime is ours,
and we employ them all,
we multiply the horror a hundredfold.”

Image Image
User avatar
Orakan
Lost Boy
 
Posts: 183
Words: 101764
Joined roleplay: July 7th, 2015, 1:52 am
Location: Sunberth
Race: Human
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Plotnotes
Medals: 1
Mizahar Grader (1)

[No Man's Land Tavern] The Messes of Men

Postby Orakan on November 6th, 2016, 11:32 pm

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The world around him seemed to move by slowly, his surroundings blurring slightly with every turn of his head. Squinting his eyes against the hazy glare of the sky above, he checked its position, drug muddled mind doing its best to guess how much time had passed since he first started his preparations. Pressing on, his boots followed the well known path through the Reaches until he reached the main bit of road that stretched between the Den to the north, the Castle Commons to the south and the Gated Community to the west. His nostrils flared as he breathed in deep, head tipping back. Not long now, he thought – as if speaking to something inside him, something eager to be released -, head lolling back to neutral.

He turned south, heading towards the Mudway. He'd need to cross it to get to the meeting place just outside the Seaside Markets. His heart hammered. His arms tingled. He was ready.


___________


He arrived just as Syna and Leth were changing roles and the worn down shacks and shanties that loomed above him, looking like men with crooked backs, were dark silhouettes against the vivid display of colours put on by the pair. The display swam before him like oil on water, the edges of his vision blurry. He barely heard the command, yet the bodies that surrounded him - his fellow brothers and sisters - began to move and he was carried on the surge, caught up in their swell as the group pushed forward and into No Man's Land Tavern.

The Daggerhand had no clue as to where this Vigilantes group truly operated out of, yet word had gotten out linking this new establishment to the equally new group. The gang didn't need any more reason beyond that to strike, to make a point. And strike they did.

The group of ravagers spread out across the busy tavern like wildfire, raging and leaving in their path a trail of destruction. Orakan was amongst it, teeth gnashing, eager to lay as much waste to the place as possible. Chairs were knocked over, a table flipped. It was all a blur, a right beautiful blur.

The tavern was chaos; shouts, screams, the crunching of wood and delightful sound of fist of flesh filled the air, drowning out any commands that might have been shouted. But none were necessary: this was the plan. Cause a scene. Flush out this would be gang, these civilians thinking they could cross the Daggerhands. Generally, the Daggerhand - like the rest of the big three - rarely caused the average citizen grief, but this was an exception. An example needed to be made.

Orakan was in the thick of it. He zeroed in on a man tucked behind the table he had been occupying, brandishing his mug as is if this display may somehow ward off any would-be assailants. Ora grinned inwardly at the sight, turned, and rushed the man, legs pumping, his high helping him feel bigger, seem wilder, and his wild-eyed look seemed to have its intended effect on the man. His target hesitated as he was rushed, flinching just before the Daggerhand thug grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him forward.. and into his fist. Then, and only then, did the tankard come down, slamming hard against the side of Orakan's face. The swing was frantic, desperate and the Gold Dust pumping through Orakan's bloodstream helped him ignore it as it glanced off, his fist swinging - once, twice -, driving over and over into the man's face. The burn in his knuckles was numbed and minimised by the drugs and this only encouraged him to continue - three, four, five.

The tankard clanked against him once more, glancing, the man's defensive strikes growing more frantic, harried and, with that, weak. The one-eyed Daggerhand thug delivered last punch before he lifted and then shoved the man away, attention swinging away as he dropped the stunned man to the floor. Orakan's eyes were wide, heartbeat ramming away in his ears as he looked for his next target, plucking up a chair in the process.

Walking with it, he eventually threw it with all his might at the bar, sending those who sought shelter behind it scattering. Sweeping his gaze across the chaos around him, he grinned. A bottle hit him on the back of his shoulder and the split on his lip reopening as his twisted smile grew more.

wc 748
Last edited by Orakan on March 2nd, 2019, 12:24 pm, edited 1 time in total.
“The means to every crime is ours,
and we employ them all,
we multiply the horror a hundredfold.”

Image Image
User avatar
Orakan
Lost Boy
 
Posts: 183
Words: 101764
Joined roleplay: July 7th, 2015, 1:52 am
Location: Sunberth
Race: Human
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[No Man's Land Tavern] The Messes of Men

Postby Orakan on March 2nd, 2019, 12:22 pm

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He whipped his head around to seek out the one who had thrown the bottle, good eye roaming the area he believed the bottle to come from, searching the many faces and tussling bodies. He was too slow; just as his sensations and pain were dulled, so was his reaction time and he straightened his frame to its full height just as another bottle came crashing down over his head.

It shattered awkwardly, the bottom end breaking away and leaving the top two-thirds in tact and jagged - deadly.

The sound reverberated in Orakan's skull, leaving him momentarily deaf, and he dropped his head as a result, hand lifting to fend away what was no longer there. His good eye shot open and searched frantically for the offender, anger rising, chest heaving.

The chaotic din of the tavern brawl slowly came back into focus just as the broken end of the bottle was thrust forward.. and toward's the left side of Orakan's back.

His leather armor took the brunt of the hit, the sharp glass managing to pierce the top layer but no further, and the man who wielded it heaved a slew of profanities at the young Daggerhand thug. The defiant tavern patron slashed out at Orakan's exposed left arm, missed, and then began swiping and swinging with little regard. The Daggerhand moved in kind, everything seeming both in slow motion and rapidly rushed, and his hand immediately went for his kopis, freeing it from its scabbard just as a jagged end left a red ribbon across his right bicep. The fabric around the cut bloomed a deep crimson.

He didn't register the sting, body numbed by the drugs in his system. Instead, his whole focus was on the upward momentum of his right elbow as he unsheathed his blade, angling it for the man's chin. It caught the corner of the other man's jaw but the angle wasn't enough to do much beyond angering the patron further. More curses were hurled his way as a result.

Orakan laughed, a choked, broken and ugly laugh. His blade swept up and across the man's chest.

He copped a bottle to the face as a thank you, a glance that was enough to leave another wet, red smear across his cheek. This only seemed to spur the Daggerhand on, blood pumping as his free hand shot up to the man's face in something of a sloppy slap - partially fending him away, partially hitting him in the face. It was a messy manoeuvre, done more to taunt and frustrate the man than actually cause harm, and it distracted the man just long enough for Orakan to drive his kopis into the man's stomach.

He used his boot to shove the man off his blade, the act something of an unbalanced kick, and Orakan wavered as a result before steadying himself once both feet were beneath him once more. The force was enough to send the man reeling backwards, his hands clutching his wound.

Whirling around, kopis ready, Orakan's good eye darted around the messy scene he found himself in, hunting for his next victim.

The brawl had reached its peak, the tavern littered with broken glass, wood and bodies. There was a metallic smell in the air, mixing with sweat and ale, the floor sticky under foot, and it seemed to only bolster Orakan's already elevated mood. His Brothers and Sisters had done a fine job of keeping to their mission - the place was sufficiently trashed.

wc 586
“The means to every crime is ours,
and we employ them all,
we multiply the horror a hundredfold.”

Image Image
User avatar
Orakan
Lost Boy
 
Posts: 183
Words: 101764
Joined roleplay: July 7th, 2015, 1:52 am
Location: Sunberth
Race: Human
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Medals: 1
Mizahar Grader (1)

[No Man's Land Tavern] The Messes of Men

Postby Orakan on March 2nd, 2019, 12:55 pm

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He watched as a Sister lifted and then slammed a man down onto the bar, attention deviating once another rushed him. He lifted his hands to fend the man away, kopis still clutched tight in his right hand, and turned in time with him, using the man's momentum to shove him away. Another came at him from the opposite direction, slamming a broken bottom of a chair leg down on his right arm.

His grip loosened, kopis dropping and clattering against the tavern floor. Orakan hissed a curse as the strike sent a shudder through the length of his arm, breaking through the numb of the drug. His breath heaved as he snarled and threw his left fist at his assailant. The man ducked and Orakan was left spinning, staggering.

The chair leg struck the back of his head and he stumbled further, momentarily dazed, and then dropped heavily to his knees.

Disoriented, he didn't notice than a Daggerhand Brother had moved in to see to the chair leg wielding patron, sparing him from further assault. His mind swam, vision spotty. He blinked until his kopis came into focus.

The high help push him, spurring him on, and he lunged for the blade, scooping it up before having it in hand once more. He straightened and brandished it, spinning around as the tavern teetered and swam. It was hard to focus.

The majority of patrons had poured out of the tavern by now, leaving only the wounded and rabid, the latter growing fewer and fewer in number by the chime. Orakan slashed his kopis out at one, swinging it with little finesse, yet it was enough to get the man to shy back. A cursory look at one of his fellow wounded patron saw him visibly rethink things before making a hasty exit.

The fight was waning now, the element of surprise and might on the Daggerhand's side. It was obvious who the winner was going to be, but this didn't stop members of the gang from adding salt to the wound. One Brother had a a patron pinned to the bar, dagger held at the woman's throat, as words bore into her, pressing her for further information on the Vigilantes. He copped a swipe to the face.

Orakan was there in an instant, free hand seizing a handful of her loose hair and yanking - hard. A yelp left her. The two Daggerhand Brothers exchanged looks, something passing between them, a message left unsaid. Orakan gave the woman's head a hard shove as the other backed off and sheathed his dagger before grabbed and hauling the woman up and over a shoulder.

Orakan's attention turned, hazel eyes scanning the scene, looking for any hostile stragglers as that Brother hauled the woman off towards the door. Spotting one, he sheathed his kopis and charged forward. The man put a table - upturned non its side - between them and Orakan didn't hesitant to drive himself into it, dropping a shoulder to collect the side of the table and drive it with all his might forward. The wood shuddered as it briefly caught the floor before skittering forward swiftly. The man was caught offguard and was quickly pinned between the table and the wall, an audible, shocked groan leaving him.

Then a hand was on him, gripping the back of the neck of his cuirass and yanking hard. Orakan instinctively reached for the dagger at his lower back before his attention shifted, good eye catching sight of a fellow Daggerhand at his back. He was being pulled away.

The deed was done. It was time to go.

Bloodied and breathless, Orakan followed, feeling buoyant, triumphant.

Success.

wc 615
total 3621
“The means to every crime is ours,
and we employ them all,
we multiply the horror a hundredfold.”

Image Image
User avatar
Orakan
Lost Boy
 
Posts: 183
Words: 101764
Joined roleplay: July 7th, 2015, 1:52 am
Location: Sunberth
Race: Human
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Plotnotes
Medals: 1
Mizahar Grader (1)

[No Man's Land Tavern] The Messes of Men

Postby Orakan on March 2nd, 2019, 1:52 pm

Grades

Planning - 2
Meditation - 2
Observation - 5
Endurance - 3
Organisation - 1
Cosmetology - 1
Land Navigation - 1
Running - 2
Intimidation - 1
Unarmed Combat - 3
Brawling - 2
Investigation - 1
Kopis - 2
Acrobatics - 2
Bodybuilding - 1


Vigilantes: Formed in the Fall of 516
Planning: Using drugs to prepare the mind and body for battle
Meditation: Controlling ones breaths
Meditation: Tuning out thoughts in order to engage and control the body and mind
Gold Dust: Uses and effects
Meditation: Imagining tension and stress leaving the body
Meditation: Finding centre
Cosmetology: Pre-fight cleansing ritual
Location: No Man's Land Tavern
No Man's Land Tavern: Linked to the Vigilantes
Endurance: Drugs help to resist pain
Brawling: Using a chair as a weapon
Unarmed Combat: Striking with an elbow
Unarmed Combat: Taunting and demeaning an opponent with slaps
Acrobatics: Making use of momentum
Running: Charging an opponent

Consequences
Superficial cuts to the left bicep and right cheek.


Self-grade. Please let me know if there are any issues.
“The means to every crime is ours,
and we employ them all,
we multiply the horror a hundredfold.”

Image Image
User avatar
Orakan
Lost Boy
 
Posts: 183
Words: 101764
Joined roleplay: July 7th, 2015, 1:52 am
Location: Sunberth
Race: Human
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Plotnotes
Medals: 1
Mizahar Grader (1)


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