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(Job Thread) The Daggerhand are poised to reestablish their dominance and reputation. As a result, Ora sets out to remind a debtor exactly what it means to fall on the wrong side of the late Robern's rabble.

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

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[Baroque Bay] The Messes of Men

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

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24th of fall 516av ♦ midday

continued from investigations made here
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.

And yet, tucked away within Robern's Reaches, a lone figure began his haphazard ritual of preparation and prayer, calling upon Rhysol to be with him today, as he had in times past.

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.

The drugs always seemed to help him find that place these days.

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 and he held it 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 ever consecutive exhale, felt his body slowly begin to melt away – no, his worries and cares and fears, drip drip dripping from his finger tips to the floorboards below. A comfortable, pleasant numb took its place, settling into his chest and slowly spread 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)


word count: 613

~ c ~
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Last edited by Orakan on November 6th, 2016, 6:56 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Orakan
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Posts: 78
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[Baroque Bay] 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, vest, pants, sash, belt, various strips of faded and discoloured cloth, knuckle duster, bundle of rope 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 and fingerblade. 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.

Finally, once he was satisfied, he turned himself back towards the chest and candles and took a deep breath, upper half rising and spine straightening as his lungs expanded.

His words came out on his exhale, clearer than his usual speech and slow as they were breathed out past tingling lips, “Rhysol, if you are out there, if you can hear these words, this one makes a request of you.

As someone never trained in prayer – or in the Divines, for that matter, Ora did not know how to properly address the Lord Defiler. He had heard the volunteers working at the orphanage speak of deities, had listened to the travelling priests that foolishly found themselves within the city, had heard them both curse and praise a fair few and none had seemed to trouble them more than the one he spoke to now.

He knew of the God as one who promoted all the wrong and hurt in the world, all things evil and cruel and, well, that was enough for Ora. Those were the things he knew best, the things that made up the life he lived. Chaos, deceit, cruelty and betrayal were Ora's reality; they were what was normal for the boy. Therefore, it was Rhysol that most made sense to him and so he had decided some time ago to get himself as much in league with the God as possible and had been making the odd request and prayer ever since.

Despite this, he'd never count himself a true follower. Like all Sunberthians, Ora was fiercely independent. But, oh, he did not mind looking to someone for a bit of direction and maybe, just maybe, a bit of support. It was not something he was familiar with but he would never turn it down if it ever came his way.

Ora brings the chaos, too!” His tone grew pluckier, lips pulling wider as he grinned while he continued, “Join me! Be present with this one today! Ora has good plans for this day, plans that would make one like you very pleased.

He grew louder, arms raising out to either side of him, palms relaxed, open and welcoming, “
Be with this one today. Let us prey upon weakness and spread fear and destruction, ay?!” He worked him up to the finish, clenching one of his fists and slamming the side of it hard enough against his opposite pec to cause his body to sway, his body giving way to shakes as a rumble of laughter rose from deep within his belly. The laughter drew long, slowly turning into one long, guttural cry as he slapped at his chest, doing so repetitively until the flesh grew flushed beneath his palms. He did one final smack before ending his chat with this other worldly entity, tone growing lower, a near growl, “Join this one today, Rhysol, if not in body then in spirit; let's show the people of Sunberth what you, Ora and the Daggerhand are all about.

Ready. Ready. Ready. Go! Bring the fear. Bring the chaos.

word count: 998
~ c ~
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Orakan
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Posts: 78
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Joined roleplay: July 7th, 2015, 1:52 am
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[Baroque Bay] The Messes of Men

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

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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 vest. He bent to tug on his boots, wobbling a bit in the process and eventually swung 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 and pulled his kopis loose in its sheath, grabbing up his bundle of rope which he draped casually about his neck, like it was hardly anything more sinister than a scarf.

The warped and water-damaged floorboards creaked loudly under his weight as he returned to the chest and he swiftly plucked each ring up and shoved it on before, at last, he finished with his fingerblade.

The time was now.

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

♦ ♦ ♦

The world around him seemed to move by slowly, his surroundings blurring slightly with every turn of his head. This was nothing he wasn't used to and he squinted his eyes against the hazy glare of the sky above, boots following the well known path through the Reaches until he reached the main cobbled 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, head lolling back to neutral, I will have you squealing like a pig.

He turned south, intent on cutting through the Commons rather than remaining on the main drag and let his mind fixate on his task and target.

The man that came to the forefront of his mind and his target for the day was Gerris Rother, some coward who had failed to repay the money lent to him by the ever benevolent Daggerhand. Ora had been hunting Rother down the past few days, uncovering as much information as he could on the man and where best to find him. It was through these investigations that he heard the debtor would be at the Seaside Markets – and that was the direction he headed, intentionally sticking to the back lane ways and warrens.

word count: 554
~ c ~
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Orakan
Lost Boy
 
Posts: 78
Words: 38923
Joined roleplay: July 7th, 2015, 1:52 am
Location: Sunberth
Race: Human
Character sheet
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Plotnotes


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