Generally punishment detail, though I'm sure you can be assigned to it if you so wish.

Eeeeeeeeeeeexcellent.

I could do with an RP.

Did I say 'chains'?  I meant 'uniforms'.

Dammit, Sherp!  You're not supposed to tell 'em we're out of cookies!  Wait until we've got the chains on 'em!

Join us.  You know you want to.  We have booze.

And cookies.

But mostly booze.

Yup that's my name! I kinda love it too *grins* 

 

Although I kind like your suggestions for handles...

 

*Wonders if admins would be ... irked... if I asked them to change it to 'CassE' or something now.... Where were you guys when I was struggling with this decision???? Damn.

Did not!

The Manetherendrelle- or the River Arinelle, depending on the person asked- came into view, and Mehrin breathed a sigh of relief.  The past couple days of hard walking had been tense, leaving little time for conversation beyond warnings and directions.  The river, though, provided a respite.  If they had made it this far without being caught by the Children, then they were likely safe for the time being.  It would not be too difficult to flag down a ship heading either towards Whitebridge or Illian.  Either destination would put them out of reach of the Whitecloaks for some time, hopefully enough to lose himself- Ourselves, Mehrin corrected- to the Whitecloaks completely.

An unspoken signal between him and Eb brought the two to a halt.  Without hesitation, Mehrin dropped his coat and sword and dug into his bag, searching for a change of clothes.  He had just spent several days walking day and night, with only a couple hours of respite between stretches of walking, to get to this point.  Part of that time had been spent walking waist-deep in a creek to get to this point.  He needed a change of clothes, and modesty was beyond him.  As he pulled clothes out of the bag and began changing, he glanced at Eb.  *Thanks for pulling me out of the camp," Mehrin said, the first real sentence between the two since their escape.  Pulling his shirt over his head, Mehrin stretched, feeling the tension in the mass of scars all over his body.  He took a moment to splash cool water from the river on his body before pulling a new shirt over his torso and discarding his trousers.

"I know they're in here somewhere," he growled, digging through his bag.  He shoved aside a purse full of full Andoran crowns- one of many- and pulled out a balled pair of trousers with a cry of triumph.  Feeling human again, Mehrin looked at Eb, his face suddenly growing serious.  "Now, then," he grunted.  "What the hell are you doing here?"

... Why are we whispering?  It's not like the rest of the staff come here anyway.

It's always been a goal of mine to climb a heap of smoldering corpses to the top of DM.  Been telling people for years.  They still don't buy it.

If we get enough people to launch the hostile takeover of DM like I plan to do, then yes.

We've got Bandweiser in the basement.

Rather, we will have once I relabel all of it...

What can I say?  I'm kind of lazy about checking the email.  I shouldn't be, but then again, I'm not used to the Band being active yet.

Your Handle: Chaelca

Name (First and Last) of this character: Faydora Dasso

Age of this character: 18

Origin: Tear



Physical Appearance

Hair: Black

Eyes: Green

Height: 1m70

Weight: 55 kg

Skin: Tanned

Build: Thin but athletic

Notable features: Almond shaped eyes.

 
 
Primary Weapon: Daggers

Secondary Weapon: ...more daggers ?

Preferred Division: ??? no idea yet



Special Skills:

Good at sneaking everywhere... except in forests.
Is very good at throwing daggers.

Knowledge Weakness:

Tries to hide her knowledge about history, culture, etc. As she thinks that it would help people recognizing her.
Big weakness: she has only had to fight in inns and in Tear shady alleys. So she doesn't really know anything about wars or fair fights.

Personality weakness:

Has a big ego, is cocky
Gets angry when people notice her weaknesses



Personality:

Fang can look like a very angry person at first sight. She has no friends at the moment and is very suspicious of everything and everybody.
Would she manage to make friends, things would be very different, though. Indeed, when she really cares for someone, she would defend that person to the prince of her life.
 

Her only goal at the moment is to stay away from her father.

Quite happy with her fighting style, and thinking she is very smart, she is very confident in her skills. Unfortunately she still has A LOT to learn. But she doesn't know nor doesn't want to know about it.

History:

Fang is 18, she doesn't remember her mother. She has only known her father who has been a very influential man in Tear. She has no brother, nor any sister.

Using his wealth to give Fang the best possible education and cares, he tried to give her everything in a way to make her forget about her mum's absence. The attention Fang  received grew to be a real burden to her, though. Despite all she had and the attention she received from the house servants and maids, the girl wanted more... and especially more freedom. Her father had been very protective with her, not wanting to lose her as he had lost the love of his life. The girl was not supposed to talk to other people than the ones her dad agreed on and had to stay at home most of the time. The only leisure she could have was reading and drawing. But this situation only lasted a time.

Around 14, she found ways to escape the family house. At first, she just had walks into the streets, then she went to see the Stone, to visit the harbor and to peek into the inns. It was after a couple of weeks that she managed to make a couple of friends. They were orphans, so quite poor but a lot of fun to her. It is them who taught her how to fight with sticks and daggers, how to drink wine and ale, and how to steal from shops and pockets. They knew who she was but it didn't really matter to them. It is because of her wide smiles and wolfish grins when going on "coups" that they called her Fang instead of Faydora, her real name that she hated so much.  She loved her friends dearly and was really happy to spend time with them without her dad knowing anything about it. Indeed, at that time, he was especially busy with Lords and Ladies and he had to give all his attention to his business.

After 3 years of sneaking and pickpocketing, Fang 's hidden life went at an end.As her father learned what she had been doing for so long. indeed, she and 3 of her friends, got finally caught by one of the guards on a small "heist". Fang's dad used all his influence to allow his daughter to get away unarmed but he pushed to have her friend flogged, imprisoned then banned from the city.  Fang found herself locked up in her own house with no more contacts with the outside world and awaiting a marriage with one of her dad's business partner.

She used the days spent in her rooms to train with her daggers, to read about the world and to plan an escape. She even tried to channel, but it never worked. She was glad of it though, as she didn't really want to escape her dad to find herself imprisoned in the White Tower instead.

On the day of the ceremony, right after the maids had dressed her in her wedding dress and had left her to signal to her father that she was finally ready, she set fire to her room and used the confusion to run away with her jewels and some of the golden coins she had managed  to snatch from her dad.

Now she was roaming the country, hoping her dad would never find her.

DM Handle - Harry Potter

Character Name - Tamrissa

Place of Birth - Unknown

Age - mid 20s (she thinks)

Gender - Of the female persuasion

Personality - Quiet and observant says very little, speaking only when spoken to or in the

company of people she knows well, and even then only when she has something to say. Her

childhood is a very distant memory so she does not remember that she was not always this way,

that circumstances changed her. Believing herself to be on the lesser side of bright Tamma often

double guesses herself, constantly questioning her own decisions, holding herself at a distance

from most people, giving the impression that she thinks herself above most. But Tamma is loyal

and dedicated and stubborn. Once her mind is set she will not change it, no matter what.

Appearance - (Physical) Tall for a woman, Tamma's 6'1" frame is hard to miss, even amongst

men, yet she does nothing to try and hide it. Coupled with long, wavy black hair and eyes the

colour of cool steel and high cheek bones she is not ignorant of her good looks. But there are scars

that she keeps concealed. Up and down her back and arms are thin red welts, crisscrossing each

other, making grotesque patterns in her flesh which she keeps covered and hidden at all times.

(Attire) A loose dark blouse with a wide black belt, leggings and well worn knee high boots. She

has a long wool lined green and brown coat for cold and wet weather.
 

Character History 

'Don't look back' she told herself once again, pulling the recently acquired, ill fitting

coat more tightly around her thin shoulders against the chill stiring of oncoming night in the air.

Again she didn't heed her own words; stopping, turning to look back down the wide darkening

valley to the.. empty farmhouse. The shiver running down her back strenghtens her determination

as a hoard of unknown emotions darken her grey eyes, the only outward sign of her inner doubt.

'It's not..' she muttered quietly, turning her eyes forward for the third time that day to the foothills

a half nights march ahead. Beyond that on all sides of her stretched a seemingly endless carpet

of an ancient forest, and beyond that the world. Her life was out there, she was sure of it, both

past and future. She did not belong here. There was no feeling in her heart for what was being

left behind in that house; she had taken only what she thought she would need; clothing, food,

water.. the large purse that had come from the same source as the coat.. a bag to carry it all in,

except for gold and silver coins that were now distributed around various parts of her clothing

and person and her knife and bow. Both of which she carried in either hand. She did not expect an

attack, believing the stories she was told to be exactly that; stories, nonetheless it did no harm to

be prepared.

Releasing a sigh, shaking her head she picked up her pace wanting to be up in those foothills by

nightfall. She was sure that it was the right move to take that staying here was not. No one would

come, of that she was sure too. No one ever came. No one would come looking for her. No one

even knew she existed because if they had they would have come looking for her. She was sure of

that too. Tilting her head up she judged she had at least six hours until dawn, and wondered how

she knew that. There were too many things she didn't know, too many, yet the things she couldn't

remember knowing but did... those things worried her more. Her thumb brushes over the bow in

her hands. 'It has to be mine' she mutteres, her mind bouncing arguments, theories and doubt back

and forth with itself, 'It has to be...'

Suddenly images assaulted her, flashing through her mind's eye so fast it made her stomach turn.

Vague moving pictures of a tall, dark man showing her how to string a bow; a woman scowling

while she pounded a pestle and mortar; sparring with a boy of equal height with knives and staves;

hunting over mountains and through forests; racing on horses and on feet; a fight; darkness; pain.

Stumbling she managed to catch herself before falling, her chest heaving, her cheeks wet, her

mind reeling with more questions than she had that morning. Lifting her head steely grey eyes

focused on the terrain ahead. Enough of this. It was time for her to leave.

I've been pondering potentially doing a couple short intermission threads between the main threads.  Explaining the backstory would probably work better in one of those.  I'll write one up in the next couple days.

Fire at will, but there's nothing else that really needs doing in the thread.  I enjoy getting cussed out, though.

Pretty much, I would think.

"Interesting characteristics.  Might respond to a shock from build-up charge from wool.  Must test this."  Not looking up from the sheet of parchment in his hand, Pahl walked into his lab and to the high-top table where he kept his various projects spread out, divided in ways that only made sense to him.  The last person who had tried to arrange the desk had set herself on fire.  It had not ended well for her.  His attention focused on a green paste that sat on one corner of the desk.  "Fire can ignite it, but it burns before it spreads.  Maybe some sort of flint-and-steel action?  No, too unpredictable.  Later."

Lifting the wooden bowl of green paste, Pahl walked out of his lab and to the metal cages outside.  He was not sure why there were cages outside his lab, but they were handy.  Idly, Pahl noticed that there was a woman nearby, but he did not pay any attention to her.  As far as he cared, she could be in the cage or out of it.  No matter.  Carefully, Pahl spread the green fluid over one of the bars.  It oozed slowly down the length, gaining only about an inch before Pahl returned with an ember from the small forge fire in the lab.  The green gel flared to light, burning the bar black beneath it before it extinguished.  The bar was blackened, but it was not nearly enough to even warp the bar.  Nodding to the woman nearby, Pahl said, "Not hot enough.  Need to adjust proportions to create something more impressive.  Notice anything interesting?  No, of course not.  Wasn't watching."  Still muttering to himself, Pahl wandered back into his lab.

********

A week later, Pahl once again came out of his, brandishing a wooden tray covered in a green paste that could not be compared to anything found in nature.  "Higher burn point.  Should burn faster.  Might even melt bars.  Must test."  Nodding to the woman who seemed to have made a habit of visiting his lab at all hours of the day, Pahl carefully applied the paste to the bars, then returned to the lab.  Fetching a hot iron from the forge, Pahl carried the hot iron from the forge to the metal cell, where he applied it from several feet away to the paste.  It instantly burst alight, burning white and radiating heat the caused Pahl to flinch away from the source.  He idly noticed that the woman had also flinched away, but he did not really care about what she was doing.

It was over quickly.  Where the paste had been applied, the bar had been blackened and warped, leaving a place in the bars that Pahl could have broken with a hammer.  "Good.  Very good.  Now if I can figure out how to produce it in bulk, this could be useful.  Possibly preparing a battlefield.  Possibly hurled from a catapult.  No matter.  Must focus on the fireflower powder.  Holds more promise."  Not even looking up as he walked past her, Pahl handed the rough-haired woman a length of string.  "Please hold onto this.  Need to run another test."  Letting the string unwind behind him, Pahl again went to the forge, where he set the other end of the string into the forge fire.  Immediately a fountain of sparks flew from the end of the string and moved slowly along the length.  Following the length, Pahl kept muttering.  "Hmm.  Burns evenly.  Few jumps in the thread.   Good, good.  Seems to be burning well.  A bit slow, though, but that can be fixed.  Smells strongly.  Doesn't matter.  Should not need much more than a couple inches for practical uses.  Does it ignite powder?  Must test this further."  Looking up, he saw the end of the string in the woman's hand.  "Umm... ma'am?  You should probably drop that-"  With a loud curse, the woman dropped the sparking string to the ground.  "Ah, never mind."

Settling himself on the horse that Eb had provided- cursing aside- Mehrin adjusted the flamberge on his back, ensuring that the massive blade would not cause the horse injury.  He did not really care about the horse, but a wounded horse would be much more difficult to handle than an uninjured one.  Next to him, Eb floundered in the saddle.  No, 'floundered' was not the right word.  She had failed entirely in achieving an upright position, and instead laid draped across the saddle while the horse whinnied and pranced beneath her, throwing her to the ground.

"Dammit, Eb!"  Heeling the horse towards the woman- not an easy task considering the general disposition that horses held towards him- Mehrin seized Eb by the back of her shirt and breeches and tossed her across his lap on the pommel of the saddle.  "We don't have time for pleasantries."  In the dark parts of Mehrin's mind, a quiet chuckle echoed.  Shut up.  Shaking his head to stifle the quiet laughing in his mind, Mehrin booted the horse into a gallop towards the forest.  The other horses, now free of their bindings, fled in all directions, some into the camp and some towards the cover of the trees.  Chaos was beginning to engulf the now-alerted Whitecloak camp.  "By the way," Mehrin said to the squirming mass on the saddle, "thanks for getting me out of there."

They made the cover of the trees without much issue, but Mehrin kept a straight course, ignoring the evermore copious swearing by Eb, smothered slightly by the saddle and his leg, as he worked his way from the camp.  There was no sound of pursuit, but that would not last.  He had to reach the river.  He knew the layout of the area, and it would only be by the river that Mehrin and Eb would be able to shake the pursuit of the Whitecloaks.  He could follow the course of the river for a time on foot while the horse continued on without drawing the Whitecloaks into tracking him.  There would be a boat somewhere, and he could pay his way to whichever city they had chosen.

For now, Mehrin was free.

"I believe that you are right," Mehrin responded to the officer. "Just tell me what you want, and we'll see about getting this all sorted out, shall we?"

"Do you really believe it will be that easy? I have a Questioner with me who is quite interested in anything you have to say, whether you say it to me or to him." The Child put on an expression of concern. "I do not want to let him do with you what he wills; you know the reputation that the Questioners have, don't you?"

Mehrin nodded. "Very well, let's start with names, then. My name is Tavrin Callas, as I said. I work as a bounty hunter and a mercenary, and I would dare to say that your men did well in apprehending me. Given a chance, I am sure that I could have fought my way free from your camp with only minor injuries."

The Child laughed. "You certainly have a high opinion of yourself."

"Only because I know what I can do. I also know that I have no desire to hurt either you or any of your men... including the Questioner." Mehrin shrugged despite the painful pull of the ropes at his wrists. "I have nothing against you; I've actually fought alongside the Children before. I was with the Band of the Red Hand at Bandar Eban. I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Children against the invaders from across the Aryth Ocean. I saw the battle in the sky. And I survived." The canvas of the tent rustled in the breeze as Mehrin let the words hang in the air, his gaze fixed on the Child.

The Child held his gaze, showing little discomfort. "More than survived, if your attitude is anything to go by." Turning his back on Mehrin, Hundredman Ackley continued, "It's interesting that you mention the Band. The man we seek, Mehrin Deathwatch, was once commander of that bunch of mercenaries. You look remarkably similar to the description we were given of him down to the scar across your left eye." Spinning on his heel, Ackley's eyes burrowed into the bound man. "An interesting coincidence, I would say."

A flutter of canvas out of Mehrin's focus did not distract him from saying, "Fair call, I guess. I'm sure you've heard stories of Mehrin Deathwatch. They're outrageous and beyond belief." Mehrin smiled, his eyes still fixed on Hundredman Ackley. "In fact, if you left him unbound, he would be beyond anything that you could control. By the way, please don't kill him. I don't want the Children to have a good excuse to track me down."

Confusion crossed Ackley's face for a moment before realization dawned too late. He was halfway turned when the blow struck the back of his head, dropping him to the grass.

"Bloody Mehrin Deathwatch and his bloody drama," a harsh voice cursed.

"Good to see you, too, Eb. And it's Mahrvon now, not Deathwatch." Though that will probably be the name that follows you to your grave.

Shut up.

Still growling obscenities at him, Eb cut the ropes binding Mehrin, who stood and started rubbing blood back into his hands. "If you're done telling your life story to the flaming Whitecloaks, let's get out of here. You're carrying your own damn sword, though; bloody thing's heavier than your old one."

Mehrin nodded. "Done. By the way, when we're out of here, I have some questions regarding your presence here."

"Good for you. Now let's go."

The pair made their way around the tents to the edge of the camp. The white-cloaked man at the base of the tree gave Mehrin a start before he realized that he was out cold. Eb moved past Mehrin, reaching into the brush to pull out his bag and sword. Hastily, Mehrin opened the bag and took out his hat and greatcoat, then his whip. Finally, he hung his flamberge across his back and said, "We're wasting time. Grab a couple horses and let's get the hell out of here!"

I've been giving it some thought, and I have reached a conclusion.

Sherper, I like Edward.  Write up a bio, and he'll stand as one of the Band's NSWs.  I may be off, but I picture a man who has pretty much reached the apex of his military career, knows that he has reached the apex of his military career, and absolutely hates the fact that he's reached the apex of his military career.  If I'm wrong, just correct me in the bio.  Prize is one WS regardless.

Everybody cool with me throwing your characters around a bit? We've pretty much come to the end of what we can do in this particular one without resorting to everybody getting philosophical about the taking and giving of life or the ultimate purpose of the universe or whether or not the Creator actually cares for His creation. All I plan to do is have Eb come in and give Ackley a knock on the head.

Sorry, sorry, sorry! I went back home for the birth of my nephew and forgot to tell anyone.

There we go. A pot of coffee and A State of Trance are apparently necessary for writing.