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| {| class="infobox" style="margin: auto;" border="2" cellpadding="4" | | {| class="infobox" style="margin: auto;" border="2" cellpadding="4" |
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− | | [[File:Winter.png|500px]] | + | | [[File:Mielbaportrait.jpg|300px]] |
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| |} | | |} |
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− | ! Mielba's Tale | + | ! Mielba's Tale[[File:HoneyBadger.jpg|150px|center]] |
| + | |- |
| + | |
| + | |- |
| + | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2 |
| + | |Width=100% |
| + | |Type=Letter |
| + | |Sender=Elios |
| + | |Recipients=Everyone in the Old Gods |
| + | |Content=Priestess Dame Mielba, |
| + | |
| + | This name harkens back several years in my memory... though I heard your name not as priestess at that time, might you have been in attendance at a grand tournament in Fronepu? |
| + | |
| + | With respect and sincerity, |
| + | |Title=Duke of Valour, Margrave of Vore |
| + | }}</center> |
| + | |- |
| + | |
| + | |- |
| + | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2 |
| + | |Width=100% |
| + | |Type=Letter |
| + | |Sender=Mielba Cordenata |
| + | |Recipients=Everyone in the Old Gods |
| + | |Content=Duke Elios! |
| + | |
| + | Why, yes! I attended the tournament in Fronepu... was it really so long ago? |
| + | |
| + | Oh, but- if you remember me... Oh! My performance was horrendous!!! |
| + | |
| + | I am afraid I faired similarly as a warrior, much to my chagrin. Were it not for my lord, I would not be here to tell the tale. |
| + | |
| + | Mayhaps the Gods spared my life for that very reason. I am predisposed to to pen and paper as opposed to the sword and shield. (I declare that the smug scribe who penned that the pen was mightier than the sword had the good fortune to have never encountered their enemy directly.) |
| + | |
| + | The irony of preaching for the Old Gods is that I no longer engage directly in battle. I admit, I fear criticism on this account... However, I have long felt the calling to preach. I think that... |
| + | |
| + | Oh dear. Look at me ramble. I do not even know if you hold any interest in such topics. |
| + | |
| + | What holds your interest, Duke Elios? Besides tragi-comedic swordsmanship? |
| + | |
| + | May the Gods smile upon your works. |
| + | |Title=Dame of Agyr |
| + | }}</center> |
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| |Width=100% | | |Width=100% |
| |Type=Roleplay | | |Type=Roleplay |
− | |Sender=Mielba Cordenata | + | |Sender=Nerta the Weaver |
| |Recipients=Everyone in the Old Gods | | |Recipients=Everyone in the Old Gods |
− | |Content= | + | |Content="I can't tell which of you is crazier; the Old Man for refusing to stay dead or you..." Nerta waves a hand at Mielba's general direction, "honey badger, for volunteering to further this insane quest." |
− | |Title=Dame of Agyr
| + | |
− | }}</center>
| + | Letting out a ghostly cough, the spectral hanger-on pulls attention to his mirror by the Stone Table of Ibnanzil, "Though put rather crudely by my young charge I somewhat agree. In fact, I mean no disrespect but, are you certain your family weren't equities? I ask because rarely are the Patricianate so, creative." |
− | |-
| + | |
| + | “‘Honey badger’?” Mielba smiled wryly. “Usually they call me ‘Honeybee.’” |
| + | |
| + | She took a deep breath. |
| + | |
| + | “My father, Patros Cordenata, was Vanquisher who collaborated with adventurers. I am... not unfamiliar with those outside my circles. I grew up hearing my father’s stories and learning Beluaterran history.” She did a thing then continued. “My favorite stories were about a realm to our North. It was a place of culture, exploration, and prosperity. After a time of great strife the denizens lived in relative peace, mindful of the cost of war with other realms. When needed, they could raise an army so large and terrifying... No one could rival them.” |
| + | |
| + | When her father told her the story, he formed his hands around the fire, casting large shadows on the wall. The Melite legion was represented by a single tight fist, which grew as he unfurled his fingers and brought his second hand from behind to elongate likewise. |
| + | |
| + | “The Third Invasion was the first time the daimons attacked. Humanity fought amongst themselves, spending resources that should have been dedicated towards the real enemy. Realms shrunk. People starved. |
| + | |
| + | But Melhed was another story. The Melites fought savagely and chased away the daimons, hunting them down. They ran away in terror. The daimons ''showed fear''.” |
| + | |
| + | “I heard that one of the reasons this kingdom was so special... They took in _anyone_ in who requested refuge. Not only that, but they would supply every individual with what they needed to realize their dreams.” |
| + | |
| + | The specter crosses his arms and glances aside, “Ah yes, ‘Dreams Manifest’ I must admit as noble as it sounds there were selfish motives behind it all. Happy people tend not to rebel and we had so many rebellions back in the day. For a time more rebellions than elections.” The spectre smiles with a puff of grave dust, “It did work out for the best though.” |
| + | |
| + | “Yeah… ‘Dreams Manifest,’” she said slowly. Reverently. “Well, it worked! It made sense! And it made people happy! Those are the best ideas!” |
| + | |
| + | Her voice softened. “I’ve heard stories about Melhed my whole life. I was going to move there when I came of age! And…” |
| | | |
− | |-
| + | Hope turned to speechless anger, then she deflated. “I wish I could have seen it.” |
− | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2
| |
− | |Width=100%
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− | |Type=Letter
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− | |Sender=Elios
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− | |Recipients=Everyone in the Old Gods
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− | |Content=Priestess Dame Mielba,
| |
| | | |
− | This name harkens back several years in my memory... though I heard your name not as priestess at that time, might you have been in attendance at a grand tournament in Fronepu?
| + | She looked up at the spectre, hopeful again. After a glance at the solemn adventurer, she refocused an imploring gaze at the Old Man. |
| | | |
− | With respect and sincerity,
| + | “If... there’s... ''any chance'' that Melhed- or something like it- can be rebuilt? I want to try. Not just because it was beautiful. … I don’t know if we will survive without it.” |
− | |Title=Duke of Valour, Margrave of Vore | + | |Title=[[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]] |
| }}</center> | | }}</center> |
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| |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2 | | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2 |
| |Width=100% | | |Width=100% |
− | |Type=Letter | + | |Type=Roleplay |
| |Sender=Mielba Cordenata | | |Sender=Mielba Cordenata |
| |Recipients=Everyone in the Old Gods | | |Recipients=Everyone in the Old Gods |
− | |Content=Duke Elios! | + | |Content=The old man leans against his hand, considering the woman in honey gold from head to toe. As he reaches her gaze once more those violet eyes glance away to consider Nerta. Why had the Gods placed them together? For what purpose. Here was a young woman of eager disposition and a knowledge of the past. Could they not have made a start of this already rather than having to nag this foederati weaver. True this Mielba didn’t seem to have quite Nerta’s, instinct for combat, but she didn’t need that…. |
| | | |
− | Why, yes! I attended the tournament in Fronepu... was it really so long ago?
| + | Or did she? |
| | | |
− | Oh, but- if you remember me... Oh! My performance was horrendous!!!
| + | Rubbing at his cheek with one thumb the ghost seems to age, his shoulders slumping as he closes his eyes. “The Republic is gone, buried by the weight of years….” |
| | | |
− | I am afraid I faired similarly as a warrior, much to my chagrin. Were it not for my lord, I would not be here to tell the tale.
| + | Eyes opening once more he smiles faintly, “But this seems to be an Age of long shadows. The Republic may be gone but there are still those who follow the old ways and we could... gather them up once again to push back against the darkness.” |
| | | |
− | Mayhaps the Gods spared my life for that very reason. I am predisposed to to pen and paper as opposed to the sword and shield. (I declare that the smug scribe who penned that the pen was mightier than the sword had the good fortune to have never encountered their enemy directly.)
| |
− |
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− | The irony of preaching for the Old Gods is that I no longer engage directly in battle. I admit, I fear criticism on this account... However, I have long felt the calling to preach. I think that...
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− |
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− | Oh dear. Look at me ramble. I do not even know if you hold any interest in such topics.
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− |
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− | What holds your interest, Duke Elios? Besides tragi-comedic swordsmanship?
| |
− |
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− | May the Gods smile upon your works.
| |
| |Title=Dame of Agyr | | |Title=Dame of Agyr |
| }}</center> | | }}</center> |
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| "Sounds like you've not fought monsters of the warbands yet. Looks like we'll need to do a lot of training. Will you sign up?" | | "Sounds like you've not fought monsters of the warbands yet. Looks like we'll need to do a lot of training. Will you sign up?" |
| |Title= [[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]] | | |Title= [[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]] |
− | }}</center>
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− | ! Soren's Tale [[File:DrinksSoren.png|150px|center]]
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− | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2
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− | |Width=100%
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− | |Type=Letter
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− | |Sender=Soren Navaar
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− | |Recipients=Nerta the Weaver
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− | |Content=Miss Nerta,
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− |
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− | I got a rather interesting letter from the former Grandmistress of Obia'Syela. The contents are not important, but for some reason I thought I should pester you instead.
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− | I'm sure you'll be irritated for wasting your time with a letter without a real purpose. I'm in Tepmona, making my way to Rengo and then Gor Ault. Perhaps our paths will cross again, and if they do, I'll buy you a drink. That has to be better than physical labor and letters, no?
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− |
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− | Sincerely,
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− | |Title=Count of Seven Rivers
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− | }}</center>
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− | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2
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− | |Width=100%
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− | |Type=Letter
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− | |Sender=Nerta the Weaver
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− | |Recipients=Everyone in Ar Agyr
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− | |Content=Don't get me started on letters. The Senex is has me trapped in a scribes office for hours while he rattles off useless nonsense.
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− |
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− | Sounds like you've got your own share of nonsense though, which makes you think of me? Okay, sure.
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− |
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− | Well the scribe had a lot more to write and I little to say, but sure we can meet.
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− | |Title= [[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]]
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− | }}</center>
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− | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2
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− | |Width=100%
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− | |Type=Letter
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− | |Sender=Soren Navaar
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− | |Recipients=Nerta the Weaver
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− | |Content=Miss Nerta,
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− |
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− | I look forward to seeing you again. I've got plenty to drink in
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− | Gor Ault the way we are giving it away, but I will be available
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− | at your leisure.
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− |
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− | Yes, troublesome nobles make me think of you. You have a
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− | straightforward way that I don't feel as though I have to tip toe
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− | around to make you happy. It's comfortable.
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− | |Title=Count of Seven Rivers
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− | }}</center>
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− | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2
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− | |Width=100%
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− | |Type=Roleplay
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− | |Sender=Nerta the Weaver
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− | |Recipients=Everyone in Ar Agyr
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− | |Content=Parties.
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− |
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− | Nerta attempts to weave between a pair of partying plebeians with a bounty across her shoulder only for the shove of a third bouncing her off another’s impressive gut. He must be the grain merchant of this little hamlet, only they eat so well. He had the sense not to take liberties at least, and after a few moments untangling themselves the woman presses through the throng that had grown around the offered ale.
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− |
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− | Normally Nerta would have given the party a wide berth, but she recognized the banner hanging over everything and so shoves her way up to Soren’s pavilion.
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− |
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− | Soren was seated in the midst of his regiment as they handed out drinks like arrows at a battle. It was all for the good of the realm but it was loud and somehow the drunks were always stumbling past his guards….
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− |
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− | As another figure darkens his writing desk the knight very nearly snaps his pen in irritation, “I don’t care how many lessons your cousin gave you you may not have my lute”
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− |
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− | “Going well is it?” comes Nerta’s wry response.
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− | The man’s smile brightens his stormy gaze, “Nerta. I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon, I was actually just writing to you again…”
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− | “Another letter?” Casting a meaningful glance around the crowd Nerta snorts, “I know you’ve got better things to do than write.”
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− | Soren looked past Nerta to the crowd and shook his head. “Drinking alone while everyone parties is hardly better. At least I feel somewhat productive if I’m interrupting someone else,” nearly dry letter in hand he smiles at his guest.
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− |
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− | Nerta quirks a brow and moves to pluck the page from Soren’s grip with a dry tone, “So you measure productivity in causing problems. How Patrician of you.”
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− | |Title= [[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]]
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− | }}</center>
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− | |-
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− | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2
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− | |Width=100%
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− | |Type=Roleplay
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− | |Sender=Soren Navaar
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− | |Recipients=Everyone in Ar Agyr
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− | |Content=Dancing the page back, Soren counters, “A bit silly yes, but not any more than you reaching for this letter, probably to tear it up.” Remembering that she had him write letters the last time she was with him drew out a brief hesitation. “I apologize if these are a burden,” She came out here so quickly though… “but I can tell you the bulk of the contents later, but it closes with the offer of a drink.”
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− |
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− | Gesturing to the casks of ale with a rueful smile he adds, “It won’t be a quiet drink, that’s for sure but I hope the company makes up for the crowd.”
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− |
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− | Holding her ground as Soren rises from the table, the pair stand close as a faint smile curls the corner of her mouth. “First burdensome letters and then putting me to work?” She idly brushes some dust from one arm, “Someone is trying to be productive today.”
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− |
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− | Before Soren could respond an obviously well fed innkeeper, carrying a second cask, waddles up. Shifting his hold on the cask, he manages to shove his gut against the table, and into the back of Soren’s legs.
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− |
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− | As the lord lurches forward into his guest, he could feel rough hands hold him steady. A lot of them. It was... strange, but he still managed a smile even inches from her. “My hero!” he declared, knowing it might get him a face full of dirt as he steadies himself with hands on her shoulders.
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− |
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− | Nerta rolls her eyes as she untangles her grip from his chest. Breath steaming in the winter air she snaps out, “Correction, very productive.”
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− |
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− | For just a moment, they were close enough that their breath mingled in the air. “All this, and we haven’t even started drinking yet,” he added. Once he was back on his feet, Soren rubs his neck and lets out a nervous laugh, “Sorry, Nerta.”
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− |
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− | Adjusting her cloak with a sniff, Soren can see Nerta pause and then deflate with a sigh, “It’s fine Soren, it’s….”
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− |
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− | Though she seemed inclined to say more an irritated voice cuts in, “Lord? I said where do you want this?”
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− |
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− | Both of them turn to the large innkeeper, unspoken words lost in the crowd. “Just put it over there with the others,” the resignation in his tone suggested this was not the first time today.
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− | |Title=Count of Seven Rivers
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− | }}</center>
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− | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2
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− | |Width=100%
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− | |Type=Roleplay
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− | |Sender=Nerta the Weaver
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− | |Recipients=Everyone in Ar Agyr
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− | |Content=Trouble.
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− |
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− | The faint jingle of a slim coin purse in Nerta's hand causes the woman to raise a brow. With some grumbling the vermin-like mayor begins counting out extra coins, one at a time. It did little to improve the woman's mood, as can be said for the heavy arm draped across her shoulders.
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− |
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− | "Get off," punctuating her clipped words with jab at Soren's midsection she adds, "You're lucky the old man warned me or I'd have handled you like the drunks."
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− |
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− | “I’m sure I deserve it for something,” he commented with a wry grin, rubbing his stomach where she jabbed. “Besides, I like a woman who can take care of herself. Damsels in distress are - how did the fashionable nobles put it in Nothoi? - so last season.”
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− |
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− | "Last season was winter, I didn't need saving then either." Though she did the winter before, not that she'd admit it to the annoying bard.
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− | His persistence means she has to shake him off, "I don't get you." Glaring at the mayor trying to short-change her, Nerta taps the purse with her thumb. "There are abyss spawned necromancers everywhere, and your answer is to party."
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− |
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− | Did she mean him, or Ar Agyr?
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− |
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− | Soren thought for a long moment. “It wouldn’t be the first time a party had driven back foul creatures from humanity’s lands,” he said, referring to an old invasion story. “However, I think it’s more about lifting spirits. Your home’s been ravaged by the dead for weeks. Months. Some army with their nobles come in, they have weapons, and drive the beasts out. The first signs of hope in what feels like ages. Maybe it seems silly, but it’s the first relief they’ve had in some time now.”
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− |
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− | “As for inviting you for a drink…” he trailed off, deciding to answer the question twice. He offered her his mysterious letter from before. “It’s because I’m comfortable around you. At least that’s the gist of the letter. No power struggles, no connections, no games. Just Nerta,” he smiled in her direction again.
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− |
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− | Her expression inscrutable, Nerta works at her jaw for a few heartbeats before narrowing her eyes. "If you can't defend what's yours, it's not really yours." To make the point as bluntly as possible she snatches the stingy mayor's coin purse from his hand and, staring the man down, fishes out her fee before tossing the rest to the dirt.
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− |
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− | Rounding on Soren she adjusts her hood, "You're a patrician; all you do is play games. So what you're telling me is that you think I'm not much of a player. That I'll be an easy target." She steps closer, her voice frosty enough to return winter, "I told you last time; if you don't think I'm terrifying that's your lack of imagination."
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− |
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− | Soren paused, leaned just a little closer and shrugged. "Sometimes a rock is a rock." Stepping back to give her some room, and not wanting another jab to the gut, he kept smiling. "I don't feel like playing games. At least not those kind. It's too much work. You tell me I'm judging you as an easy target, but aren't you judging me as some kind of predator?"
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− |
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− | "I '''am''' some kind of predator. Just a different sort than you."
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− |
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− | |Title= [[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]]
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− | }}</center>
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− | |-
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− | |-
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− | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2
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− | |Width=100%
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− | |Type=Roleplay
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− | |Sender=Soren Navaar
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− | |Recipients=Everyone in Ar Agyr
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− | |Content=Soren shook his head at the misunderstanding. It’s as if she expects poor treatment, and sees an attack where there is none.
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− | Nerta clenches a hand as blood sings in her ear. How she wanted to show him… it'd be so easy. Just let a Graft slip. Be a bit grotesque. Ruin his precious party...
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− | A small part of her could tell she was more than just furious. The tightness in her chest, the way a tremor danced along her spine. He was just… too much. He said he knew, that he '''understood'''. Then he calls her a predator….
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− | It was like the little boy used as bait last winter all over again; he was just going to scream. Crystal Maiden damned patricians…
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− | With a sigh Soren reaches up into the crate and pulls out one brown bottle. Some kind of local ale, probably.
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− | Instead of fussing over the furious priestess, he slips the crate from his shoulders and works the bottle loose. He knew Nerta was prickly, but at this point she was looking for a fight where there were none. Without ceremony he took a long swig before considering the bottle with a contemplative sigh. Wow, that was… pretty bland.
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− |
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− | "It's ale. Just… ale," he repeated, as emotionless as the drink was plain. Pressing the open bottle into her hand he fishes out another while she fumes.
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− | Smooth glass, cool against her skin, Nerta scoffs; but doesn’t pitch the drink at his head. So... progress? At least a tiny amount, though the heavily distorted reflection of the specter in the bottle seems about as exasperated as Soren and had given up on trying to calm the woman a while ago.
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− |
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− | “You still came out here to see me,” he muttered. “I know I won’t change your mind overnight, but I hope someday you’ll at least-”At least what? He wondered, hesitating on the words. He hid the scramble in his brain, hoping it would be passed off as a short pause. “At least count me as an ally, and who knows, maybe someday a friend. You can hate and mistrust all the other Patricians in the world, but I refuse to let someone so buried in Melite history be a stranger.”
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− |
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− | Oh. Nerta can feel her temper cool, draining away like so much ale from the casks of that party. This was about the past. About the Old Man. Like everything else. Waving an empty hand she glances around distractedly, “You don’t have to pretend to be nice to me to talk to the ghost. He’ll rarely shut up as it is. Get a mirror, a bucket of water or something and you two can talk while I rest.”
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− |
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− | “You; are not wrong on that…” Taking a sip from the second bottle, he grimaced. People will drink anything they can ferment, won’t they? Ale wasn’t working, if this qualified as ale rather than someone’s joke, and it seemed she refused to listen to subtlety. The corners of his mouth twitched at the ghost of a smile. Her directness was one thing he liked about her, not that she understood when he tried to say as much.
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− | “But here’s the thing Nerta, I want to know more about you. Not Nerta the foederati. Not Nerta the priestess. Not Nerta the haunted, the hero, or the wanderer. Just, Nerta the person.”
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− | |Title=Count of Seven Rivers
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− | }}</center>
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− | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2
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− | |Width=100%
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− | |Type=Roleplay
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− | |Sender=Nerta the Weaver
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− | |Recipients=Everyone in Ar Agyr
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− | |Content=That rueful smile finally poking out, he spreads his hands, “So far I’ve learned drinks aren’t your style. So as a start; what is? What would you like to do while we get to know each other? If you’re okay with that, of course.”
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− | Grip tightening around the neck of the bottle, Nerta turns away and crosses her arms. The all too vivid memory of ink and old women looms, but her muttering is low enough that all he can hear is, “Crystal Maiden dandy.”
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− | A free hand closes on Soren’s shirt as the untasted, bland bottle bounces behind her. Dragging the man in, they again share breaths as she works her jaw. He can watch every twitch of her eyes, her mouth as she builds to a blaze, “So we understand each other: I’m not something to study, I’m not your drinking buddy and I’m not….” The fire fades as she pushes him back, the sentence unfinished. She wasn’t, what?
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− | Soren carefully adjusts his collar and eyes the conflicted priestess. Something to be said for getting jerked around suddenly.
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− | Drifting past them the old ghost shakes his head but refrains from making a sound. He knew his surly companion well and any suggestion he would make would only rile her up more. These two are worlds apart yet there were bridges of a sort, if they could just spit it out....
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− | A low rumble bubbles out of Nerta to fill the comparative silence, “I… I’m going to hit you now. Because we’re going to fight. We’re going to fight because you want to know me and I’m not… I’m not like you.” Their eyes meet and he can see the calm shimmering back at him. Every roiling mix of emotion and memory had crystalized like a fine snowy powder. “So can you handle that or are you going back to your party?”
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− | Nerta… knew what she was, and if he was going to stick around it’s time he learned it too.
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− | A playful grin spread out, as Soren tensed up, wondering if this was inevitable. “I think what you meant was you’re going to try to hit me,” he teased as he shifted his legs into a loose stance. It was a test, and he would pass it.
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− | |Title= [[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]]
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− | }}</center>
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− | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2
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− | |Width=100%
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− | |Type=Roleplay
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− | |Sender=Soren Navaar
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− | |Recipients=Everyone in Ar Agyr
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− | |Content=Cute, real cute. He wasn't taking this seriously...
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− | Nerta could feel the heat of anger simmer her blood, but it was only a distant echo. Everything was much clearer. He wanted to get to know her after all... Her eyes not leaving his, she lets one hand snap out to strike him in the stomach. It was a sharp jab, more surprising than anything. After all she wasn't trying to hurt him too much, yet.
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− | Flinching at the warning strike, Soren lets out a grunt as Nerta presses closer and brings her other hand around for a heavier blow.
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− | The man had expected a short dance, where the pair played a mind game, shifting their positions ever so slightly, each trying to stump the other while securing the upper hand. Where they’d circle each other and smile, after all he prided himself on adaptability, learning multiple weapons and styles. But apparently Nerta hadn't meant they were going to duel.
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− | She meant they were going to fight.
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− | Pivoting backwards on one foot, he brought an arm up to block what would have been a haymaker. The force of the impact vibrating through his arm he winces. Well I guess if she wanted to hit him, he would gladly be defensive for the time being.
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− | For a fool, his responses did surprise her at times. Like now, he moved quickly. He must have practiced unarmed before....
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− | Pushing off of Soren's block she spins with the nipping of fabric, slides into a crouch, her extra hands giving her far more support than most in the rapid change of stance. Springing up from the ground in the next instant, Nerta moves to knock his guard wide and crack her skull against his.
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− | Soren squints through stars and staggers back from the blow, a hand pressed to his temple. Everything about her was a mix of grace and viciousness…. And she’d only used two hands so far. But all he needed was the first few exchanges - he was kidding himself even calling them that. Years of practice began to kick in as he got used to her movements and power.
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− | Giving his head a shake to clear it, Soren brings his guard up again as a hand lashes out to grab his shirt and pull him back in for another punch to the jaw.
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− | Soren finally made a move, switching to offense. When she grabbed at his shirt, he rushed in and slammed into her with his shoulder, sending her backwards.
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− | Nerta lets out a grunt as the man’s unexpected charge throws her off balance. He could feel her hands grip at his chest and shirt, working to keep her balance and for a fleeting moment Soren saw something unexpected: a smile.
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− | |Title=Count of Seven Rivers
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− | }}</center>
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− | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2
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− | |Width=100%
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− | |Type=Roleplay
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− | |Sender=Nerta the Weaver
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− | |Recipients=Everyone in Ar Agyr
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− | |Content=A smile. That was enough to almost give him pause, a mistake to be certain. Mirroring the smile he swung the back of his arm towards her neck. There wouldn’t be enough momentum to hurt, but there was more leverage as he pushed himself backwards to pull them both tumbling to the ground. As soon as she released his shirt to ease the fall, Soren tumbled into a roll and got back to his feet, putting a small distance between them.
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− | As the pair gain some distance at last, Nerta doesn’t move from her semi-crouch, but as her breath steams in the spring air she curls her fingers back into fists. “Not bad, bard. But I will strike you again even if you won’t.”
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− | Soren laughed. “Haven’t gotten knocked around like that in a while. You’ll have to try harder now,” he told her, and went back on the offensive. She was almost in a crouch, and he had to force her into a standing position again to keep his advantage. He did have a size advantage on her. If he went low, she would pin him and that would be it, and she was too quick to go high normally. The thoughts came at a blur, and he had little time to act.
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− | The bard decided to change his tactics instead, and as he advanced, he went low, surprisingly low with a sweeping kick developed from his quarterstaff techniques. As Nerta moved to dodge, he grabbed at her leg to try and pull her into the dirt once again.
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− | Eyes narrow as the man charges in and as he sweeps at her legs, Nerta springs to the side. She was quick but at the feel of a hand clamping down on her ankle she lets out an odd hiss and brings the other leg around for a kick. She might not be hitting him with her extra hands but she wasn’t shy about using them for balance.
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− | Soren brought an arm up to block the kick, and pulled her ankle towards him to try and shake her balance again.
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− | The first kick deflected by his arm, the sharp tug that follows sees Nerta’s head jerks leaving the second kick to connect with his hand. With both feet caught she lets out a snort that puffs aside her hood and settles on using her hands to push off the ground with the intent to pounce on him.
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− | As Nerta rises from the ground, Soren uses the grip on her legs to twist her hips about. Straddling her thighs he smashes her on the chest only for Nerta to let out a hiss and throw up two hands to block.
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− | And another three to strike him in the gut. Looks like he’d graduated to all six arms. Yay?
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− | |Title= [[Melhed/Foederati|Foederati]]
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− | }}</center>
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− | |colspan=1 | <center> {{Message2
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− | |Width=100%
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− | |Type=Roleplay
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− | |Sender=Soren Navaar
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− | |Recipients=Everyone in Ar Agyr
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− | |Content=Soren buckled into her strike and tried catching her arms, only to be struck by more fists. This had been the reason he had been so cautious in the beginning. The only benefit to his current position was that her strikes were weaker, but they would wear him down with time.
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− | As Nerta prepared her next attacks, Soren knew when to call it quits and threw himself backwards and off of the woman, hoping he could get to his feet quickly.
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− | He wasn’t going anywhere…
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− | Hands grab at the retreating man, dragging him back as Nerta sits up with a clicking chitter. As she crawls up Soren’s legs, the glistening shadows of long mandibles unfold in her open mouth. The grotesque expression distorts her voice as the firm grip pins Soren to the ground, “SSSo… kang yew h’ndle isss…?”
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− | Some instinct kicked in and shouted danger. Soren struggled in her grip, but she had more than one advantage. Is she actually going to do that? He wondered how deadly the venom was, though knowing her it was deadly. Maybe it was paralytic? Questions began racing in his head questioning his fate, while years of training settled his nerves. The conflict resulted in a single, wide-eyed word uttered, “Damn…”
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− | Sweat shining across her brow, Nerta shudders and twists her head sharply to the side, fighting back the graft mid transformation until it fades back into her usual surly expression. Retaining her perch atop Soren’s hips, she uses the edge of her cloak to wipe at her mouth and works a hand through her hair with a shiver.
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− | Soren looked up at Nerta as her hood fell back to reveal matted hair. The fight had been hard but, something told him that transformation had been… harder.
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− | There were rumors and stories, but it was another thing entirely to see a graft in person. It set his stomach rolling, but despite the shortness of breath, Soren struggled to sit up with Nerta still on top of him. Once again he was close enough for their breaths to mingle, yet the shadow of what had been set his skin crawling even as he searched her eyes for hostility. Nerta’s comments seemed to echo back into existence as cheesy words came to mind “Would you be upset if I said I liked your smile more?”
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− | Nerta’s eyes narrow for heartbeat but by the third such she treats him to exactly that; a faint curl to her lips. “No.” Pushing off of Soren’s lap, one shaking hand reaches out to grab his and help him to his feet, “I wouldn’t.”
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− | |Title=Count of Seven Rivers
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| }}</center> | | }}</center> |
| |- | | |- |
| |} | | |} |