Difference between revisions of "Unti Family/Nerta/A1S4"

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(Created page with "<center>{{Message2 |Width=80% |Type=Roleplay |Sender=Nerta the Weaver |Recipients=Everyone in the Past |Content='''Flashback''' Branches claw and drag at rough wool, tearing...")
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Revision as of 21:44, 27 June 2020

Roleplay from Nerta the Weaver
Message sent to Everyone in the Past

Branches claw and drag at rough wool, tearing fabric and leaving gashes. A dark cackle seems to stalk from the shadows driving me forward, away from the old woman and her ink. My head no longer spun, my stomach settled but something much worse than was following me. Rounding on the snarling shape amidst a break in the trees I brace, hands fumbling for a club, a rock, anything.

But it is not enough.

Weight slams me against a trunk, my stomach lurching as I lash at the beast. One fist connects with soft tissue, spongy, wet, even as another scrapes along chitin plates. Panic dances and my vision swims as some hideous searing gel oozes along my arm.

My hiss accompanies a shoulder roll that sees the beast slammed through the thin scrub even as the familiar pain of a Graft blossoms across my jaw. The beast becomes aware that something is wrong, but even as it tries to pull away I strike, biting into the unprotected eye stalk.

A burbling wail pierces the air as ichor drips from my grotesque expression. Staggering away from the writhing thing I inhale sharply and shudder as the Graft fades.

I needed a real weapon, shelter.. time. The old woman had stolen everything.

Pushing through the small corps of trees I tumble in the gloom to trip on a root and catch myself before I sprawl into a… a camp?

The stranger wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve as his wineskin slips to the stump seat. The curling stench of stale drink rolls toward me along with the swaying silhouette, even as my breath steams with still cooling ichor.

My hand twitches, fingers clenching as the figure stops only a short distance away leaving me nowhere to hide. So we stand in cold silence until he slurs, “Whersh your clothesh?”
Nerta the Weaver (Foederati)

Roleplay from Jacinda the Driven
Message sent to Everyone by the Odeon Cruor
For her part Nerta seemed lost in thought during the exchange, only occasionally glancing up as Wren smoothed the ruffled feathers. Eventually the matter is settled leaving Nerta to sigh and cast her gaze around for Vedens. It came as no surprise that he was nowhere to be found.

“Yes, let’s… get out of here,” nodding to Kevan the woman moved back toward the door and out onto the streets. It was so much warmer now than when she’d first arrived…

Leading the motley crew down the winding streets the great towering edifice of the Odeon Cruor begins to loom above them. Built of Qual stone during the height of the Republic and shaped by the finest artisans, even now the towering statues peer down at the thronging crowds of the merchant square.

The Old Man had been amused to see the arena still standing back when they’d first made it to the city. Apparently the Plebeian District had been cleared away to construct the massive structure all to give the newly minted adventurers a place to meet. Of course that meant homes and shops which had stood for generations had been demolished, all so the Patricians could enjoy a spot of leisure and blood sport. Even today, with the might of the Republic long since faded, the arena floor was rarely dry.

As the group pushed through the crowd Jacinda was pacing back and forth before the great arena pausing only to buy a flatbread wrap from a street vendor. She knew this was where she was supposed to be, or close to it, but she still didn't know why, and her aching feet told her this whole thing was a fool's errand.

"Blasted misbegotten feelings are no reason to run across a continent..."

The woman muttered between bites of the warm food looking fierce in her heavy armour. So like a guard captain, with blades, mail, rope and more hanging from her heavy pack or travel cloak.

"But I can feel ​​​​​​​this is the right place...!"

Then she turned at one edge of the street, spun around, and saw them. An odd assortment, surely at least some of them on the same path as she, and that feeling that guided her here tightened. Opening her mouth she raised an arm to hail them.

Wren’s sharp gaze spied the quick movement, leaving her to straighten abruptly and point out the heavily armed woman to the hunched figure in front of the small group.

As they all began to pivot the new voice called, "I...Are you..."

Jacinda chews on her lip. How did you tell someone that you had a feeling you needed to meet them?

"I...I need to be...Here, I think, but I don't know why, and can you...Do any of you...?"

The new woman’s hand tightened around her sword hilt, "Why am I here?​​​​​​​"
Jacinda the Driven (Adventurer)

Roleplay from Nerta the Weaver
Message sent to Everyone in the Past

After that he gave me a cloak.

It smells.

But it’s better than half torn sackcloth.

He also… didn’t panic, stare, or try to ward me away. He just swayed over to his bag, pulled out the cloak and tossed it before nearly collapsing on his stump. His indifferent kindness was almost endearing after so many weeks away from home.

The chilly specter shares a few choice words, but I ignore the Old Man and move over to join the drunk even as I use the edge of the cloak to clean my chin.

We sit in silence for a time, save the crackling of the fire, but eventually I mutter, “Thanks. I'm Nerta.”

“Vhedensh,” he nods and smiles over the next pull at the wine before pointing toward me and twisting up his face, “F-F-F-Foederati, right?”

For some reason the old word doesn’t make me wince.

“Ya,” I glance away in the dark, “From the mountains.”

“Knew it! Ha. Thsss cool. ‘m from Agyr,” one pause later he adds, “You should gets clothesh ‘nd stuff. Dangerous out here.”

My lips pursed I snort, “Had stuff, was robbed.”

“Wash he cute at leasht?” taking a pull at the wine he seems to catch my puzzled look, “No? ssss not fair. It’sh only fun when they shteal your clothesh and they’re cute.”

“It was a robbery, not some…” I snort and wave a hand, “game.” Hmm though the crone certainly had something in mind, the ink marks...

“Pssssssh you need better friendsh.”

“I don’t have friends,” the words bite. He didn’t deserve that… but he hardly seems to notice.

“Okay fine! You twisted my arm. Heh, arms. I’ll be your friend,’ he points, “But the wine ish mine. Friendsh don’t shteal friendsh wine.”

My brows arched, I can’t help a short bark of a laugh, “You… you’re a drunken fool.”

In response he just spreads his hands, and gives me a lopsided stare of incredulity while I rub my temple and wonder when was the last time I’d laughed...
Nerta the Weaver (Foederati)