Vulparan Family/Octavius Lysander/The Dead of Night

Roleplay from Octavius Lysander Vulparan

Message sent to All Nobles of Vordul Sanguinis (12 recipients) - 2021-05-02 17:42:26

The Dead of Night 'There must be some kind of way out of here,' muttered an out of work jester to a vagabond, the deluge of rain drowning the alley and all those festering within it. 'Alas there is too much confusion,' he laughed, 'and too little relief.' 'No reason to get excited,' the vagabond continued, speaking almost kindly to his companion. The sense that life and the world is merely a meaningless stage, with all upon it mere actors, jesters joking at their pointless communal experiences. We've both been through the worst of it, they ponder, we deserve better, this is not our fate. They look to one another with a look most queer. 'Let us stop this,' their urges, this sense of concern rising too greatly for the vagabond, as a crow's croak pierces the 'the hour is late.' With a nod, they silently part ways into the sheets of rain that have soaked them. The vagabond's mind races, as he wanders almost aimlessly through the submerged streets, his thoughts drowned with words from a sermon the most mad of preachers may preach. The futility of life encapsulated into a few simple lines the hopelessness of living in the capital experienced by some, the prize of inclusion and a simple life guarded by princes patrolling all along the watchtower. Women, they came and went as they pleased, barefoot servants, too, he recalls, the lines of the sermon piercing his mind. But outside of his thoughts, in the cold distance of the rain-obscured street, he believed that for a moment a wildcat did growl. He could see two riders approaching, and the wind oh how it began to howl... 'This will do,' he snapped at his younger brother, riding a mare besides him that was dwarfed by the nobleman's midnight-black stallion. Through the darkness of the night the man almost morphed into his horse - high black leather boots merging into the long jet-black leather overcoat, tightly clasped with a cold silver brooch and a darkest scarlet sash. He ran a leather-gloved hand through his neatly-trimmed hair, soon barking an order at the cowering stable boy before him. Such feebleness was something Octavius simply could not bear, and the poor boy was to receive adequate punishment for his insolent cowardice.

Octavius Lysander Vulparan