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<blockquote data-quote="Arcturion" data-source="post: 3731170" data-attributes="member: 54632"><p><strong>1.0 Darksail Argosy</strong></p><p></p><p><span style="color: Sienna"><strong>1.0 Darksail Argosy</strong></span></p><p><span style="color: Sienna"></span></p><p><span style="color: Sienna"><em>A dark tiding they sing,</em></span></p><p><span style="color: Sienna"><em>Its current at my shore.</em></span></p><p><span style="color: Sienna"><em>A change upon the wind,</em></span></p><p><span style="color: Sienna"><em>It sees me off to war.</em></span></p><p><span style="color: Sienna"></span></p><p><span style="color: Sienna">– Verse from an old merchant marine’s warchant</span></p><p></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"><strong>Pryntar 24, Ceriday, 957 VR (Veracian Reckoning)</strong>*</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Drace, capital of the Dragon Kingdom of Mordrake, the greatest realm of the north. It was a grand walled city of impossibly high, buttressed spires that seemed to rake the overcast sky, as if dozens of alabaster lances whose pennons had been set to wave at the very doorstep of the gods themselves. Arched catwalks and bridges connected numerous towers at dizzying heights, with a fall all but certain to spell doom for any who would be so unlucky as to tumble off from the city’s lofty web of intricately linked skyways. The day was cool, the wind biting with chill, and the paved cobblestone streets covered in many places with winter snow that was quickly turning to muddy slush with the approach of spring and the promised return of warmth.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">And with it the unspoken but much whispered threat of war.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Though Eltera stood at one of many of Drace’s wide avenues, surrounded by throngs of people who were going about their daily lives, laughing and talking and haggling over the cost of cloth or spice, the dark aelf had never felt so alone as she did now. She found herself wandering aimlessly through the city’s port ward known as the Ebontine where the Aestas River emptied into the bay, the sight of the open sea’s vast azure expanse seeming to calm the edges of her troubled thoughts. The Underealm did not have oceans as the surface world did. The subterranean lakes and rivers of her sunless homeland held no promise of life-giving rain or weather of any kind, only the glassy obsidian surface of a dark abyss that reached down toward the blackest depths of the earth. How strange that she should be staring out at the sea’s churning currents now and wondering what changes the winds would bring.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">The nightmare that was B’astion was all but a blurry haze to her, like trying to catch smoke with an outstretched hand and watching helplessly as its wispy tendrils slipped through her fingers. Eltera had discovered that the fortified city that now served the Imperium as a base from which it can launch strikes against its neighbors was once called Aristahl, the capital of the shattered Veracian Republic. In its drive to conquer other lands and erase the very identities of its fallen enemies, the Iron Throne had, in its infinite wisdom, renamed the captured city B’astion, as if it would grant any measure of solace to a people driven under the heel of an unseen tyrant. The name itself meant nothing to the dark aelf except that all she remembered of the place was blood and shadow. A face came to her mind’s eye then, unexpected and unbidden, that of Valsentres, the Svari’s face running with crimson rivulets from the bloodied, hollow orbits where his eyes should have been.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Where is your god now? Eltera’s own mocking voice intoned.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">With a start, she blinked and the ruined visage of the slain cleric was gone as if he were never there. The sharp tang of the sea’s salt spray air met her senses, accompanied by the rhythmic splashing of waves and the ever present cawing chatter of tiny dragonets flying overhead. Their pearly scales shining a bright teal in the hazy morning sun, the noisy creatures always seemed to circle the ships berthed at Drace’s rocky shores, swarming the masts and scanning the decks and piers in search of an easy meal. Caravels and galleons of all sorts were docked at the Ebontine this day. Laborers and deckhands were scurrying about their business, hauling crates and barrels from ship to shore and back again in a chaotic swarm of activity that mirrored the hungry dragonets’ aerial dance.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Angar and Ryane had not so much as spoken to Eltera since those dark days in B’astion, and when she approached with the intention of offering some measure of regret or apology to the young Inmerish woman, now large with child, the overprotective half-orc had bared his fangs as well as his blades, snarling a warning to keep her distance. Eltera had not deigned to lay them any blame. What words could she have offered after the things she had done? They would have been hollow and fallen upon deaf ears. Accompanied by the incessantly chattering Leluric rogue Elderdrake, the two had left the city many days ago, booking passage with a merchant’s caravan headed toward Ashaeron and with hopes of raising their child in peace, away from any more blood and slaughter. Away from her.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">The remnants of the small circle of her companions had left as well. Bel Daveril accompanied the human spellgunner Nashiel southward in a continued effort to free the former Veracian capital from its Imperial occupiers, or so the Thalasian archer claimed. Eltera had the feeling that Bel was not so much interested in the cause of liberation as she was in Nashiel’s supposed charms. Still, the two had much in common in that both were expert marksmen displaced from their respective homelands; he with the flintlock and she with the bow. The dark aelf had wished them good fortune on their journey. Newly betrothed, Rayella and Marcus had chosen to protect the last of the Kyrian children, and mentioned something about entering the service of a dragon. Eltera doubted that such a powerful creature, if it indeed existed, required the service of lesser beings, but had seen the two Kyrians fly off just as well in the dead of night so as to go unobserved. The fine suit of mail they had left her was their parting gift, and the dark aelf was grateful for it. The Hultaan beastman Jace went west toward the vast Inmerish wilderness. As a ranger, he was ill at ease in large cities and had offered Tanius his sword in service.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Tanius. The druid was gone, assuming the heavy responsibility of leading the members of his Weirwood Circle following the death of their Hierophant Savrius, and with hopes of rebuilding the groves deep within the verdant forests of Inmerthyr. With a pang, Eltera had learned that the H’jenn-Ra were to blame for the devastation wrought upon the druidic Vale and their Heart Tree. Though defeated in his bid for the title of Hierophant, the one called Beriel had denounced Eltera, laying at her feet as much of the blame for the deaths of his kinsmen and the ravaging of his homeland. With a heavy heart, Eltera had decided not to accompany Tanius on his journey back to Inmerthyr given the strong enmity toward her among Beriel’s supporters.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">One day, I will return to you, Tanius had promised her with a ghost of a smile and a tender hand upon her cheek, before assuming the form of a hawk as black as midnight and taking wing westward. Eltera had understood that his calling as Hierophant, once won and accepted, could not be denied.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">The only somewhat familiar face still left in Drace belonged to that of Ivar Wolfgarsson. The proud Hrundir barbarian was the son of a powerful Jarl chieftain across the Abrisseen to the north, or so he claimed, resuming his duties as ambassador to his people while in the city. Ever distrustful of Eltera and of all dark elves, or “Svartálfar” as he had called them in his native tongue, Ivar had spat on any notion of association with her, much less friendship, and it took all of Bel Daveril’s charms to calm the temperamental warrior. Hefting his warhammer, Ivar had parted ways at the first opportunity. Eltera found that she did not miss his company.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">So what did that leave her now? Having assumed the role of a Daoshan woman, she spent her days wandering the Dracian capital with no real aim or destination in mind. Eltera had learned at least that the Daoshans were a seafaring culture of the human race far to the south, whose daring on the high seas were legend and whose skin tone was as dark as her own. This last fact alone had kept her own identity as a dark aelf from being discovered and helped deflect any questions concerning as to from where she hailed. Still, Eltera had worn the hood of her cloak over her head at all times lest her true race be unmasked for all to see. It was almost always then that blades were bared and blood was spilt, and for what?</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">With a heavy sigh, Eltera found she could not blame anyone for such a reaction. Her own hands were stained with the blood of innocents. She flexed her fingers, opening and closing them carefully. The cuts left by the black adamantine blade of the H’jenn-Ra’s cruel sickle had yet to close and heal completely. Instead, the angry wounds where the cursed weapon had pierced her flesh wept often during the night as she slept fitfully, her dreams haunted by the fleeting, ghostly faces of Valsentres, of her blinded father Saulekanis, of the girl child calling herself Ayaleska, and others she could not yet name. The dark aelf had paid the innkeep several times for stained sheets, offering muted apologies. The man, interested more in coin than ruined bedding, had balked at first but quickly changed his tune, making jests about breaking maidenhead. Eltera had not bothered to take note of his crude humor, lost in her own thoughts. Amurisil’s healing magic was of no aid. Even now the fresh bandages she had wrapped around her hands earlier in the morning were starting to bleed through at the palms with spots of red.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Eltera let her hand rest on the ivory hilt of the sword sheathed at her hip. Its cool touch was somehow soothing, almost reassuring. There will always be a dawn, Tanius was fond of saying. She idly wondered if the truth of his words would ever grace her with their meaning.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">With a start, Eltera quickly regained her thoughts as well as her balance just when a body nearly pushed past from where she last stood. Turning easily on the balls of her feet, she saw that the one who had seemingly walked into her was a large, tall male human. Barrel-chested and blessed with a warrior’s frame, the man’s ebony skin was as dark as a moonless night. Approaching his middle years and more round in his abdomen than torso, his features were equally larger than life. The man’s nose was broad, his dark brown eyes lined and weathered with many years upon the windblown seas. His mouth was expressive, and when he smiled, as he did now, the white of his teeth shone bright and starkly against his black skin.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Though no longer young, he was still possessed of strength and vigor. A veritable rainbow of colors greeted her hazel eyes as the man’s clothing was garish as it was expensive in appearance. A black kerchief was tied around his otherwise bald pate, while numerous gold rings hung from his ears and clicked at his thick, calloused fingers. His feet bore black leather boots with shiny, polished buckles while the man’s billowy pantaloons were striped with vertical bands of white and blue in the popular style of sailors. A crimson vest of finely stitched cloth was worn over the man’s massive frame, open and unbuttoned despite the chill air. Over that, a broad leather bandolier crossed over his mighty torso, bearing numerous throwing knives. A necklace of long, curved bones hung from a leather thong around his bull neck, most likely from some exotic animal.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">The wide, golden sash of fine silk wrapped around his stomach was also kept in place by a fine leather belt, to which a large cutlass with a filigreed handguard was sheathed in a dark scabbard at his left side. At the other, a strange contraption that Eltera recognized as a flintlock pistol was thrust through the sash. According to Nashiel, she recalled that the rare weapon’s volatile black powder was first created by the Shinorese, a culture of humans far to the south, and whose design was then copied and adapted by Minoi gnome traders, its use having spread in popularity among Veracian rakes, Daoshan corsairs, and Imperial soldiers alike. On that last front, the dark aelf could attest to its effectiveness, having experienced the painful sting of its roundball projectiles before.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">“My, you have the reflexes of a cat!” the man’s deep baritone voice boomed, accompanied by thunderous laughter that shook his barrel-shaped midriff. His words were heavily inflected with a thick accent and sounded odd to Eltera’s aelfin ears. “Forgive me, where are my manners? I am Rentiki, Captain of the Argus, that fine vessel berthed yonder.” The Daoshan sailor, for there could be no doubt that he was one, bowed low and swept his muscled arm in a grandiose display of courtly greeting that seemed to clash with his gaudy sailor’s garb. Rising, he motioned with a bejeweled hand toward a large merchant’s caravel, its dark canvas sails neatly tied atop its twin masts, moored at one of many of the wooden piers that dotted the Ebontine. The only distinguishing trait the vessel had was its affixed figurehead, for it bore the image of some strange, regal bird whose plumed feathers were carved in elaborate relief against the wooden sides of the ship’s bow, marked by many spots that resembled eyes.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">“I noted that you were admiring my ship and I must say, the lady has good taste,” Rentiki continued genially despite towering over the much shorter dark aelf. “I am also embarrassed to admit that my clumsy efforts at introduction do not do you justice, and as you plainly guessed, my bumping into you was no mere coincidence. Again, do forgive me! An old salty dog’s trick, you see. It is just that it is not often that mine eyes are greeted by the most welcomed sight of a Daoshan sister so far from the warm shores of our homeland. Imagine my surprise to find you here in Drace, of all places, dear lady! Might I ask you of your name and the pleasure of your company?”</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">The man’s words were spoken in a strange human dialect that she could not – should not – have possibly understood, Eltera noted, and yet, there it was. Oddly enough, she heard every foreign word clearly and immediately knew their meaning as if he were speaking the Common tongue to her keen senses. Abruptly, Eltera also realized with a start that her hood was slightly askew as a loosened tress of stark white, silvery hair brushed across her face, briefly exposed into view of Captain Rentiki.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"><strong>OOC:</strong> * The IC date is equivalent to February 24th, Saturday.</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Arcturion, post: 3731170, member: 54632"] [b]1.0 Darksail Argosy[/b] [COLOR=Sienna][B]1.0 Darksail Argosy[/B] [I]A dark tiding they sing, Its current at my shore. A change upon the wind, It sees me off to war.[/I] – Verse from an old merchant marine’s warchant[/COLOR] [COLOR=LemonChiffon][B]Pryntar 24, Ceriday, 957 VR (Veracian Reckoning)[/B]* Drace, capital of the Dragon Kingdom of Mordrake, the greatest realm of the north. It was a grand walled city of impossibly high, buttressed spires that seemed to rake the overcast sky, as if dozens of alabaster lances whose pennons had been set to wave at the very doorstep of the gods themselves. Arched catwalks and bridges connected numerous towers at dizzying heights, with a fall all but certain to spell doom for any who would be so unlucky as to tumble off from the city’s lofty web of intricately linked skyways. The day was cool, the wind biting with chill, and the paved cobblestone streets covered in many places with winter snow that was quickly turning to muddy slush with the approach of spring and the promised return of warmth. And with it the unspoken but much whispered threat of war. Though Eltera stood at one of many of Drace’s wide avenues, surrounded by throngs of people who were going about their daily lives, laughing and talking and haggling over the cost of cloth or spice, the dark aelf had never felt so alone as she did now. She found herself wandering aimlessly through the city’s port ward known as the Ebontine where the Aestas River emptied into the bay, the sight of the open sea’s vast azure expanse seeming to calm the edges of her troubled thoughts. The Underealm did not have oceans as the surface world did. The subterranean lakes and rivers of her sunless homeland held no promise of life-giving rain or weather of any kind, only the glassy obsidian surface of a dark abyss that reached down toward the blackest depths of the earth. How strange that she should be staring out at the sea’s churning currents now and wondering what changes the winds would bring. The nightmare that was B’astion was all but a blurry haze to her, like trying to catch smoke with an outstretched hand and watching helplessly as its wispy tendrils slipped through her fingers. Eltera had discovered that the fortified city that now served the Imperium as a base from which it can launch strikes against its neighbors was once called Aristahl, the capital of the shattered Veracian Republic. In its drive to conquer other lands and erase the very identities of its fallen enemies, the Iron Throne had, in its infinite wisdom, renamed the captured city B’astion, as if it would grant any measure of solace to a people driven under the heel of an unseen tyrant. The name itself meant nothing to the dark aelf except that all she remembered of the place was blood and shadow. A face came to her mind’s eye then, unexpected and unbidden, that of Valsentres, the Svari’s face running with crimson rivulets from the bloodied, hollow orbits where his eyes should have been. Where is your god now? Eltera’s own mocking voice intoned. With a start, she blinked and the ruined visage of the slain cleric was gone as if he were never there. The sharp tang of the sea’s salt spray air met her senses, accompanied by the rhythmic splashing of waves and the ever present cawing chatter of tiny dragonets flying overhead. Their pearly scales shining a bright teal in the hazy morning sun, the noisy creatures always seemed to circle the ships berthed at Drace’s rocky shores, swarming the masts and scanning the decks and piers in search of an easy meal. Caravels and galleons of all sorts were docked at the Ebontine this day. Laborers and deckhands were scurrying about their business, hauling crates and barrels from ship to shore and back again in a chaotic swarm of activity that mirrored the hungry dragonets’ aerial dance. Angar and Ryane had not so much as spoken to Eltera since those dark days in B’astion, and when she approached with the intention of offering some measure of regret or apology to the young Inmerish woman, now large with child, the overprotective half-orc had bared his fangs as well as his blades, snarling a warning to keep her distance. Eltera had not deigned to lay them any blame. What words could she have offered after the things she had done? They would have been hollow and fallen upon deaf ears. Accompanied by the incessantly chattering Leluric rogue Elderdrake, the two had left the city many days ago, booking passage with a merchant’s caravan headed toward Ashaeron and with hopes of raising their child in peace, away from any more blood and slaughter. Away from her. The remnants of the small circle of her companions had left as well. Bel Daveril accompanied the human spellgunner Nashiel southward in a continued effort to free the former Veracian capital from its Imperial occupiers, or so the Thalasian archer claimed. Eltera had the feeling that Bel was not so much interested in the cause of liberation as she was in Nashiel’s supposed charms. Still, the two had much in common in that both were expert marksmen displaced from their respective homelands; he with the flintlock and she with the bow. The dark aelf had wished them good fortune on their journey. Newly betrothed, Rayella and Marcus had chosen to protect the last of the Kyrian children, and mentioned something about entering the service of a dragon. Eltera doubted that such a powerful creature, if it indeed existed, required the service of lesser beings, but had seen the two Kyrians fly off just as well in the dead of night so as to go unobserved. The fine suit of mail they had left her was their parting gift, and the dark aelf was grateful for it. The Hultaan beastman Jace went west toward the vast Inmerish wilderness. As a ranger, he was ill at ease in large cities and had offered Tanius his sword in service. Tanius. The druid was gone, assuming the heavy responsibility of leading the members of his Weirwood Circle following the death of their Hierophant Savrius, and with hopes of rebuilding the groves deep within the verdant forests of Inmerthyr. With a pang, Eltera had learned that the H’jenn-Ra were to blame for the devastation wrought upon the druidic Vale and their Heart Tree. Though defeated in his bid for the title of Hierophant, the one called Beriel had denounced Eltera, laying at her feet as much of the blame for the deaths of his kinsmen and the ravaging of his homeland. With a heavy heart, Eltera had decided not to accompany Tanius on his journey back to Inmerthyr given the strong enmity toward her among Beriel’s supporters. One day, I will return to you, Tanius had promised her with a ghost of a smile and a tender hand upon her cheek, before assuming the form of a hawk as black as midnight and taking wing westward. Eltera had understood that his calling as Hierophant, once won and accepted, could not be denied. The only somewhat familiar face still left in Drace belonged to that of Ivar Wolfgarsson. The proud Hrundir barbarian was the son of a powerful Jarl chieftain across the Abrisseen to the north, or so he claimed, resuming his duties as ambassador to his people while in the city. Ever distrustful of Eltera and of all dark elves, or “Svartálfar” as he had called them in his native tongue, Ivar had spat on any notion of association with her, much less friendship, and it took all of Bel Daveril’s charms to calm the temperamental warrior. Hefting his warhammer, Ivar had parted ways at the first opportunity. Eltera found that she did not miss his company. So what did that leave her now? Having assumed the role of a Daoshan woman, she spent her days wandering the Dracian capital with no real aim or destination in mind. Eltera had learned at least that the Daoshans were a seafaring culture of the human race far to the south, whose daring on the high seas were legend and whose skin tone was as dark as her own. This last fact alone had kept her own identity as a dark aelf from being discovered and helped deflect any questions concerning as to from where she hailed. Still, Eltera had worn the hood of her cloak over her head at all times lest her true race be unmasked for all to see. It was almost always then that blades were bared and blood was spilt, and for what? With a heavy sigh, Eltera found she could not blame anyone for such a reaction. Her own hands were stained with the blood of innocents. She flexed her fingers, opening and closing them carefully. The cuts left by the black adamantine blade of the H’jenn-Ra’s cruel sickle had yet to close and heal completely. Instead, the angry wounds where the cursed weapon had pierced her flesh wept often during the night as she slept fitfully, her dreams haunted by the fleeting, ghostly faces of Valsentres, of her blinded father Saulekanis, of the girl child calling herself Ayaleska, and others she could not yet name. The dark aelf had paid the innkeep several times for stained sheets, offering muted apologies. The man, interested more in coin than ruined bedding, had balked at first but quickly changed his tune, making jests about breaking maidenhead. Eltera had not bothered to take note of his crude humor, lost in her own thoughts. Amurisil’s healing magic was of no aid. Even now the fresh bandages she had wrapped around her hands earlier in the morning were starting to bleed through at the palms with spots of red. Eltera let her hand rest on the ivory hilt of the sword sheathed at her hip. Its cool touch was somehow soothing, almost reassuring. There will always be a dawn, Tanius was fond of saying. She idly wondered if the truth of his words would ever grace her with their meaning. With a start, Eltera quickly regained her thoughts as well as her balance just when a body nearly pushed past from where she last stood. Turning easily on the balls of her feet, she saw that the one who had seemingly walked into her was a large, tall male human. Barrel-chested and blessed with a warrior’s frame, the man’s ebony skin was as dark as a moonless night. Approaching his middle years and more round in his abdomen than torso, his features were equally larger than life. The man’s nose was broad, his dark brown eyes lined and weathered with many years upon the windblown seas. His mouth was expressive, and when he smiled, as he did now, the white of his teeth shone bright and starkly against his black skin. Though no longer young, he was still possessed of strength and vigor. A veritable rainbow of colors greeted her hazel eyes as the man’s clothing was garish as it was expensive in appearance. A black kerchief was tied around his otherwise bald pate, while numerous gold rings hung from his ears and clicked at his thick, calloused fingers. His feet bore black leather boots with shiny, polished buckles while the man’s billowy pantaloons were striped with vertical bands of white and blue in the popular style of sailors. A crimson vest of finely stitched cloth was worn over the man’s massive frame, open and unbuttoned despite the chill air. Over that, a broad leather bandolier crossed over his mighty torso, bearing numerous throwing knives. A necklace of long, curved bones hung from a leather thong around his bull neck, most likely from some exotic animal. The wide, golden sash of fine silk wrapped around his stomach was also kept in place by a fine leather belt, to which a large cutlass with a filigreed handguard was sheathed in a dark scabbard at his left side. At the other, a strange contraption that Eltera recognized as a flintlock pistol was thrust through the sash. According to Nashiel, she recalled that the rare weapon’s volatile black powder was first created by the Shinorese, a culture of humans far to the south, and whose design was then copied and adapted by Minoi gnome traders, its use having spread in popularity among Veracian rakes, Daoshan corsairs, and Imperial soldiers alike. On that last front, the dark aelf could attest to its effectiveness, having experienced the painful sting of its roundball projectiles before. “My, you have the reflexes of a cat!” the man’s deep baritone voice boomed, accompanied by thunderous laughter that shook his barrel-shaped midriff. His words were heavily inflected with a thick accent and sounded odd to Eltera’s aelfin ears. “Forgive me, where are my manners? I am Rentiki, Captain of the Argus, that fine vessel berthed yonder.” The Daoshan sailor, for there could be no doubt that he was one, bowed low and swept his muscled arm in a grandiose display of courtly greeting that seemed to clash with his gaudy sailor’s garb. Rising, he motioned with a bejeweled hand toward a large merchant’s caravel, its dark canvas sails neatly tied atop its twin masts, moored at one of many of the wooden piers that dotted the Ebontine. The only distinguishing trait the vessel had was its affixed figurehead, for it bore the image of some strange, regal bird whose plumed feathers were carved in elaborate relief against the wooden sides of the ship’s bow, marked by many spots that resembled eyes. “I noted that you were admiring my ship and I must say, the lady has good taste,” Rentiki continued genially despite towering over the much shorter dark aelf. “I am also embarrassed to admit that my clumsy efforts at introduction do not do you justice, and as you plainly guessed, my bumping into you was no mere coincidence. Again, do forgive me! An old salty dog’s trick, you see. It is just that it is not often that mine eyes are greeted by the most welcomed sight of a Daoshan sister so far from the warm shores of our homeland. Imagine my surprise to find you here in Drace, of all places, dear lady! Might I ask you of your name and the pleasure of your company?” The man’s words were spoken in a strange human dialect that she could not – should not – have possibly understood, Eltera noted, and yet, there it was. Oddly enough, she heard every foreign word clearly and immediately knew their meaning as if he were speaking the Common tongue to her keen senses. Abruptly, Eltera also realized with a start that her hood was slightly askew as a loosened tress of stark white, silvery hair brushed across her face, briefly exposed into view of Captain Rentiki. [B]OOC:[/B] * The IC date is equivalent to February 24th, Saturday.[/COLOR] [/QUOTE]
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