Guilt Puppy
First Post
Jaros/Kurita:
"'ey!"
A sharply called voice interrupts one of your regular sparring sessions... Following the gaze of the young Acolytes of the Staff surrounding, you turn to see a very large half-orc, no, a regular-sized half-ogre making his way through the gates. The ends of a spiked chain trail at his feet, raking through the dirty of the entryway...
He claps.
"Good fightin', that's. I hear' this were a good place to practice knockin'."
He unties the loop which attaches his chain to his belt, and adjusts the straps which hold his breastplate to his chest.
"Whaddya say? Wanna have a round?"
R.U.:
Another late night at the absinthe hall -- so late now it has too be well after noon the next day. Through the mist of discussions, art magic and politics all mixed together, you can barely make out the voice of a dirty-faced, dark-haired young woman, a newcomer:
"Listen up!" she calls, reaching in a dark black bag with a leather-gloved hand. "Tonight we'll be having drinks on me, in celebration of me! We all agreed?"
She pulls her hand from the bag, tossing forth a sprinkle of silver and gold. As the young hands of the bar collect the coins from beneath their chairs, a general cheer erupts in her favor.
"Good then," she says, climbing onto and then hopping across tables toward the bar. "Let's get started." The bartender, old Deddi, seems unimpressed as always.
Pharos:
"Father Pharos?"
It's Brother Jeale's voice, interrupting your preparations for Midday Praise for the third day in a row... Not that there's been much to praise, as overcast as it's been lately.
"Father Pharos!"
You can hear him jogging down the stairs now: Always in such a hurry, he is.
"Father Pharos," he repeats as he enters your chamber. "You should -- there are some visitors hear. Paying tithe. I think you should hear their story."
"'ey!"
A sharply called voice interrupts one of your regular sparring sessions... Following the gaze of the young Acolytes of the Staff surrounding, you turn to see a very large half-orc, no, a regular-sized half-ogre making his way through the gates. The ends of a spiked chain trail at his feet, raking through the dirty of the entryway...
He claps.
"Good fightin', that's. I hear' this were a good place to practice knockin'."
He unties the loop which attaches his chain to his belt, and adjusts the straps which hold his breastplate to his chest.
"Whaddya say? Wanna have a round?"
R.U.:
Another late night at the absinthe hall -- so late now it has too be well after noon the next day. Through the mist of discussions, art magic and politics all mixed together, you can barely make out the voice of a dirty-faced, dark-haired young woman, a newcomer:
"Listen up!" she calls, reaching in a dark black bag with a leather-gloved hand. "Tonight we'll be having drinks on me, in celebration of me! We all agreed?"
She pulls her hand from the bag, tossing forth a sprinkle of silver and gold. As the young hands of the bar collect the coins from beneath their chairs, a general cheer erupts in her favor.
"Good then," she says, climbing onto and then hopping across tables toward the bar. "Let's get started." The bartender, old Deddi, seems unimpressed as always.
Pharos:
"Father Pharos?"
It's Brother Jeale's voice, interrupting your preparations for Midday Praise for the third day in a row... Not that there's been much to praise, as overcast as it's been lately.
"Father Pharos!"
You can hear him jogging down the stairs now: Always in such a hurry, he is.
"Father Pharos," he repeats as he enters your chamber. "You should -- there are some visitors hear. Paying tithe. I think you should hear their story."