dave_o
Explorer
Gently, waves lapped against the stone docks extending like fingers from Jewel - port city on the Eastern coast of Ulin. The name, perhaps, was a misnomer. Grime, residue from smokestacks of forges and other shops, settled upon nearly every surface other than the docks. For they were washed clean by the sea.
You had all booked passage on The Whispering Arrow, a smaller, quick cargo coaster sailing for Jewel. And disembarking, you found several dozen others just like it docked about you. You were inconspicuous - and that was perfect. Through letters, or your own accord, you sought out the Troupe of the Painted Soul, a new acting troupe said to strike against the Empire. Some, here for the money, others, for their hatred of the Emperor, but in any case - five of you stood there that sunset, just outside of Jewel.
A man strode forward, so nondescript it was obviously a premeditated effort. He rose a brow gently, making sure his hand never strayed far from the longsword belted at his hip, in a black scabbard like the rest of his all black attire. Even his hair, and eyes, were ebony.
"Jasper - will see you now."
Jasper. You'd all heard of him, the arranger of this troupe. You knew nearly nothing about him, save that he obviously had some sort of black hatred toward the Empire, and at least a passing interest in the arts. There was danger, here, walking into the unknown. But you followed.
Nearly a half hour later, winding through the grimy streets of Jewel, listening to the lamentating song of the beggars in the streets of the Poor Quarter, you arrived with your black consort in front of a similarly nondescript, two-storey building. He simply extended his hand, indicating the door. Apparently, your black consort would not be joining you.
Inside, the room, while poor, was cosy. It was a wide, yawning space, full of candles and paneled in wood, the entire room with exuding a rosy glow. Near the rear of the room stood a dark, mahogany desk, and behind it reclined he that could only be Jasper. He sat, feet upon the desk, admist a forest of parchments and ledgers. Long, tangled strands of gray hair spilled across his shoulders, clad in a rich, green vest and white tunic underneath. While the clothes were nice, they were quite soiled. His eyes, though, were strange. The faint light reflecting from them marked them as milk white. To his sides stood two more black consorts.
"I am not the ganglord I appear," he spoke, the words rolling of his lips like honey, though obviously aged, "and yes, I am blind."
At that, the consort on his right stepped toward the end of the line, you five lined up before Jasper. He ran his eyes up and down the person -
"Young, blonde, sexy. She's got a basket."
Jasper laughed gently, "Alric, I would appreciate if you were strictly factual in your observations," at which the consort namde Alric made a face like but she is! "You must be Carrie, the Burning One. Hailing from the Shining Islands, you are here for pay, and you will be paid - respectably. I admire your strength in the divine, m'lady," Jasper nods his head, though completely not in her direction.
Alric makes his way to the next in line, repeating-
"Tall, lanky, seven earrings."
"Oh," Jasper smiles broadly, "the famed Harlequin. I much admire Lady Elena's Triumph, I've recited it myself. You are here with a black hatred for the Empire, and I share it - in untold quantities. You shall be paid, as well, but I know were you not, you would remain in any case."
"Blonde, traveller's gear."
"Dembrilion, then," he gently bites his bottom lip, surprisingly smooth for his age, perhaps a product of the biting, "I admire your skills in, indeed, it seems nearly all things. You are dualistic in your reasons, though - pay, and hatred."
"Looks like one of us, boss."
"Ah! That'll be Kail. He will, perhaps, be joining your ranks, Alric."
And, finally, "An elf."
"Zinovii," Jasper speaks with perfect pronounciation, "I will highly value your arts among the troupe. You are a mystery, though, and I am sad to say you will have more careful eyes upon you."
Alric, slowly, returns to his post near Jasper. Jasper, slowly, achingly, stands, folding his hands behind his back.
"There is not so much to say, now. You all know why you are here. But we are, at heart, an acting troupe. While we have other, more true motives, we act. We perform. And at the very least we shall bring a small amount of joy into the lives of the prolateriat. Do not forget this."
Reaching forward, he brings up a large, beautifully written piece of parchment, recently pressed. He flattens it upon the desk, and casts his eyes upward, lying a quill upon it.
"It is now simply a matter of signing the charter. But, I beseech you, any questions you may have for me - direct them before signing. I do not take contracts lightly."
You had all booked passage on The Whispering Arrow, a smaller, quick cargo coaster sailing for Jewel. And disembarking, you found several dozen others just like it docked about you. You were inconspicuous - and that was perfect. Through letters, or your own accord, you sought out the Troupe of the Painted Soul, a new acting troupe said to strike against the Empire. Some, here for the money, others, for their hatred of the Emperor, but in any case - five of you stood there that sunset, just outside of Jewel.
A man strode forward, so nondescript it was obviously a premeditated effort. He rose a brow gently, making sure his hand never strayed far from the longsword belted at his hip, in a black scabbard like the rest of his all black attire. Even his hair, and eyes, were ebony.
"Jasper - will see you now."
Jasper. You'd all heard of him, the arranger of this troupe. You knew nearly nothing about him, save that he obviously had some sort of black hatred toward the Empire, and at least a passing interest in the arts. There was danger, here, walking into the unknown. But you followed.
Nearly a half hour later, winding through the grimy streets of Jewel, listening to the lamentating song of the beggars in the streets of the Poor Quarter, you arrived with your black consort in front of a similarly nondescript, two-storey building. He simply extended his hand, indicating the door. Apparently, your black consort would not be joining you.
Inside, the room, while poor, was cosy. It was a wide, yawning space, full of candles and paneled in wood, the entire room with exuding a rosy glow. Near the rear of the room stood a dark, mahogany desk, and behind it reclined he that could only be Jasper. He sat, feet upon the desk, admist a forest of parchments and ledgers. Long, tangled strands of gray hair spilled across his shoulders, clad in a rich, green vest and white tunic underneath. While the clothes were nice, they were quite soiled. His eyes, though, were strange. The faint light reflecting from them marked them as milk white. To his sides stood two more black consorts.
"I am not the ganglord I appear," he spoke, the words rolling of his lips like honey, though obviously aged, "and yes, I am blind."
At that, the consort on his right stepped toward the end of the line, you five lined up before Jasper. He ran his eyes up and down the person -
"Young, blonde, sexy. She's got a basket."
Jasper laughed gently, "Alric, I would appreciate if you were strictly factual in your observations," at which the consort namde Alric made a face like but she is! "You must be Carrie, the Burning One. Hailing from the Shining Islands, you are here for pay, and you will be paid - respectably. I admire your strength in the divine, m'lady," Jasper nods his head, though completely not in her direction.
Alric makes his way to the next in line, repeating-
"Tall, lanky, seven earrings."
"Oh," Jasper smiles broadly, "the famed Harlequin. I much admire Lady Elena's Triumph, I've recited it myself. You are here with a black hatred for the Empire, and I share it - in untold quantities. You shall be paid, as well, but I know were you not, you would remain in any case."
"Blonde, traveller's gear."
"Dembrilion, then," he gently bites his bottom lip, surprisingly smooth for his age, perhaps a product of the biting, "I admire your skills in, indeed, it seems nearly all things. You are dualistic in your reasons, though - pay, and hatred."
"Looks like one of us, boss."
"Ah! That'll be Kail. He will, perhaps, be joining your ranks, Alric."
And, finally, "An elf."
"Zinovii," Jasper speaks with perfect pronounciation, "I will highly value your arts among the troupe. You are a mystery, though, and I am sad to say you will have more careful eyes upon you."
Alric, slowly, returns to his post near Jasper. Jasper, slowly, achingly, stands, folding his hands behind his back.
"There is not so much to say, now. You all know why you are here. But we are, at heart, an acting troupe. While we have other, more true motives, we act. We perform. And at the very least we shall bring a small amount of joy into the lives of the prolateriat. Do not forget this."
Reaching forward, he brings up a large, beautifully written piece of parchment, recently pressed. He flattens it upon the desk, and casts his eyes upward, lying a quill upon it.
"It is now simply a matter of signing the charter. But, I beseech you, any questions you may have for me - direct them before signing. I do not take contracts lightly."
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