[O] Wayfaring Merchants - Printable Version +- HELOVIA || The Way to the Sun (http://helovia.com) +-- Forum: Out of Character (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: Archives (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=11) +--- Thread: [O] Wayfaring Merchants (/showthread.php?tid=17101) |
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Wayfaring Merchants - Sacre - 01-02-2015 Sacre;
There was always something about the Steppe that left Sacre feeling breathless, like he was a newborn again chasing Roux in drifts; their minds never lingered long on one game. Like any young colt, he chased after what he wanted with no hesitation or fear, but with the innocence of a child who knew nothing of limitation. He was still very young now, but these days he felt like the world had shown him reality and it left a bitter taste in his mouth, it made him push it away and cling onto his childhood. He let the old memories consume him and cast his head to the wind that breezily loitered atop the mountain, letting out a giddy giggle. Whilst many got lost in their grief and sorrow, Sacre soldiered on with buoyant flair and a bouncy step. He was returning back to where he was born and although there was a lot of apprehension swirling around his mind, there was also a great deal of excitement to visit somewhere that still meant a great deal. From memory, the colt lead on to where he remembered the entrance being, somewhere a narrow pass should appear and once you travelled down it, one would find themselves at the heart of the Basin. However, with a tug of the heart strings, Sacre realized that he wouldn’t be able to simply walk in anymore, this wasn’t his home and he no longer belonged in the Time Lord’s territory. Finding the path, the boy followed it with familiar steps, the scents that filled his nasals were well-known and Sacre might have lost himself and continued in like old times if it wasn’t for a rather large machine. Hooves slammed to a halt and a shocked snort burst from his nostrils. ”This wasn’t here before?!” He complained to Inari who stopped by his bonded’s side and looked at the artificial horse with equal puzzlement. Mechanisms ran within it and Sacre almost felt intimidated under its gaze. Not wanting to anger the giant thing nor fail in his task, Sacre called from his position just outside the Basin territory. "Father?" He called hopefully, part of him wanted to shout the name of his twin too, but he was here to bargain not to reminisce and he steeled himself from uttering his brother’s name. "We come on behalf of the Dragons Throat and seek audience with those of influence." He announced their intentions and then waited. (Sacre is here to ask a favour! We would like to exchange crafted items, the Dragons Throat offers metal crafting in exchange for an item made by one of your Basin crafters! @[Alija] @[Voodoo] @[Tandavi] ) You're my headstart, you're my rugged heart;
kaydeniro & larfsalot @deviantart | subtlepatterns.com RE: Wayfaring Merchants - Tandavi - 01-03-2015
RE: Wayfaring Merchants - Deimos - 01-03-2015 Chaotic inflections of the barbaric strummed and slithered through the icy vestiges, through the bellicose threads of his home. The Reaper wandered from the seething depths of the lake, cooled, chilled, masked and immersed in its callous fathoms, soothed and assuaged from the blistering waves recently bound throughout his frame (fire, like his father, like his ancestors, brimstone and embers clenched in his veins), to the distinction of visitors lining his sovereign’s border. When he’d shaken the droplets from his marble form, when he’d pulsed and pervaded the loam with his nefarious puissance and pernicious schemes, the behemoth followed the wayward particulars streamlined into his sector, the intriguing bounty of Dragon’s Throat legions marching amidst the peaks. As the devil’s manifestation maneuvered, struck against the cold, the rime, the pockets of snow left and lingering, his machinations spun, convoluted, pondered over the arches and schemes of the dune settlers. To what purpose did they arrive? The world had been tossed and churned as of late, hostilities bound and brewing, circling overhead like bestial scavengers, ready to pick and clean the bones of the foolish: whose skeletal remains would they be provoke? While he burned with anarchy, while he seared with rebellion and revolution, the rest of his herd couldn’t embark within such artifices: not until they were ready, not until their muscles undulated, coiled, rippled with power, with potency, with macabre glee and tense, rigid, unyielding hymns. They had to be careful, wander on pins, on needles, on nettles, on barbs and thorns, clench their jaws and rub their teeth against the circumstances festering and colliding. Upon his arrival, the dangerous, treacherous means of his occupation, of his existence, surrounded the heathen raptures and infidel reverie; protected, shrouded, the most toxic of sanctums – extending a subtle, immoral nod towards the beasts grasped in snow, blocked by sentinel whims, permitted to step from beneath the haunted gallows. The Throat had been wise in sending one particular missionary: Sacre, a son of the Doctor, who had seemingly longed for sand and stone instead of glaciers and ice. He’d grown since the necromancer last saw him, launched from lad to adult, and received an understated smirk from the corner of his lips. The other, a golden mare, drenched in markings, followed by a fox (were they all wily, or did they require a cunning bonded to fulfill their flaws?), was unfamiliar, like the rest of the traveling troupe. His piercing, puncturing stare roamed over the visitors, the wayfaring vendors, announcing his title, his supremacy, “Deimos, Lord of the Basin,” before turning towards the sable stag, rendering his blunt chords and ferocious tidings. “Sacre – what does the Throat require?” RE: Wayfaring Merchants - Voodoo - 01-05-2015
RE: Wayfaring Merchants - Sacre - 01-12-2015 Sacre;
His tangled thoughts that consisted mainly of old memories fuelled by lingering familiar scents were broken by a familiar touch. It sent a warm jolt through his body and his heart jumped in a way that was surely only meant for jaunty romantic fables. The brief moment robbed him of a coherent response with a nervous laugh bubbling out of his trembling lips "it’s fine" he hurriedly tried to reassure her. Feeling embarrassment claw at his face, Sacre took in a deep shaky breath and silently cursed his own awkwardness, was this going to happen every time they accidently brushed past one another? Meanwhile, Inari cast a withering glance to Natraj that told of his vexation towards his own bonded’s incapability to express his feelings. All personal anxieties were quickly washed away when the sound of hooves hitting the hard earth could be heard and the Reaper, Lord of the Basin, came skulking towards them. Sacre felt a prickle run up his back, Deimos. The boy hadn’t had the chance to get to know his former sovereign all that well; he had attended the few herd meetings of which this Lord had commanded and had fallen into obedience under his unwavering gaze and powerful voice. Sacre always thought he was the kind of stallion you’d find hiding behind a headstone in a graveyard nailing a hard stare into your back. His Lordship welcomes them and Sacre offers him a respectful nod whilst noting the arrival of Voodoo with a quick flick of his ear. He’d greet his friend later, for now; there was business to be done. With a pause to settle his nerves, Sacre moved to ask a request of the Reaper with hopes that a deal could be struck with relative ease. "My Lord Deimos, how fairs the Basin? I have a lot of fond memories with your family" he began, an amorous smile weaving onto his features. Sacre may have left the Basin for what he believed were better shores, but he still treasured the memories he had here and would never want to be rid of them. He went on then to nod to each of their small travelling group and explain there reasoning for showing up at the door of the wintry north "our company consists of Tandavi and Voodoo, we are here to request a crafted item by one of your Weavers." He paused, leaving his words to settle on the mind of the monarch before continuing on to complete his offer. "In return, I offer to craft you an object of your desire made from metal." There, he had completed half of the task that Gaucho had sent their company to complete. Now, it was up to the Reaper and his crafters to complete the next part, if they so desired to grant him the wish. @[Tandavi] You're my headstart, you're my rugged heart;
kaydeniro & larfsalot @deviantart | subtlepatterns.com RE: Wayfaring Merchants - Tandavi - 01-14-2015
RE: Wayfaring Merchants - Rhiannon - 01-15-2015
RE: Wayfaring Merchants - Deimos - 01-17-2015 Business transactions, payments and plans, maneuvered, molded, shaped and contorted; a conniving, calculating mind sharpened at the interlude and opportunity. Deimos’ curiosity was further kindled and instigated, enlightened and intrigued, and while his machinations whirred and brewed, he narrowed his stare in quiet, unsaid speculation. What did the Throat desire from them? What need did they have of spools, of cloth, of thread, of strands of silk and lace? And then came the more noteworthy figure, for this was to be of equal measures: what could they acquire from them? Portions and pieces of metal, wrapped in cold, hard distinction: the behemoth’s gaze traveled to the sentinel on the horizon, the dissonant sheen, the glinting threats, the heightened awareness of anarchy and protection should they command it, and its unfinished half-brother, awaiting excavation and deliberation. It continued on, landing upon the shaking, trembling Tandavi, who despite her best efforts still managed to have a distinction of terror floating past her stalwart stance (and he didn’t know whether to commend her efforts or mock them, so he committed neither). His piercing stare narrowed for a fraction of moments, because she looked painfully familiar, but he couldn’t wile away, piece together, where he’d seen her before. The sentiments were disregarded and dismissed at another Throat member, then Rhiannon’s approach, which he was all the more grateful for – she’d have far more intellect towards the engineering aspects of their pending conversation. He gave her a brief, curt nod, and resumed his intimidating stance of menacing, sinister junctures, possessed of behemoth composure and infidel reveries: a guard for his castle, a sword for his sovereign. Tones were succinct, concise, and condensed, drummed from heathen raptures and furtive whims. “The Basin is well.” Not a lie, for they still continued thriving along the icy sculptures and the frigid caverns, potent and pernicious, awaiting opportunities to snag anarchy and make it their own once again. It would take time, diligence, and perseverance; something their realm had in spades. For now, they’d dabble in trades, composing and whittling down frayed edges and dismal fringes, filling in gaps and closing in on their puissant capabilities. Longing to ensure their deal could be completed, as he had no intentions of pressing a promise they’d be incapable of carrying (then the Basin would be empty-handed, and he preferred them gleaming and powerful, not discarded and forgotten), he proffered another query. “What do you need crafted?” [Happy 300th. :D] RE: Wayfaring Merchants - Voodoo - 01-23-2015
RE: Wayfaring Merchants - Ulrik - 01-25-2015
RE: Wayfaring Merchants - Sacre - 01-28-2015 Sacre;
There was something about being on the other side of the Basin border that filled the colt with apprehension and, yet, at the same time there was a familiarity that numbed his nerves. Sacre hardly knew the Reaper, but had attended enough herd meetings as a child to grow used to the skulking monster’s stare. He had been an unknown but strong figurehead in the boy’s life at that time and this wasn’t really that much different. However, there was a shaking beside him and his overly concerned eyes fell on Tandavi in a swift turn to view the girl who seemed to be struggling under the air around them. Was she frightened of something happening? The colt had never seen her like this before, to him she had always oozed control and radiated brightly in every aspect so much so that he didn’t believe she would be daunted easily. It wasn’t like he could just ask either, a pause in proceedings whilst he requested the wellbeing of the fiery Lady who appeared to have lost her flare wasn’t exactly a great show, but the boy was on the verge of breaking protocol to comfort her. Though part of him warned that maybe Tandavi wouldn’t like him to show such a public performance and he dithered between what was best to do. In the chaos of his inner turmoil a brindled mare that addressed her Lord and dragged Sacre’s attention begrudgingly away from his friend joined the gathering. His eyes brushed over her and a spark of recognition lit up causing a frown upon his brow as he leafed through memories to find where she was hidden in his past. It had been a cold day and the ground had frozen over, he was just a babe attempting to ice skate (not very well) when a dark filly shows up. Back in the present, the same similar eyes turned to their party and gave a short introduction. Rhiannon! A crooked smile curled onto the boys lips as he recognized the name and marvelled at her position at such a young age. The same thought caused him to think that perhaps he was the lesser talented of his generation with nothing but one failed stint at a grand title that never really suited him. He turned to the other tattooed fellow who added to the unnerving atmosphere with his darkly delivered words and roved his eyes towards Tandavi. Concerned, Sacre shifted his body to try brush against her precious side as Inari padded over to sit by her forelegs, his tail moving to curl around one. The boy troubled himself over matters of his own inadequacy, there wasn’t much else he could do, he had no fancy tricks and he wasn’t very intimidating. In fact, he was a rather pathetic stamp of a colt that paled in comparison to fuller and more foreboding stallions. Perhaps it would be better if Tandavi looked for another more reliable and impressive looking friend who didn't look like a rabbit in front of a pack of wolves. "I think you’d find them more useful than us." He hastily replied, his youth missed the black humoured edge and he lacked his father’s well honed, quick tongue. Gathering the scraps of his foolhardy courage, Sacre considered the questions before him and turned to Deimos. "A simple flag would suffice." The task was simple enough and hopefully it wouldn’t take too long. With an uncomfortable shuffle of his cloven feet the colt wished he could leave now, but there was one other matter that needed to be covered. "What do you want in return?" @[Tandavi] You're my headstart, you're my rugged heart;
kaydeniro & larfsalot @deviantart | subtlepatterns.com RE: Wayfaring Merchants - Tandavi - 01-31-2015
RE: Wayfaring Merchants - Deimos - 02-01-2015 The meeting ran smoothly, no theatrics, no stagecraft, no simpering coils, or plaintive outcries: arrangements and settlements easily transpired. He remained calm and composed, not threatened, not overwhelmed, chiseled and refined in the chilling, smoking collection of sand-travelers and rime-inhabitants, glancing over the party, the shivering girl who managed to conjure a backbone, the kind Sacre, the adjoining Ulrik who postured sarcasm but not treachery, not danger. Flags were needed, and his ears swiveled back and forth, catching the aligning words, picturing dune pennants and dry streamers waving on top of cliffs, nothing too out of the ordinary, naught to cause question or concern. For them, his puncturing gaze glanced towards the unfinished sentinels one last time, the ghosts and embers of power, of mystique, one day fully capable of administering potency and lethality upon those who dared to cross into their borders without consent. They’d be able to drive merciless rhythms and catastrophic enterprises, sully foolish endeavors and inept tactics with seamless ease, with demonstrative precision, and the Basiners would be able to sleep at night without constant patrolling, without unnecessary tribulations. At the heart, at the core, of his yearning, was the need to protect, was the demand to preserve, safeguard, and shelter his empire from the wake of so many who longed to conquer it (to skewer the Regime, who sauntered and slunk in the shadows, awakened by an open prison). The Reaper’s stare hastened from Throat being to another, granting a brief nod in agreement and acquiescence, a chilling coat of arms in his deep vocals registering, resounding in the Siberian vestiges. “That would be fine.” He paused, turning towards his Weavers, quirking one singular brow, for he’d offer his entails, but they had every right to bestow their own as well. A twisting stone fixture, the monster’s words harked back over the horizon, a friendly, amiable gesture towards the statues at their borders. “We would like more metal to finish our Sentinels.” Finalizing the task at hand could fall to the Weavers, the true merchants who knew how long the whims would take and how many hours they’d require. Their judgment on the matter would be far superior to his own, for his skills ranged from battle to silence, and neither seemed viable in the present exchange. “You may work out details with Rhiannon and Ulrik.” Attempting to be a bit more welcoming, taking the words of the Time God to his unattainable soul, he bestowed an actual approachable gesture behind the reticent features and the marble brow. “You are free to stay within the Basin while you wait.” He’d have to extend hospitality if they were to gain anything from the other empires, besides peace, besides repose, maybe a poignant thought he’d learned long ago from the GildedBlade and simply never presumed suitable to put into action. Perhaps they’d find what made the glacial kin and brethren so proud, so dominant, so superior; or merely wait around the borders, biding their time until they could escape the icy confines. RE: Wayfaring Merchants - Ulrik - 02-08-2015
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