Fourstone: Tale of Ten

The coat slung over his chair was heavy and packed with fur, giving off where exactly the elf resided. He was not used to the weather of Summerport, this elf; he wiped a line of sweat from his brow and downed a glass of alcohol that he had purchased from the inn's joint brewery. He leaned back, sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the now empty glass dangle from his fingers an inch from the ground.

Arent had thought it was clever to get to the town early. He thought he would begin his vacation early, and secure himself a room. This was a mistake however, for the place was hot and the bars were scarce. He had only slept for half the nights that he had been in the city, and last night was not one of them. The dark rings around his eyes were evident, and his breaths were that of a peevish fellow. Arent was a peevish fellow.

He finally placed his cup onto the desk he was sitting it, by the candle that illuminated the dark corner where the table was set. The floor made a loud creeeak as he arose from his chair, and he took this chance to peer out the window. Arent knew of the day, and was quite aware of the bustle outside of his inn. The sunlight was harsh in this area, something he disliked. The elf squinted through the glare and caught sight of many tourists, including some people riding along in camel-driven carts. Great, the roads were even more congested.

Arent thought about staying in his room all day as to avoid these people, but it was inevitable. They'd be in Summerpoint for a while, and his room was dull and nothing special. He'd seek shelter in another area. The city couldn't be that crowded.

The elf poured himself one last glass of the alcohol, downing it and slamming the glass on the table, before stepping outside of the residence. The commotion from downstairs told Arent that there were unintelligent folk attempting to book a room. How pathetically stupid. He walked down the mahogany steps, past the desk of the inn, and exited into the open. As he had done this, the elf spotted the clerk at the desk, frantically trying to tell the impatient people that there was no room available. He gave a slight smile at the pro of getting to the city early; not having to sleep in a tent.

Aswad took in a deep breath as he stepped off the Summerwind. Ah, Summerport. It stunk, as all cities did, but it was a wonderful stink after so many months at sea on His Perfection's business. It felt good to feel solid ground under his feet again. The privateer swaggered forward through the crowd, his hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed scimitar. Just the sight of the fearsome sword would probably be enough to keep any miscreants at bay, though it was unlikely enough in this sea of people. There were many that had come to attend the celebration, and among them were elves and Ceruleans. You could never be too careful when with their ilk.

The captain cast a glance over his shoulder at his crew as they stumbled off the ship and onto the dock, loud and obnoxious. Half were already drunk from their own celebration on the way there. Soon they'd be getting in fights and bedding as many tavern wenches as they could before they were sent out to sea again. That might prove to be a problem, but he supposed that if any of them ended up bleeding in an alley, he could always hire more. Aswad usually came out with new recruits whenever he docked in a port, and with so many here for the festival of the patron of warriors... it would be no trouble.

"Jabari, Khafra." he barked, signalling to two Redlander men stumbling along the pier with drinks in hand, singing an old sailing hymn. His voice was flavored with the accent of Sandreach, which lacked the Mistrali influence of the port cities. "You will come with me, friends. We shall seek out a tavern with a brothel nearby for the brave sailors of the Summerwind, yes? These camps are most unsightly."

His words prompted a cheer from the crew within earshot and some dirty looks from said camp-dwellers, but neither of the drunk sailors seemed to notice as they hurried towards their captain and still bawdily singing their hymn of leviathans and glory of long dead pirates. Aswad pushed through the crowd, just focusing on getting within the city limits unscathed.

Arent

"Pfft," scoffed a Redlander in the armor of the Summerport city guard. He walked, one hand lazily on the hilt of his sword, and bumped into Arent as he left his inn. "Watch where you're going, snow elven scum." He grimaced at the tall elf from behind the scarf on his head, as if he were going to start causing trouble with some weird snow elf magic. He wasn't technically allowed to bully others like this, but pretty much everywhere in Fourstone was filled with people abusing their power.

You see, the Redlanders didn't like elves -- ever since the Elven Wars four hundred years ago, when the elves attempted to take over the human lands and enslave the weaker race. The snow elves attacked the Frostians, the tree elves the Mistriali, the sea elves the Ceruleans and the Redlanders -- it was a bloody conflict that lasted years, but the humans banded together as the elves had done and managed to win. Geography played a major part in this; the countries with strongest military were close to each other and they were able to organize against elves that lived months away from one another. During these wars, though, snow elves managed to make a bad name for magic, using powerful necromancy and sorcery -- the former of which was banned in each country by the new, more powerful human governments.

There were more elves in Summerport than usual -- and despite its reputation as a cosmopolitan city, its natives were not immune to prejudices. "We aren't going to have a problem, are we?" he asked.

Aswad

Nerussa had slipped out of the carriage that had been taking her without a word to the merchants. They had their gold; they wouldn't miss her. She made her way to the docks; her kind of people often spent their time on the seas. Or at least hanging around the docks -- the shacks and merchant stalls that lined the waterfront were often less than reputable. Some of them were even fronts for black market activity, and the few unfortunate enough to live outside the city limits were exclusively poor . . . mostly drunks and beggars.

The man she targeted now was a sailor, leading an entire (drunken) crew towards the city. She noticed they didn't head straight for the whorehouses and taverns that lined the docks, like many less reputable seamen. No, he walked for the city, which told her he didn't want just anywhere to dump his men. The Den of Shadows owned several wealthier brothels (as well as some seedy ones) within the city. She certainly had to direct them there. And maybe pick a pocket or two.

"Did I hear you say brothel, milord?" she asked him coyly, as she approached. She wasn't dressed as skimpily as most working girls, but the leather armor she wore was sliced in the front and replaced by a tattered shirt to display her chest -- a sure sign that she wasn't a priestess. While she wasn't a lady of the evening anymore, she still worked with them. . and distraction was her favorite weapon, along with illusion and stealth. "Certainly a man of your station," she said -- he wore more than rags, had a nice weapon, and a ship that wasn't in various states of disrepair. . . she could only assume someone was funding him, or he himself was wealthy. Whether it was on plunder, or from the Seafarer's Guild (though, she saw no indication that any of these men were affiliated with it), it didn't matter. "Would much prefer a luxury pleasure house." She smiled at him, eyes wide and deceptive. If he had coin at all, he could afford to buy out some rooms from any old inn. She'd just have to lead him to one of the Den's.

Strong, nimble hands weaved though red hairs, splitting it into three parts, then carefully twisting them into a tight braid. Grey eyes stared back at each other through a rusted mirror that she had brought along in her travels. The woman got to her feet and took a look around at her tent, It was simple. Complete with a rough cot, and a chest to put her personal belongings. The key was stored safely under her armor. She knew very well that there would be thieves here, and did her best to keep her belongings safe.

Seeing that everything was put away, Aeta exited the tent, only giving the wood dummy she had used for axe practice earlier a glance as she passed by. The chattering of the contestants was like a roar of a mighty dragon. It was loud, and almost nothing could drown it out. Putting a quick burst of speed in her step, Aeta made her way towards the center of the city, having nothing better to do then take a leisurely stroll down the bustling city. Well, as leisurely as such a crowd could get.

Aeta continued to shove her way forward, not having much trouble making her way through the crowd. Her red hair and axe was enough to draw attention to herself. People would usually step out of her way, and if they didn't they would get a push as she shoved her way though the people. The redhead had time to spare, but... how shall she spend it?

Arent blinked at the Redlander, rather calmly following the name calling that had been directed at him. He was too tired for this sh.it; these humans were not worth his time. Nodding at the man that was talking to him without saying a word, the elf simply walked past him and nudged his way through the crowd of people that had been outside of his inn. Redlanders were just as much of assholes as he had expected from the stories. Hot and cold never mixed too well anyhow. He suddenly missed the bottle that he had kept up in his room, but he was already feeling the buzz of the alcohol in his head. He didn't want to exactly get drunk, or he may end up in a place he'd regret; this including the brothels or even worse, the tournament.

Vials, containing different things, clattered on a desk as a dagger was slammed into it, and steadily pulled from it. A Redlander women paced in the rather nice room, one hand on her chin, and the ohter holding the dagger. Each pass by the small wooden table left another mark in the nice wood. She paused in what seemed to be a great thought only to be replaced by more pacing.

Earlier in the week Mert arrived in the city she immediately booked a room in one of the wealthier Inns. Once she had done that, she started the observations on her target, or as she liked to call, deader. Once she got used to his schedule of work, and times of other activities, she was able to slip in and place the poison where she wanted it. Over the course of the next several days she would slip out every night and place another dose of poison.

The reason for the pacing was, she was careless with the time she placed the poison. She should have started the poisoning earlier, now she was stuck with a deader that would drop in the middle of a competition. That would surely cause some trouble seeing how he was a well known noble. Ah how much of an issue that would be..

Aswad stopped in his tracks as the woman's voice called above the din towards him. He turned and raised an eyebrow, intrigued. His crewmen behind him, on the other hand, seemed more interested in her chest than her words. "A pleasure house, you say?" he repeated, bringing a hand up to stroke his beard. A wealthier establishment could be best... better than his men getting robbed or stabbed in a seedier part of the city. Yet how much would they charge for each man? The captain had plenty of gold to spare, aye, but it was not infinite. He wouldn't go around throwing it all away on high class whores when most of the crew could probably sate themselves with cheaper girls. If he could bargain down the price, however, perhaps it would be worth pursuing...

"Perhaps I might." Aswad said contemplatively, thoughtfully stroking his beard. "It is what my crew deserves, after such a long and dangerous time at sea. Yet there are many, and gold does not grow on trees... Alas, perhaps some brothel is what we will have to settle with."

"I absolutely demand that you give me a room right this instant!" A rather young and fairly pretty sea elf had shouted in the middle of one of the pricier inns in the middle of the city although her face was twisted in anger. How dare this inn keeper not give her a room? She had all the money that he wanted, and yet, he would not budge. "I swear. This is blasphemous!" She slammed her fist down onto the desk of the inn keeper. "Do you know how fast I could ruin this place? You don't even want to know the connections that I have!"

Even though Pelinel had entered the city quite a bit ago, and definitely early enough to get a nice room, she had waited until the absolute last minute to try to get said room. A few days ago she had been stuck with settling for a lesser room from one of the rather gross inns further from the middle of all of the hustle and bustle of the tournament just around the corner. But, the young elf did not give up. She was determined to get a better room, but this was her last resort. She had been everywhere else and actually kicked out of some of the inns. She really did not want to stay in that disgusting place for one more night. She deserved much better.

Aeta

Aeta was right in assuming that she would be noticed; most members of the crowd had some kind of weapon concealed or shown, ranging from daggers to shortswords to the more obvious warriors, who had weapons like Aeta's. Most of them were peasants or lower class, and they couldn't afford guards or their own weapons (or training in the weapon, for that matter); it wasn't like in the towns and smaller cities of the Redlands, where most citizens learned how to wield a weapon for hunting and defending their family. Here, there were guards for protection and merchants for meat.  

Many of the visitors, of which there were many, did come with weapons and skills, however. An exceptionally Frostian man with a bushy brown beard walked near Aeta, a war axe hanging from both of his hips. "Ah, just what I like to see," he winked at Aeta as they walked in the crowd. His accent was thick; it was clear he was native to Frost. "A pretty Frostian lass with a big axe!" He laughed. He wore iron armor that was dented in some places.

"Brother, leave the girl alone," said a woman from behind him with an equally thick accent. She was much shorter than her brother, and on her back was a well-made but rustic bow; on her hip was a quiver of arrows. "I'm sorry, kinswoman. Hrundi can't help himself." She said. Her hair was blond and similarly braided as Aeta's.

Arent

"Don't mind them," said a gravelly voice, leaning against the wall of the inn Arent was staying in. "They're small and scared." The man was silver-eyed and silver-haired -- he looked strangely ghostlike, since his skin was pale as any snow elf's. His light armor was a much darker gray, and besides his gauntlets, it exposed his arms; the cloak that covered his head was black. He grinned at Arent, a somewhat arrogant gesture; but the snow elves weren't know for their humility.

"Well, my Silvershrine brother. . . even during the celebration, it's rare to see another snow elf in the Redlands." He arched a brow. In his hand was a bottle of ale. He took another sip. He was right about that -- of all the people that came, the snow elves were the least likely. Not only were they reclusive, but they weren't generally as opportunistic as their sea elven cousins. . . most of them wouldn't care for a celebration of a human god or enter a tournament where their beloved magic wasn't allowed. "We don't much like the heat. And they don't much like the cold." He cocked his head at Arent. "What brings you here? The tournament? I hope you're not thinking of competing. No one's going to cheer for you." He winked.

Mert

Ser Chatha was a nobleman, son of a lord of the Red Emperor's court. He was a fourth son, truth be told, but wealthy and powerful nonetheless. He was a paladin, a knight, for the Church -- as a younger son of a noble, he didn't have much else. His eldest brother married another noble's daughter, and the other two were married off; one to a noblewoman from Leville, and another to a younger girl from Sandreach. He was a horrible knight, however; always drinking and whoring and cursing, ignoring the tenets that he vowed to uphold. Someone wanted him dead, and the Order of the Black always complied with fervor.

He didn't know he had been poisoned that day, and he hadn't a clue that someone had been tailing him -- a stealthy someone who was sent to kill him. She was tasked with making it look like he had died in his sleep . . . sometimes contracts wanted daggers to the heart or arrows to the knee chest, but more often than not they wanted it quiet. Especially with targets like Ser Chatha.

He was going to compete in the Duels at the tournament the next day. The poison wasn't a quick acting one -- when they died immediately after you spiked their drink with skorp poison, it was hard to convince anyone it was an accident.

This wasn't good. Not for Mert.

Aswad

Hmph. So he wasn't a wealthy pirate or a Seafarer Captain -- oh well. He had to be willing to spend some coin; it was rare to find a captain that couldn't rub two coins together, and this one had more than that -- she could tell. And what he didn't spend could always be. . subtly taken, when his men were drunk on ale and lust.

Her expression didn't waver. Nerussa merely blinked at him. "Oh, now, milord. . . I didn't think you were the type of man to settle," she said. She had learned enough of her magical craft that she could change a mind, ease it into an idea in mere moments. She merely had to focus a bit. A pleasure house . . . yes, it sounds quite nice. . . after such a long journey. . . She didn't know his level of willpower, and those with great control could resist her illusion magic -- she wasn't formally trained and was still working on developing her skills. But sometimes that was enough. "Well, I suppose you could dive into some . . . less than accommodating whorehouse. If you'd like comfort along with pleasure. . . my offer still stands." She pulled her gray hood up and began to turn away from him.

Pelinel

"Listen, girl," said the Mistriali man behind the counter. He was quite nervous that she was disturbing his other customers, but he didn't vocalize this concern. "Look, if you want to stay here, show me your coin and I'll . . . vacate a room." He whispered, somewhat offhandedly. "We're full, and we aren't a tavern -- we only serve guests. So, for the love of Alma, get out! I will call the guards." He said. He fixed her with a stare, but his small green eyes weren't exactly terrifying; nor was his stocky stature or weasel-like face.

"There must be a tavern or two with some rooms still open in the lower parts of the city," said the pretty, brown-eyed serving girl (who would tell anyone that she was not a tavern wench!) from behind Pelinel.

"I don't care where she goes," hissed the innkeeper. The girl lowered her head and walked away, back towards the customers that were actually staying at the inn. He glared up at Pelinel once more. "Go bother some other innkeeper."

Arent blinked at the elf. He was of the same blood, sure, but this didn't automatically acquaint them.
"I'm not. I came here to escape the norm for a little bit. Silly me." he told his fellow elf in a low voice. He eyed the ale, aware that he wasn't the only snow elf in the city that didn't want to drown out the Redlanders with alcohol. The difference between he and the stranger, however, was that he didn't bring his bottle. Perhaps he should retreat to his room once more, for his goal of this walk wasn't very clear to even himself. Nevertheless, he didn't move through the crowd, staying by his blood brother silently and watching the crowd anxiously shuffle by.

Evita finally understood why snow elves never left Silvershrine. It's because nearly anywhere else was impossibly hot, and the majority of the people were impossibly rude to her. Not that she could complain - she hadn't attempted to make friends since she had arrived, preferring the company of herself. And oh, perhaps Arent as well, albeit his poor mood.(Though her's hadn't been very peachy either.)
Despite this, she went down to the pub, leaving the comfort of her room to find her friend. She walked into hearing range just as the city guard ask his annoyingly condescending question. She frowned, her annoyance spiking. The snow elf bit her tongue and walked away, suddenly in the mood for ale.

"Well I don't know what you expected, Arent. We aren't exactly welcome." The young elf piped in, taking a seat near the snow elves while taking a sip from her mug, her eyes shifting towards the Redland guard.

OOC;; I'll fix stuff when I get on a computer. Role playing is weird after so long. ;w;

Sitting in the shadows of an inn (the one that Pelinel just happened to be in) was Eamane. The Snow Elf watched as crowds of people walked by, a frown on her face. The laughing, the joy of the tournament...She hated it. Eamane had never been much of a people person; in fact her race had trouble understanding ways that weren't theirs. The only thing she currently enjoyed was the sound of yelling coming from inside the inn behind her. She had no idea what was going on, but it sounded like somebody was trying to get a room.

The Snow Elf chuckled as she gripped her silver staff, turning her head to try to peer into the inn. Eamane had her own room, having been staying in the town before everybody had started to gather for the yearly tournament. In fact, most of the joy she had been finding lately was listening to people demand for rooms. It seemed like a rule for Necomancers to never get any enjoymeant out of things unless it involved the suffering of others; and that was a rule that stuck with Eamane.

Hm, yes, Necromancy; the forbidden art. Not many followed such a path, so Eamane prided herself on that. Sure it had gotten her kicked - or to be more exact chased - out of many towns, she cared not much about it. She would keep up her work until it got her killed, which sadly, she knew might really happen. Of course, until everything died down in the city, she would just be stuck listening to people demand for rooms. Ah, the joy of the simple things in life.

Growing up a large town where many people traveled to, the redhead had become a connoisseur of accents and new most of the popular ones. Because of that, she knew exactly where the person came from once he had spoken. Now, Aeta was known in her family for being the most likely to speak her mind. And she usually would, if she were around her family. Other wise, she has to go against her instincts and bite back any sarcastic comments that want to flow out of her mouth.Her grey eyes flickered towards the two siblings. Aeta smiled a bit and let out a small chuckle. "I don't mind. I suppose I should take that as a compliment."

Aswad felt a strange pang of regret as the woman began to turn away, but didn't let himself be swayed by the idea. A pity, but he was too frugal to be tempted. Most of the crew would be happy with just about anyone, anyways. They were sailors, and sex-starved. Chances were that they could settle with any random wench they lay their eyes on.

His men, however, were considerably less obstinate.

Khafra stumbled forward and flagged for the woman to stop, muttering some urgent words for her to stay while they tried to change his mind. Fools. Aswad stopped, turning as he felt Jabari's hand grip his arm tightly. "Captain!" Jabari hissed in a hushed tone. "You cannot mean to let this opportunity escape us! None of us have touched a woman in months, and who knows how long we shall be out to sea again?! Surely we have enough gold to spare..."

The captain only cracked a crooked smile as he tore himself away from Jabari's grip and walked out of earshot from the elf and towards the docks, dragging the sailor behind him. "You shall have your whores, friend, just not from her. Sing the song you were singing before and you might end up with a serving girl from the tavern as well."

Jabari only frowned at that, clearly dissatisfied. "That's not the same, milord. You heard what she said, 'a luxury pleasure house.' It would be nice after such a long journey. The men would be grateful. The Emperor will be giving us another payload soon anyways, and after that merchant ship--"

Aswad laughed. "She is an elf, Jabari. First she'll bleed you of your gold, then she'll be talking you out of your clothes." He cast a glance behind up and behind him, at the Red Palace. The man was right. They would come away with some of His Perfection's gold for their services, and if they did well in the tournament, they could easily afford to pay a visit to any brothel in the city, no matter how costly. He still wasn't quite fond of the idea spending it on women when he could be spending it on new steel, but...

A pleasure house would be nice after our long journey... Higher class whores doubly so. They weren't only more beautiful in such establishments, but also more skilled. Aswad felt himself warming up to the idea.

"I wouldn't mind her taking off my clothes, captain." Jabari quipped.

"You would if she were peeling them off your dead body."

"Ha!" Jabari laughed, a little too loudly. "What harm could some woman do to us?" His hand fell to his dagger, as if a prostitute were about to attack him right there on the street. "We have more than enough, captain! Let us just go already, or else Khafra will have wasted his breath and all his best lines." Aswad looked over to see that the sailor was drunkenly talking the woman up, he seemed, calling her a Queen of Beauty or something equally as embarrassing. I ought to have tossed all the ale overboard.

"Bah! Fine, so be it. Tell the men we've found our brothel. I will send Khafra back to you to lead you there, assuming the elf doesn't chop off his cock once we arrive." Aswad muttered in irritation, starting back towards the woman and Khafra with a frown. Some would have to stay on the ship, but he would make sure to send some girls to them. Elsewise they'd take off and maroon the rest of us. Gods damn you to hell, Jabari.