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 Korrin Youngblood, Halfling Sorcerer I struggle for wakefulness, my thoughts rattling in my brain like pebbles in a glass jar. The only one I can make out clearly is "always this sort of thing with you, isn't it?" Can't remember. Can't remember anything. But somehow I feel... resigned. Maybe it really is always this sort of thing with me... quote:Name: Korrin Youngblood Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 02:28 on Jul 15, 2016 |
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Jul 11, 2016 05:47
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| # ¿ Apr 28, 2024 19:21 |
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 Korrin Youngblood Korrin hardly has a build likely to alarm the guards -- tall for his kind, but wiry to the point of scrawniness -- and he does little else to draw their notice, as if he had an unconscious ability to look unassuming. He stretches his arms and cracks his neck, trying to shake the feeling that he's been bound for years. (Maybe he has been? At this point... well, who knows.) He accepts the water with an expression of pathetic gratitude, and he sips slowly as he tries to collect his thoughts. It takes a while. They're very resistant to being collected, it seems, and even the water isn't helping much. His head feels empty. He closes his eyes for a moment, desperate for any echo, and then at last he speaks. "... I remember a marketplace, somewhere crowded, but pleasantly so, if that makes sense? Everyone busy and happy, everyone about their errands. It was a comfortable place. I was running my own errands..." No, says the echo in his head, you were running one specific errand, weren't you? You can feel it, can't you? The earnestness. The desperation. "There was something I was trying to buy? Trying to find? I can't quite remember, but I remember it was important. Maybe more than important." The last faint trace of relief in the halfling's face fades, even as he takes a last long draw from his cup. "Can't imagine it matters much now, though. Even if I found it, it's not here now, is it? ... Heh." The laugh is hollow and reflexive-sounding, more like he's trying to convince himself he told a joke than that he could possibly be trying to win over his silent audience.
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Jul 12, 2016 04:24
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Korrin Youngblood "... Korrin," says the previously silent halfling, who's spent much of the day in contemplation, when he hasn't been trying to manage something more decent from his rags. By the looks of it, he fits Sip's estimate of someone who probably couldn't hem his own trousers. He's tied the piece of leather that once served as a gag around his right wrist, and his left hand idly fiddles with it as he speaks. He's got another name besides Korrin, he knows. But... he doesn't feel much like thinking about blood right now. The blood ran black. It oozed from everywhere in the ruins of the village, as if the ground itself had ripped open an old, festering wound. Everyone and everything there had been dead for days, but somehow they still bled, from bodies so twisted and discolored from poison that their race was impossible to tell. The villagers' bodies were human-sized, and the large four-legged things things might have been heavy horses or scrawny cows; with the bloating and rictus, who could say? Human(?) and animal alike, their flesh was melting down into the black, thick blood that flowed into rivulets and pooled in the low places of the earth. The ground beneath was cracked and torn, as if from drought and storm at once, and the wooden huts of the village had been splintered and burnt; the poison had killed most of the village, but not all of it. A terrible storm, an eruption of force, elemental magic ripped free and devouring whatever it touched -- You did this, Korrin, was all he could think. You did this. "Fine work," boomed Magar, striding towards him. In the dirty wreckage of blood and ash, his gleaming armor seemed even more brilliant. "I didn't think you had it in you. Now you are a true Visirian." Beyond him, Korrin could just make out a patrol of soldiers returning with shovels and torches. They'd bury what the earth would accept and burn the rest, he supposed. Perhaps that was for the best. In Magar's hands was the horn, and the blood inside it was dark, clean red. Korrin realized how hungry he was. He wanted to vomit, more than anything, but -- he drank. "... You were all saying something about Magar. The color of his armor? It's funny; it was a sort of grey-blue when I saw it. Like a cloudy sky, but... with just a touch of gold? Like the dawn. And as for the rest of it? I don't know. But I'd like to keep living, at least... a while longer. I'm not sure why, but you don't need a reason to keep living, do you?"
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Jul 13, 2016 05:30
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Korrin Youngblood Korrin searches the storeroom for anything that looked even slightly familiar, and what he finds is a small and inconspicuous pile in the corner, nothing like the hefty collections of armor and weapons that greet his fellow prisoners-survivors-comrades. (If "comrades" is the right word. The other two are obvious enough.) On top is a belt of bristly-haired animal hide -- a cow, or some kind of hair sheep? -- which bears a large satchel and a pair of scabbards. Korrin picks up the belt; there's a rattle from the satchel, and he opens it to find a pair of rough, steel-colored stones on a bed of phosphorescent moss. He can't quite place their significance, but somehow he can remember their weight in his hand, how they felt when he rubbed them against each other. Are these a tool? There's more in the satchel, under the moss, but Korrin decides that it can wait. Two leather-wrapped bone hilts protrude from the scabbards, and he withdraws one to find only what he expects: a blade honed from what, from the looks of it, was once some great beast's tooth. The knife is notched and scarred from use, gouged bone discolored from blood, but the edge remains keen. The other can only be its mate, but Korrin has seen enough. No need to see if the bloodstains matched. The pack nearby is comfortingly clean, with hempen rope and a bedroll of cloth and thick fur. Korrin is just working up a faint hope that there might be clothing inside when he notices the lizardskin-wrapped bundle just underneath the pack. Is that a bone fastener on the edge of the skin? He unwraps the bundle, confirming that the skin was something like a cloak... and then he notices what it had concealed. The device is crafted from a hawk skeleton, posed as if in flight with bony wings outstretched. The skeleton had been fixed and reinforced with some shiny green material -- insect chitin? -- and a thin, sinewy cord is strung between the wingtips. A raised, indented platform of chitin is molded to the hawk's back, and in its open ribcage, glossy black quarrels of thorny chitin are neatly bundled. Korrin picks it up, already remembering -- (It's easy, really. You slide a quarrel in the back indentation, so its end notch is against the cord. The chitinous "tail" is the cocking lever. Hidden mechanics of bone, ingenious --) "Oh." Going with a crossbow and bolts, component pouch, two daggers, and explorer's pack. The lizardskin cloak is just flavor, if that's okay. Will update sheet later tonight when I'm not phoneposting. Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 23:38 on Jul 14, 2016 |
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Jul 14, 2016 22:37
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Korrin Youngblood On the woman's command, Korrin moves quickly to obey, with the reflexive ease of someone who has fled for his life before and will likely flee again. The bone-and chitin crossbow is thrust into his pack, and he hurriedly fastens his belt around his waist before throwing the lizardskin cloak over the belt and his rags; it's ankle-length and ragged, as if it was hastily cut to length. The bone fastener is oddly slick, worn smooth by age and use, but he manages to fumble it closed and shoulder his pack before following the woman. He looks the part of a ragged traveler, strangely dressed and heavily burdened but unarmed and, perhaps, harmless enough. Korrin knows he is not harmless, but perhaps he can pretend. He ascends into the carnage, and for a single brief moment, he pauses. All he knows of himself is that he's done dreadful things, that he carries bloody knives, that he's some sort of plague-bearer. Would death bring absolution? Could he just stand here and be claimed, and if he did, would this all end? It's only a moment's pause, though; his instincts still run strong, and he remembers his words to his fellows. Despite it all, he wants to live, and so he runs. While he's tall for a halfling, Korrin still doesn't have the stride to keep up easily with the group, but raw endurance and nerve keeps him in mid-pack, and he hopes that he's concealed among his taller fellows -- for all the good that might do if the raiders catch up. What, will they not notice him then? But one needs threadbare hopes, after all, especially when it keeps one from thinking more clearly about things. Don't think, he tells himself. Run. Eyes ahead and nowhere else. At the tiefling's words, though, Korrin manages to break his forward gaze and regard Jacques. "Always assume they're one step behind, and no farther," he replies. "I think we've got more room than that in reality, but... never assume safety, not at a time like this."
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Jul 15, 2016 06:30
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| # ¿ Apr 28, 2024 19:21 |
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Congrats to those accepted! I plan to keep hanging around in Discord and watching the game
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Jul 16, 2016 00:37
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