| |
Darkseeker
|
✦✧✦✧ Sorren Warwick ✦✧✦✧ Ren, Sor, Candlewick. Age: 27 Gender: Male Species: Half demon Magic: Yes but limited due to his hybrid genetics. His magic is mostly restricted to fire-based spells, both offensive and defensive in nature. Occassionally he feels the pull of a darker magic that is beckoning him closer like an old lover. Appearance: Sorren is a tall man, he stands at 7'1", towering over the humans of his home village. His skin is a soft lavender purple colour, on his shoulders and at the nape of his neck are scales, accompanying these are a cluster at the base of his tail and his wrists. These scales match the hue of the curling horns that grace the sides of his head. Like an altered rams horns, they curl down from the sides of his hairline, pushing the hair back, the horns starting on his forehead. As they reach the end of his ears with their curl, they begin to level out and point forward and up, beside his eyes, they extend out into sharp points beside his temple. They stick ~10cm out from his forehead at these points. The scales and horns are a deeper lavender purple, tinged with darker purple towards the tips of the horns. His ears peek out behind the horns, pointed in shape. His tail is a matching lavender, long and scaled, it sweeps behind him. It reaches approximately 3.5 foot, brushing the ground with it's fur tufted tip. The plume of fur at the end is black, fluffy and soft. This fur envelops the last 30cm of his tail. Sorren's eyes are a bright yellow, they glow out from his darker skin, even his sclera are yellow, albiet slightly paler in colour. Arching above his eyes are thick black eyebrows, in the left is a nick that cuts through the tail of the hair, balding that spot. His eyes are slightly uplifted towards the corners, the skin surrounding his eyes is a slightly lighter colour than the rest of his skin. Upon his head is silky black hair that is slicked back behind his horns, it's the same soft hair as his tail, reaching just below his jawline. His hands are almost human looking, except they're angular and tipped with short claws. His feet are similar, expect he only has three toes, elongated so he can balance on the pads. His feet have light pink pads on the bottom like a cat's, one central one on the ball of his feet and one on each toe. His ankles are long, like an animals, point backwards. His upper teeth have two canines on each side and on his lower jaw there is one pointed canine, slightly longer than the upper ones on each side. Wrapped around his muscular neck is a black mark. From the front it appears to be a snake's body with fine scales. As it wraps around to the back of his neck, the head of the snake is consuming itself. Typically, Sorren wears a white dress shirt, laced up with black ribbon at the front, left open. Across this a tight corseted vest made from paisley black silk, laced in the same black ribbon. Along with this, simple black linen pants that balloon out slightly from where they are tucked into his scuffed black boots that reach up his calves. If weather takes a turn, he sports a thick deep red tail-coat. His horns are decked in chains and cuffs of gold, items that he won in tavern betting sessions during his travels. He is a sucker for a pretty piece of jewelry. His ears are similarly bejewelled with gold and gemstones, as are his fingers. A special piece hangs from his neck, a golden chain upon which a singular pendent is secured, a small vial filled with what appears to be blood, kept forever in a liquid state by the small amount of magic that emitts out from it. Personality: Ingenious | Silver-tongued | Intelligent | Well-spoken | Socialite | Confident | Self-assured | Envious | Jealous | Daring | Extroverted | Vengeful | Decisive | Unforgiving Sorren is a ladies man. He is a charmer and he has won himself many a bet in the bars and taverns of the Known Earth. "I bet you 10 gold you can't take home that fae girl." "20 silver you can't get those girls to come to our table." His drinking friends quickly learned not to underestimate the strange tall man's ability to charm others. He doesn't always use these skills to court others, he is often found trying to haggle down prices of anything - even rent for a room. And it works, every time. In his younger years, he was teasted for his freakish height and unnatural skin. His father owned a farmstead in a country town filled with humans. He was the only "other" in the village and so was outcast. That was until he grew, and grew until he towered over the other children than used to tease him. Once they realised he was able to crush them in a fight, they cowered and went silent when Sorren walked by. Sorren could find no solice in friends, the only person who treated him with respect and love was his father. He moved to the city after hearing tales of acceptance of stranger races, been as there was far more diversity in the streets. What a mistake that was. Now he had to become a charlatan in order to survive, he charms the nobles and socialites during the day donning his illustrious clothing and jewels, yet slinks around in the night to grab what ever he can pawn off. He has had some run ins with local guards and watch dogs, but none that he wasn't able to get away from, usually his charming talk was enough but for some of the more intelligent guards, he had to resort to becoming the monster that those children in his home town believed he was. Strengths/Weaknesses: ⨁ Agile; He is an acrobat, he can fly from rooftop to rooftop with a grace almost unparalled. His long legs are strong and stable, he always lands on his feet. ⨁ Strength; Sorren's strength comes from his sheer size. His muscle is mostly lean and earned from his demon genetics rather than hard work. ⨁ Silver tongue; Sorren is a charmer, he could talk his way out of (or into) any situation, using his charms and handsome face he's certainly a force to be reckoned with. ⨂ Lack of Seriousness; Sorren has never been the type of man to take anything seriously. The only thing he does take seriously is finding his mother. Everything else is a game for him to win. People, gambling, this quest - it's all a game with no consequences to him. ⨂ Fear of water; He hates open water. Lakes, rivers, oceans. Anything lager than a bath or a puddle, it puts Sorren on edge. He can't use his arcane fire in water, he feels powerless in water. His legs aren't structurally build to swim well and his size makes it very difficult for him to stay afloat. ⨂ Harsh; He will say things as it is. No sugar-coating. If he thinks someone is being stupid or not thinking with their brain, he will tell them straight. It has earned him many a bar fight in his life. Brief Background + Family: Crescenda - mother, her last name is unknown to him as his father did not know it either. Only that Sorren was left on his doorstep one night with a note from Crescenda. Charlie Warwick - father, Sorren's human parent. The only parent he has ever known. Sorren knows he will outlive his father by decades, maybe even centuries, but he tries not to think about this. ~ ~ ~ ⋆˚✿˖° Clove Curio ⋆˚✿˖° Age 24 Gender Female Species Shifter human Appearance Clove stands at 5'5" with a lithe build, light muscles run along her arms and legs, enough to fend for herself if the situation arose. Covering these muscles is pale, milky white skin with light freckles that dot across the bridge of her nose and up her forehead. Adorning the top of her head is a mane of dark brown hair that falls down in waves. The front pieces are cut shorter than the rest, giving a curtained bangs appearance. The full length of her hair reaches down to the small of her back, it is usually tied up in heavily ornate styles. Her favourite is a pony tail with braided pieces decorated with small rings of iron to ward off nefarious magic. Her eyes are wide and doe-like, a bright ocean hue with rings of grey encircling her pupil. Her back is marred greatly, magical scarring that she cannot remove or heal. Upon the scarring that runs from shoulder to shoulder is a black mark. The largest mark is running down her spine, a sharp dagger angled down towards the ground, three pairs of similar but gradually shorter daggers are on either side until it reaches the peak of her shoulders. Her eyes are normally painted with a dark makeup lining the lids. Matching the darkness of her face, she wears a short cloak of deep grey with a heavy hood that is usually hooked up over her head. Personality | Forthright | Genuine | Firm | Restrained | Cynical | Fiery | Reactive | Growing up in the streets of the city, Clove is certainly capable of holding her own. When she was a child, she spent her time mastering thievery to gather enough funds to get herself and her younger brother out of the corrupt city. This fell through and ended in her brother dying in her arms, all hope of leaving this forsaken city was abandoned the day he died. Clove resigned herself to the life of a thief, a menace to richer citizens. Drinking her extra coins in the evening and huddling up where-ever she could to sleep before repeating it again the next day. She recently took up a vacant position in a seedier tavern within the less than safe part of the city, she has a fairly good singing voice and it's a good thing she does. When Clove is available, she heads down there to entertain to earn extra cash, but the work is never reliable. She still holds her firm personality, a truth speaker with a temper, albiet now tamed with the death of her brother. The mark on her back is the reason her brother lies rotting in the soil of the poorest cemetery of the city. She hates it, she tried carving it from her skin but it re-manifested on the scarred skin every time. The skin is now thickened and if she tried to over-extend her body she can feel the tight pull of the scar tissue - a constant reminder. Not only visually but she can feel the tight pull her bond every day. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Name Oleander Aquila Scarduzio Nicknames Olly, Andie, Scar Species Half-elf Age 26 Gender Male - he/him Sexuality Bisexual Occupation Royal guard Appearance In terms of his appearance, Oleander isn't the most intimidating man. He only stands at about 5'7 and has a wiry, lean body type, especially when compared to many of his fellow, more muscular guards. His skin is an even, rich tan with deep red undertones. Oleander's features are extremely sharp, almost lupine in appearance. He has a very angular face shape with a sharp jawline and square chin. His nose is straight and pointed, and his already-thin lips are often pressed into a severe line. His brows and lashes, however, are much softer than the rest of his face; his lashes are thick and dark, while his brows are feathery and small. His eyes are chestnut brown in color and round, giving him a perpetually wide-eyed expression. Oleander's facial hair tends to grow fairly quickly, so he's usually sporting a thin layer of stubble unless he's just shaved. Oleander's ink-black, shoulder-length hair is remarkably thick and glossy. He typically pulls it back into a low ponytail or bun to keep the strands out of his face, but can be persuaded to wear it down for more formal occasions. Oleander is required to wear his guard's uniform at almost all times. When he's off, he tends to stick to button-up shirts and loose pants. He rarely puts much thought into his attire, but he does have a set of rings given to him by his mother that he always wears when he's not forced to comply with a dress code. Personality During his time as a guard, Oleander has adopted a gruff, blunt persona that ultimately bled into his personal life and actual personality. He's doing his best to figure out who he is without his responsibility as a guard, but he's stuck in a bit of an identity crisis. He can often still come off as short-tempered and harsh; he has an extremely difficult time differentiating between his fabricated persona and his actual demeanor. Oleander is naturally quite kind, even if he doesn't truly believe it himself. Even as a guard, he despised the idea of actually being forced to harm someone. He has a soft spot for animals and children in particular and treats them with the utmost gentleness. He's also incredibly loyal; once someone earns his trust, he'll follow them to the ends of the earth and can be extremely protective over them. Oleander was raised in poverty on the outskirts of the realm. He left home as a young teen to look for work within [kingdom] and was ultimately recruited as a royal guard. He isn't sure what became of his parents, but he feels too guilty to return home, even after his removal from the guard. Strengths · Combat prowess, especially hand-to-hand · Plant and animal identification · Strength and stamina · Gifted with animals · Naturally good with children · Extremely alert and aware Weaknesses · Short-tempered · Can be unfriendly · Holds a grudge · Somewhat antisocial · Reckless · Fear of deep water Likes · Animals, especially dogs and horses · Being outdoors · Tea · Sketching · Reading and writing Dislikes · Clutter or messiness · Using his own (limited) magical abilities · Any discussion about his childhood or past · Complete darkness Kin Ezra Scarduzio - human father. Whereabouts unknown. Aiglentine Anthony - elf mother. Whereabouts unknown. ········· Name Maren Vella Scott Gender Female - she/her Age 24 Sexuality Pansexual Occupation Assassin Kingdom Gelum Appearance Maren is a fairly unremarkable-looking individual. She stands at an average 5'4 with a slender, lanky body type. Her skin is quite pale; she has only the faintest hint of a tan, as she tends to burn in the sun instead. Maren's hair is a deep brown color, and quiet silky and soft. It is about shoulder-length, though she usually styles it in a simple braid to keep it out of her face. She rarely brushes or pays much attention to it, but it miraculously maintains its silky, smooth texture. Maren's facial features are very soft and feminine. She has plump lips and a button nose, and her soft jaw and chin only add to the round appearance of her face. Her cheeks have not yet lost their youthful plumpness, lending her a significantly younger appearance. Maren tends not to care much about her attire. She usually selects leather tunics and trousers in black or other dark shades, for ease of movement and protection against some attacks. When required to go undercover, she prefers unremarkable, shapeless dresses in gray or other drab colors. Maren's mark is in the shape of a black handprint. It is located on her lower stomach. Personality Maren is a very quiet individual. She tends to keep to herself, even around those she knows well. She rarely voices her thoughts out loud, preferring to keep them in her mind instead. She is not particularly shy, but she doesn't see the point in talking if she doesn't have anything to say. Maren's frequent silent nature gives others the impression that she is brooding and grumpy, which isn't untrue. Maren has a tendency to fixate on the negative and often lets it affect her mood, to the point where it's obvious to others. She also just has somewhat of a melancholy personality, which only adds to this reputation. Maren is extremely intelligent, but her career options as a woman are quiet limited. She has worked as an assassin since her teen years, but she dreams of one day becoming an author or journalist rather than a paid killer - if she manages to live that long. Likes · Reading and writing · Cold weather · The rain · Cats Dislikes · Strangers · Alcohol · Hot weather · Complete darkness Strengths · Intelligent and creative · Can be charismatic when she chooses · Determined and hard-working · Crafty and cunning Weaknesses · Melancholy · Limited physical strength · Introverted · Fear of the dark Kin Hans Scott - father. Deceased. Adeline Scott - mother. Deceased. James Scott - brother. Very ill with an unknown disease. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Oleander trudged through the back alleys of the city, the cold cutting through his fur cloak and straight to his bones. There was a damp chill in the air left over from the previous day's rain, and he knew he would have to hang his cloak to dry by the fire once he returned home to his quarters. He was coming from the palace, looking for a drink after a long day on shift. He had been relegated to one of the less interesting duties that day; he had been in charge of guarding the main gate to the palace, through which few of the royals' visitors entered. Other nobles and visitors of significance were granted entry through the side and back doors of the palace, rather than having to come through the front with the commonfolk. It had mainly consisted of Oleander staring at the sky, trying to determine how many shapes he could make out in the clouds. The alleys he took were dim and dark, illuminated by the occasional weak sconce along the cold stone walls. Oleander was forced to feel his way along at some points. Sounds of scurrying before him gave him pause; he didn't particularly want to step on one of the large brown rats that roamed the city after dark. After what felt like the thousandth turn into identical stone alleyways, Oleander turned the corner to see the tavern before him. Its illuminated windows glowed invitingly, its wooden door propped slightly open to urge patrons in. It was a rather seedy establishment, certainly not fit for a royal guard, but he had a soft spot for its rowdy crowd and cheap mead. Oleander slipped through the crack door and into a raucous scene. Several of the tavern's regulars were in the middle of a drunken bar song, waving their tin mugs in the air and sloshing their liquor onto the sticky wooden floor. Oleander smirked and gave them a wide berth as he approached the bar. The barkeep was a young, dark-haired boy he'd never seen before; perhaps the owner's son or nephew. He ordered his usual, and the poor lad merely stared at him for a few moments until Oleander pointed helpfully at a keg behind his head. The drunks wrapped up their song, and Oleander took his mug gratefully from the young boy's grasp. He headed back to his usual spot, a small table and chair in the corner where he could watch the evening's events from a cautious distance. He sat with a groan. The guards had spent the morning sparring, and his legs ached from fighting. His left wrist in particular ached from a nasty blow that one of his fellow guards had landed while he was distracted. He rubbed at it absently and sipped his drink. After a few minutes, Oleander noticed a handful of the bar's patrons crowding around a rickety table in the center of the room. He peered closer and spotted a deck of cards passed between several pairs of hands, the white stock flashing in the cozy light. A few rounds wouldn't hurt, he thought to himself - the alcohol was already beginning to make his head buzz. He stood and strode over to the table, taking a seat next to the owner of the deck. "Deal me in." He produced a handful of golden coins from his pockets and added them to the pot in the center of the table. The game was fairly simple. There were five types of cards: king, queen, jester, commoner, and assassin. Each player's hand consisted of seven cards. King and queen cards were worth 200 game currency each. Commoner cards allowed a player to generate 20 currency each round. Assassin cards could be used to void the effects of a card at random for another player, while jester cards, the rarest, provided immunity against assassin attacks. Whoever had the most game currency at the end of five rounds won the pot. Oleander surveyed his cards as the dealer passed them around. One king, three queens, two assassins, one jester, and one commoner. Not terrible, but not great either. The player to the left of the dealer traditionally went first, so Oleander settled himself back in his seat, sipped at his drink, and waited for the round to begin. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
The day had not treated Sorren with kindness. It had been a particularly early start for the man, having to leave his tavern room before the sun had broken the horizon to meet with his fellow marked. There was talk of some necklace that their house wanted, he couldn’t imagine why. Perhaps the lady of the house wanted a new piece to brazenly show off to her courtiers. Sorren could not care any less what they wanted with it, he was simple tasked with acquiring it. The meeting had been long and uneventful, the Lord’s son had come to inform them of their new task. The Lord hardly came himself to dish out his dirty work.
Sorren let out a huff of air, his clawed hand rising to rub gently at his neck. Why did this thing have to be so visible? It added another layer of embarrassment to his marked status, he could hardly hide it, unless he wore a scarf which he never did. Besides, his presence alone was enough to draw attention. Despite hearing of diversity in the city, Sorren rarely saw people similar to him. The occasional dragonkin or someone with horns, but never someone like him.
Lost to his own thoughts of misery, he almost walked right into the tavern door. Halting himself just before disaster. He placed his hand on the frame and had to duck to head through the door, his horns barely missing the wooden plank at the top of the frame. His pupils narrowed at the bright light. The smell of old liquor and less than pleasant smells flowed through him, smelled like home. This tavern had a few rooms that were mostly open for hourly rental, something he never used. Sorren had managed to work his magic on the owner to rent out a room for the month, but that time was drawing to a close and he would have to find somewhere else to slink back to during the night.
The drinks here weren’t appealing to him usually, but after that bothersome meeting he needed a drink. A strong enough drink to knock him off his chair. Sorren leaned down once he reached the bar, restricted at the waist by the bones in his vest, waiting for his turn. He lifted a finger and pointed towards and amber bottle on the shelves.
“Give me three, but put them in the same glass.” The whiskey was the only thing worth drinking here. He slid his payment across the wooden surface and tapped a finger while he waited.
Taking the glass, he turned to lean his hips against the bar and look out across the room. The usual loud and annoying drunkards wer howling songs, hopefully they stopped before Sorren wanted to sleep. Rising the glass to his lips, he took a sip. Across the tavern was a table of people excitedly crowding around. Gambling, surely. Sorren’s height allowed him to lean every so slightly forwards to see beyond the people to the table below. That could be interesting. He took another swig as he walked towards the table, his padded feet creating little noise to be heard.
Sorren settled near the table, leaning once again against a wooden pillar that held the roof up, swirling the liquor in his glass. His eyes lowered to the newcomer at the table as he slid his coin to the centre. His glass, now half empty, remained near his lips as he tasted the mind fuzzing liquid again. Behind him, his tail flicked at the tip behind his crossed legs, the fur on the end drooping to the floor. Sorren paused in his drink for a moment. Screw it. He kicked off of the pole and pushed his way to the table through the eager onlookers. He dropped his glass onto the table, turning on his show.
His lips cracked into a crooked grin, eyes squinted. He sat himself down in the too small chair and tapped his hand down onto the table. “Hit me.” His voice lilted through the smile that poked out his fangs.
Once his hands were on his cards, Sorren lifted them, his pupils dilating before quickly returning to slits. This…was a terrible hand. Five commoners, one assassin and finally one queen. Well, this was disheartening. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
One of the tallest men Oleander had ever seen took a seat across the table from him just before the game began. He must have been half-cambion or something similar, for he possessed a lavender tail, ears, and horns, disconcertingly bright yellow eyes, and wickedly long claws. Oleander surveyed him out of the corner of his eye; he looked strangely familiar, but he didn't think they'd ever crossed paths before. Around his neck was the mark of one of the great houses of the kingdom. Oleander had only ever seen a few in person, but this was surely one, from its dark, ink-like appearance to its serpentine shape. This mysterious man must have made a deal with the lord of a house and paid dearly for it. Oleander's attention was redirected back to the game as it progressed. Though his hand was decent, it became obvious that several of his competitors had better ones as the game continued. The host immediately took out the queen of the woman to Oleander's left, and a cursing match quickly ensued. After that had ceased, the woman sent her own assassins after the commoners of the half-demon man. His deck was not nearly as good; he only collected a few coins from the pile each round, which meant his commoners had likely been his primary source of income for the game. The woman next to Oleander eventually emerged victorious, and made a great show of collecting the pot from the center of the table. Oleander stayed for a second round - what was the harm? He had just gotten paid by the royal family, and his income was more than enough to sustain a few rounds of cards. The woman appeared to be winning for the second round, until the host revealed that he had a total of four assassins and strategically eliminated the kings, queens, and jesters of all the other players. This pot was significantly larger than the previous game's, and Oleander watched with envy as it was collected by its gloating winner. His gaze drifted over to the half-demon man, who appeared to be making his way back to the bar for another drink. Speaking of drinks, Oleander had downed his a bit too quickly; the room turned fuzzy at the edges as he stood, but he pushed on and followed the man across the room. He slid onto a barstool next to the man and simply watched him in his periphery for a few moments. He didn't speak to anyone else, just ordered himself a drink, and Oleander did the same. He finally leaned across the bar towards the man and tapped the surface gently to get his attention. "Sorry if this is a personal question, I've just- I've only seen a couple marks in person before." He gestured at his neck, as if the man couldn't possibly know what he was referring to. "What house does that one belong to?" He did not mention that he was a royal guard, and that was the only reason he had seen the marks previously. Many of the houses responsible for the marks had close ties with the royal family, who were well aware of the practice of marked deals and had done nothing so far to outlaw or prevent them, despite the fact that they were designed to prey on the destitute and poor. He had been in charge of several arrests in which a perpetrator with a mark was caught attempting to steal jewelry from passerby or coins from a stall in the marketplace. He had a hard time forgetting their pleading afterwards, how they begged to be let go to provide for their families, how they had been tricked into the deal with the lord of the house. They were often repeat offenders as well, which meant their jail times were drastically increased from their first offense. Oleander had always gotten a strange, squirmy feeling in his stomach when he helped throw these people into the gaol, nothing like the satsifaction he experienced on the few rare occasions where he and his fellow guards had helped put a stop to the crimes of a murderer in the kingdom. Oleander shook the memories from his mind and leaned forward towards the man, trying not to appear too eager to hear about the deal that had likely ruined the poor man's life. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Sorren held his drink one hand, watching as his card were slowly taken away. This was terrible and the exact reason he played poker or five finger fillet instead. His brows furrowed lower and lower towards his eyes with each loss. Especially as that particularly large and shiny pot of coins was swept away from him. His legs shifted in the too small chair, that was enough coin lost tonight. He wasn't nearly drunk enough to spend any more on that rubbish. After the last failure, Sorren flicked his cards down onto the table and mumbled some niceties to the table. His tail clipped the edge of the table as he stood up, knocking the pillars of coins down with a soft clatter as he walked away. Perhaps tonight should simply be for drinking in preparation for tomorrow's mayhem. This damn ball was only a day away and they had thought to inform him with less than twenty-four hours notice. Ridiculous. The tall man shook his head as he sat down at the bar, his body again hulking on the small stool. The bartender slid another whiskey towards him, Sorren's flingers relieving the last of his coin to the man. He nodded his thanks before rising the glass to his lips. The shift of clothing beside him and the tap on the bar made his eyes flick down to the side, his lips still sipping the strong liquor. Sorren quirked an eyebrow, this was certainly unusual. Placing the glass back down on the bar, he turned in his stool slightly to look at the man. His tail curling behind him as he registered the question being asked. Sorren narrowed his eyes at the stranger. Who would ask someone that? Everyone knew that these marks were chains earned from hardship. Why would you ask someone to reveal their tragic past? His hand landed on the table beside his drink with a dull thud. "That's an awfully strong question to lead with. Barely a hello before you jumped right into that one." Sorren levelled his gaze at the man, he had to tilt his neck to see him properly. His voice was deeper with a slight breathlessness, but held an air of sophistication. After a brief pause, he sighed. Turning and reaching back for his glass. "Cazador." He grumbled against the edge of his drink before he downed the rest in one swift movement. "You know, the big black manor, dying plants, blah blah." Sorren lifted his free hand and twirled a finger around. "I wouldn't go sniffing around them if I were you." His hand stilled and he turned his head to look back at the man. He couldn't see any marks on the person before him, at least not visibly poking out from his clothes. His eyes scanned a second longer before drawing back up to his face. "Why do you ask?" Clearing his throat, he placed the empty glass back down on the counter. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Oleander leanred back on his barstool with a chuckle. "Sorry, guess I've had more to drink than I thought." He thought above briefly explaining his status as a royal guard, but decided against it; what if he'd dealt with this man before and simply didn't remember? That could be horrifically awkward. He frowned as the man uttered a name with vehemence. "Never heard of him." That was odd. Most of the noble houses of the kingdom were closely affiliated with the royal family, whether it be for exclusive trading purposes or other reasons. "He a merchant?" Most of the lords of the wealthiest houses made their fortune dealing in goods with the other kingdoms of the realm. Oleander perked up as the man mentioned the bleak manor he knew well; it was visible from the small window in his quarters. "I thought that place was abandoned." He couldn't imagine anyone living there. The exterior was in a state of horrendous decay, and he could only imagine what the condition was like inside. "What's he living there for? I'm sure he could afford to move into a nicer place if he wanted to." He paused. "I'm Oleander, by the way." He almost extended his hand for a shake, but decided against it at the last minute. He'd probably intimidated the poor man enough as it was. There was a shout behind him, and he turned to see the dealer passing out cards for another round. He shot a smile at the half-demon man. "Why not, huh?" He slipped off of the barstool and made his way back to the card table. His deck was significantly worse this time around; three commoners and two jesters. Still, he managed to win as all the other players eliminated each other's cards with their various assassins until he was the only one left standing. Oleander swept his winnings into the pocket of his coat and stood with a grin, departing the tavern to groans and curses uttered at him by his fellow players. Outside, the air had chilled noticeably during his time in the tavern. Oleander fished around in his pocket as he counted his winnings, satisfied with the decent amount he'd earned. He knew that his superiors and the royal family looked down upon the gambling that was so rampant in the kingdom's various taverns, bars, and clubs, but they weren't here to stop him. Besides, he was sure that nearly all of his fellow guards took part in the competitive card games on their nights off as well. It was simply part of the kingdom's culture, whether the royals liked it or not. Oleander stuffed the coins deeper into his pocket as a pair of intoxicated patrons stumbled out of the tavern's doors, cackling drunkenly as they teetered along the cobblestones steps. He made sure to head off in the opposite direction of them, retracing his steps through the shadowy, abandoned alleys he'd taken to arrive here back to the castle's side entrance. He slipped through the heavy wooden doors silently. The halls were pitch-black, the servants' candles having been extinguished hours before. The guards' quarters were located on the palace's second floor; he just had to get there without being spotted. He crept down the hallway, using the wall for support. He was drunker than he thought, the carpeted floor's intricate patterns swirling across his vision. He paused to recalibrate himself, then continued on until he reached the massive, spiraling stone staircase that led to the second floor. Luckily, his quarters were at the very top of the stairs, to the right. He fitted his key into the lock and nearly collapsed onto the floor as the door opened more quickly than he'd anticipated. He could just barely see out of his window at this angle; the manor that the man had mentioned was dark, a massive black silhouette standing out against the dim light flooding from the city's lamps. He headed for his cramped bed, not bothering to change into his nightclothes, and flopped facedown into the bedsheets. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Sorren kept his hands on the bar as the man spoke, deciding that he wasn’t some menace trying to utilise him and his mark. He shifted in his seat to face him once more, tail tip wrapped around the leg of his stool. The man was right, the place did look abandoned. That was the point, deter any thieves or would be vagrants.
“They just like it that way, I suppose.” Sorren cocked his head to the side, eyes flicking back to the bar man as he served two pretty looking elven women. His eyes lingered on them for a moment before the introduction snapped his attention back to the man beside him.
“Sorren.” He dipped his head, allowing a smile to grace his lips momentarily. Before he had a moment to continue the conversation, his lips pursed to talk and the loud yell from behind them rang out, cutting him off. He glanced over his shoulder as Oleander rose to his feet and scampered back to the table. Sorren let out a small huff of laughter before giving a slight raise of his hand in farewell. He most certainly was not returning to that table any time soon, perhaps if there was poker.
Sorren tapped a finger on the wooden bar before hauling himself out of the small seat. He twisted his head to look over at the card players, eyes lingering on this Oleander. Had he seen him before? Sorren's eyes narrowed for a moment, he looked vaguely familiar but then again most people in this city looked familiar to him. Unless they were like him, he remembered them well. He shifted and ran a hand over his hair between his horns, flattening the fluff back down. He raised an arm to wave at the barkeep. “Goodnight, Sawyer.” He gave the young man a smile before disappearing up the stairs to the few rooms the tavern offered.
The corridor was lit by soft candles, certain trying to set a mood of some description. Sorren flicked a key out from his pocket and pushed it into the door. Once inside, he let out a sigh. Tossing his key onto the bedside table, he reached behind himself and began to loosen his vest.
He needed to sleep well in order to perform properly tomorrow, the mask of a handsome socialite, there to charm and network. They may be some fun to be had, but he doubted he would enjoy being there for long. The best part would likely be the expensive buffet and alcohol.
Sorren lifted his arms above his head in a long stretch after removing his dress shirt. He moved towards the undersized bed and crawled beneath the thin sheets. His tail poked out the side and his legs extended past the edge of the mattress. Beggars can’t be choosers. He stared up at the ceiling. Cazador. What a bastard. Sorren clicked his tongue in annoyance, the portion of his tail that drooped out the bed slapping against the wooden floor. A hand lifted up to his neck, moving over the slightly raised mark in his skin, he squeezed gently before a soft growl drew itself from his throat. He tossed his hand away and flipped onto his side.
Sorren closed his eyes, it never took him long to fall asleep. A gift he was very thankful for when he had to find a place on the street to crawl up in, usually in the cold and wet. Putting the thoughts of tomorrows masked ball thievery to rest, he drifted into a sleep. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
The afternoon sun's rays streamed in through the small window in the guards' quarters, bathing the bare room of cobblestone and wood in a comforting, cozy glow. Oleander perched on a stool before the mirror propped in the corner of the room, adjusting the collar of his dress uniform for the umpteenth time. The guards' dress uniforms were quite a sight to behold, especially when they all gathered together on occasions such as tonight's ball. Both the shirt and pants were a brilliant ruby red color, with gold accents and trappings covering the fabric. Oleander brushed at his golden shoulder pad; its tassels had gotten flipped and twisted among themselves. He turned his attention back to the clasp at his throat. It was a solid-gold, intricate mechanism, similar to a lock; one had to slot the first part of the clasp into the second, then turn both simultaneously to secure it. It was notoriously difficult for one to do on their own, but Oleander felt that he had been with the guard long enough to do it himself. He had been wrong, evidently. He finally clicked the clasp together on what felt like his thousandth attempt and released his collar with a sigh of relief. The guards typically wore helmets during their regular shifts, but had none to go with their ceremonial attire. Instead, they would wear ancient swords from the royal family's personal armory; not very effective if something were to go terribly wrong, but they looked pretty, with their engraved blades and detailed hilts. Oleander rubbed at his temples. He had had far too much to drink the previous night and was still feeling the effects. He stood hesitantly, and when he was sure he wouldn't vomit all over the floor, lifted his ceremonial blade reverently from his bed. These swords were noticeably heavier than the guards' regular blades, so their ceremonial attire was complete with a thick, gold-studded leather belt with a sheath for the weapons. Oleander carefully fitted his into its sheath and tightened the belt to ensure that it wouldn't slip down as he walked. The sun was setting quickly. The guards had been informed to converge in the ballroom at a quarter before sunset in order to take their positions as the guests began to arrive. Oleander hurried out of his room and down the spiraling staircase, taking care to keep his eyes on his feet rather than the winding walls of the stairwell. The ballroom was. acavernous marble room on the first floor of the palace. Its walls and floors glinted immacutely, having just been cleaned by the royal servants. Oleander made his way to his post on the second-floor landing, where he would be able to see all that went on below him. Shortly aftet Oleander arrived at his post, the guests began to stream in. The sun had sunken below the palace's towering windows, casting the ballroom in dim shadows illuminated only by the strategically placed candelabras scattered throughout the room. The shadowy light made it difficult for Oleander to see the swarm of figures moving below him, and it was made even harder by the fact that this event was a masquerade ball. Guests wore intricate feathered or bejeweled masks over their faces, obscuring their true identities from their peers. It gnawed at the back of Oleander's mind; it would be all too easy for someone to slip in and send the party plunging into chaos without ever being noticed, thanks to their masked appearance. Oleander relaxed after nearly an hour of peaceful partygoing, and he leaned forward against the railing overlooking the ballroom. Couples danced amongst the candelight, and groups of friends stood together laughing and sipping at their drinks. It was a lovely party, all things considered, and he almost wished he could be down there enjoying it, rather than stuck up on the balcony ensuring no one got stabbed in the back. He shook the fantasy away. Even if he wasn't a guard, he would never be able to achieve the social standing necessary to gain entry to such an event as this one. He had no influential family in the city; his parents lived in poverty outside of the kingdom, and that certainly wouldn't help him get in. No, the closest he would get to an event like this was as a guard, the way he was now. Lost in his thoughts, Oleander almost didn't notice the shadow creeping along the staircase up towards the second-floor landing. He surveyed the movement out of the corner of his eye; perhaps a partygoer who needed some air, or who was simply looking for the restroom. The royal quarters were on the third floor, however, and this staircase was a straight shot to their rooms. Oleander didn't move from his position at the railing, but he continued to eye the creeping shadow out of his periphery as it slunk up the steps. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Sorren had woken up in a foul mood, the sun had rudely pierced through the thin fabric the innkeep called curtains and woke the man from a very pleasant slumber. He rolled over in the bed, curling himself up into a ball, grumbling to himself, tail lashing irritibly. The movement jolsted the bed sheets around, further annoying him. Eventually, he dragged himself out from the bed. He did not have anything planned for the day, everything was to be carried out tonight. That was except from that small vial he had been given the day before. He hoped it wasn't a poison and they weren't trying to kill him, but he wouldn't know until later that evening. When the time came, later afternoon light gracing the kingdom in an unusually beautiful lens, Sorren marched back to his room. He had spent a great majority of his time sauntering the streets, listening out for any good leads for theiving or simply a free meal. When the city's clock had rung out 5pm, he headed straight back for the inn. In his hands, he played with a small purple vial, in fact it was a perfect match to his skin. Which made, sense when you knew what it was for. Sorren raised it and flicked the fluid down his throat, it tasted foul. He shook his head, grimacing. This should last the night, but he had no clue which alchemist had been used to brew this. Likely a good one, knowing the Cazador house. For tonight, he pulled onto his shoulders a silk dress shirt, fixed to his body with his usual corsetted vest in black, pulling it tight he let out a frustrated sigh. The back was difficult to get to, but he managed eventually. The clothes had been given to him by the Cazador boy, all black he had proclaimed, so stand out less. Sorren thought this to be a ridiculous comment considering they were asking the seven-foot demon to carry out an in house heist, but sure, what ever the Cazador's wanted. Paired with his shirt and vest were a pair of simple black dress pants, the most interesting part of his attire was the mask. It hung from golden metal clasps on his horns, the main body of the mask was black with small lace detailing. Simple, but Sorren enjoyed his gold. His fingers adorned with various bejewelled golden rings, matching cuffs attached to his curled horns. Stupid purchases he had made when he was younger, but he would not lie, he loved them as he loved all luxury. At least at this ball, he may enjoy some finer foods for once. ~ ~ ~ Upon his arrival, his heart pounded. In his hand he held a small paper, handwritten was his supposed invitiation to the even. A representative of house Tailor, that was his identity to the guards. A small enough house for people to not know every member. He handed it over to the entrance guard, he could feel his heart beat in his ears. With a curt nod, the guard allowed him entry, collecting the small paper and moving onto the next guest. Sorren had to hold in his relief, giving a charming smile he sauntered inside. The ceilings were high and beautiful, the art, the furnishings, it was all screaming wealth. His eyes beamed, this would be a wonderful life. Never having to worry about the next meal, where you would sleep. Simply dance, drink and enjoy life. The joy was quickly wiped away by the memory of why he was here. This wasn't who he was, he was their pawn, being used to steal petty things from each other. His tail flicked at the tip. He needed to get this done and get out of here, he didn't belong with these people, as much as he tried to, he simply was not of this caliber. Sorren graced some women with his attention, compliments flowing from his lips. On one arm he had a tall elven woman talking his ear off about some revelutionary make-up she was working on, her friends nodding along with great interest. He was grateful for the potion vial, it had masked his house mark. With it being in such an obvious position, any noble would have avoided him or reported him to a guard if it was visible. Now his skin was unblemished. Sorren's eyes were focused on her, a smile on his face but he wasn't listening. He had been here an hour, now was time to move. He gently laid a hand on her arm and excused himself, making up something about needing to meet a lord about a business matter, nothing too specific. Her eyes followed him until he turned around the table of drinks, then he was forgotten. Sorren's eyes flashed around, second floor, second floor...He walked around the outskirts of the room, the couples dancing holding most of the attention in the room. According to their informant, it was in the young daughter's room, she kept it on her bedside table. A gift from her father for her 16th birthday. Sorren's stomach twisted, why did they want to steal some teenagers gift he didn't know. He made it to the bottom of the staircase. There was very little foot traffic, a few people standing on the lower steps to look over the dancing couples. Sorren began slipping up the edge of the stairs, trying to blend into a wall that he stuck out from like a sore thumb. Sorren tried to keep his stance as normal as possible, been as his height made his upper half stick out above the other people. As he reached the next floor, he tried to look around as though looking confused, looking for something, someone he had lost. The corridor beside him, her room was down there. Sorren lifted one hand to his chin, then dropped it. Deciding that was enough of a show, he looked around for a moment, a couple guards. Hopefully he could just slink around the corner into the shadows. And that he did, the tip of his tail vanishing into the corridor. He began padding along the walkway. The last door on the right, he placed a hand on the doorknob and turned. |
|
|
Winter 
Night 
Blizzard Moon: 
