| |
Darkseeker
|
A runaway princess, accused of crimes she may or may not have committed, hires a morally gray mercenary to protect her as she travels dangerous lands. She has her own secrets—and so does he. Their journey forces them into life-or-death situations, moral dilemmas, and emotional messes. Betrayal is inevitable… but so is falling for each other. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Saving for world info and any other characters to keep track of |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Name: Aram Drogan Age: 25 Gender: Male Occupation: Mercenary Appearance Sketch by me Aram has the kind of looks that both disarm and unsettle. At a glance, he seems like he belongs in a noble’s portrait; he boasts a sharp jawline, strong cheekbones, and a mouth that always seems to know more than it lets on. However, any softness his features might have once held has long since been carved away by a life of violence. His face is marked by pale scars that interrupt the golden hue of his sun-tanned skin. The most prominent trails from the corner of his left jaw down to the hollow of his throat. Another, shorter and more ragged, cuts just beneath his right eye, pulling slightly when he squints or smirks. His hair is short and the color of desert wheat -- a pale, wind-touched blonde, though it’s often matted with dust or sweat. His piercing blue eyes are never idle. They scan constantly, flicking from detail to detail, weighing each face and structure like a battlefield. They rarely soften, but when they do, it's like catching sunlight through cloud cover: sudden, disarming, and fleeting. Unlike stereotypical hired swords, he isn't extremely tall; while taller than average, standing at 6' almost exactly, he is still shorter than many of his counterparts. Aram’s body is lean, strong, and forged by necessity. He lacks the bulky muscle of a knight or blacksmith, but every line of his frame serves a purpose -- endurance, balance, speed. His forearms are roped with muscle from years of drawing a bow and wielding twin blades, and his posture carries the unmistakable confidence of a man who knows exactly how much space he commands in a room. There’s no waste in his movement; each step calculated, each shift of weight done with quiet intention. He moves like a predator conserving energy, unhurried but always poised to strike. His voice is low, smooth, and slightly husky, the kind that can calm a frightened horse or lie without a flicker of doubt. There’s a quiet arrogance in how he speaks, as though he’s always in on a joke no one else has caught. It isn’t loud or booming, but it doesn’t need to be. People listen when Aram talks, either because they want to, or because they’re afraid not to. Personality He walks through life with a crooked grin and a blade behind his back. He is a man shaped by betrayal, hardened by war, and polished by the art of deception. This mercenary trusts little and gives even less, preferring to navigate the world with a mix of charm, threat, and careful calculation. At first glance, he comes across as easygoing, perhaps even roguishly likable, but it doesn’t take long to sense the shadows underneath. There’s something caged in his gaze, like a man who learned long ago that survival and softness don’t mix. He is morally gray to the core, guided not by principles but by pragmatism. If there’s coin in it, he’ll likely do it. If there’s danger, he’ll weigh it. If there’s a cause, he’ll pretend to care long enough to get what he needs. That said, Aram is not entirely heartless. He has his own twisted code -- unpredictable, invisible to others, but real. He won’t hurt children. He despises slavers. And he has a quiet hatred for those who exploit the weak for sport. But he won’t go out of his way to protect them either, not unless there’s something in it for him. He’ll say it’s because he learned not to bleed for people who’d sell him out the moment the price was right, which might be true. Beneath all the layers of charm, sarcasm, and apathy is a wounded man. Aram buries his regrets under smirks and games, refusing to sit still long enough to let them catch up. Every time he moves to a new town, takes a new contract, or starts a new fight, he tells himself he’s doing it for the money, but sometimes, it feels more like he’s just running. Despite his guarded nature, Aram has the rare capacity to surprise. He can be kind when no one’s looking, loyal in small, strange ways, and even genuinely, outside-of-the-job protective -- though he’ll deny it if you try to thank him. He’s a cynic, but not beyond redemption. The world just hasn’t given him a reason to believe in it yet. Strengths Well-versed in mounted combat and archery, dual-wielding swords Physical prowess and versatility -- erratic fighting style makes him unpredictable Charismatic liar Impeccable survival instincts; he's never cornered for long Weaknesses The emotional baggage is strong with this one Gambles and drinks himself into strange places with stranger debts Notorious reputation for all kinds of horrible (but debatable) happenings makes finding work nigh impossible Self-serving; if the money runs out, he's saving his own skin Other |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Name: Anastasia Denova Age: 23 Gender: Female Occupation: Princess (Though, she probably doesn't deserve that title anymore, does she?) . Appearance Anastasia is a woman who's face is befit her station, her pretty features making her easy to trust, and even easier to mistake for a soft, spoilt princess. Her cheek bones are high, rosy pink at the peaks, and her jaw line is well defined but soft. She has plump, soft pink lips that are often curved into a gentle yet unsettling smile. Her skin is unmarred, perfect porcelain that seems to glittet when displayed beneath the sun. When her smile is wide (or perhaps true) enough, a singular dimple appears on the left side of her face, adding character to her seemly flawless face.
Her hair is long, its color like sweet, molten chocolate. The rich color has swirls of deep brown and vibrant red, and the thick, glossy mass falls to her ample hips in loose, waterfall curls. Her eyes are by chance her most welcoming and most dangerous feature. The golden amber orbs draw you in with the warm welcome like that of honey in chamomile tea, her long lashes seeming to frame her eyes so perfectly to give her that "doe-eyed" look. However, no matter how sweet the gaze, those eyes seek all of your secrets and lies. They carefully calculate risks and weigh options, determining whether or not the person in question carries themselves well enough for her to trust.
Anastasia's body is slender, though her body has that womanly, hour glass figure that many women often find themselves seeking. She is proportionate, her stance always poised and proper. There is never a room she walks into without holding her head high with her shoulders back. She's not very strong, seeing as she's lithe and short in stature, but her small body is perfectly made for speed and lightly made steps. Even if she cannot beat you in a fair battle, she will most definitely evade you in a foot pursuit.
Her voice is something soft, almost melodic. She rarely raises her tone, but each word she speaks draws her audience in until they're sitting on the edge of their seats. The sound is like whisperings on a breeze, there one moment, and gone the next. She is quiet, however, and due to this her tone can often sound short or dismissive, even when she's listened to each word spoken in return.
. Personality Anastasia carries herself with an unshakable grace, every movement measured, every word carefully chosen. Her presence commands attention—not through flamboyance, but through a quiet, unwavering confidence that seems etched into her very being. Calm in both crisis and comfort, she is rarely seen flustered, preferring to assess her surroundings with a calculating eye. To those around her, she often seems one step ahead, always weighing her options, considering consequences, and keeping her emotions hidden beneath an icy veneer. Her sharp intellect and composed demeanor have earned her a reputation as someone who is always in control, but few know the full depth of her internal landscape, where the weight of responsibility and expectation often weigh heavily on her. Though she is admired for her poise, Anastasia’s demeanor often borders on aloofness. She can come across as distant, even arrogant, especially when addressing matters she deems beneath her concern. Some whisper that she considers herself above others—and perhaps, in part, she does. She values intellect over sentiment, and while she is capable of kindness, it is rarely spontaneous. Her trust is hard-earned, and her approval, even harder. Those who mistake her restraint for vulnerability soon learn that Anastasia never forgets a slight. But her harsh exterior is only part of the story. For those who truly understand her, there are glimpses of warmth, though always subtle, like hidden treasures waiting to be discovered. A well-timed word of encouragement, a quiet gesture of support in the face of another’s struggle—Anastasia’s kindness is never grand or theatrical, but always thoughtful, given only to those she feels truly deserving of it. Anastasia lives by one simple rule: protect herself at all costs. Raised in a court of intrigue and betrayal, she has learned that loyalty is fleeting and power is survival. Her decisions are guided by what she believes is necessary, not what is noble. Whether negotiating an alliance, orchestrating a deception, or walking away from those who might hold her back, Anastasia does so without hesitation. To her, vulnerability is a weakness she cannot afford—so she armors herself in calm, conceals herself in calculation, and moves through life as if every choice could be her last. Yet, even in her guarded state, she is capable of moments of tenderness—once often expressed in small, seemingly inconspicuous acts: a private gift left for a loyal servant, a soft touch on the shoulder of a friend in need, or a quiet word of advice whispered in a moment of doubt. These fleeting, understated gestures reveal a deeper layer to Anastasia, one that longs for connection but understands the cost of vulnerability in a world where trust is a luxury few can afford. Strengths •A silver tongue- Anastasia can talk herself into (and out of) just about any situation that arises. If there is something she needs, it is nearly a given that she can persuade others into doing her bidding.
•Unwavering Confidence- Even when the situation should have her shaking in her boots, Anastasia will face it with her head held high. Even if she's not sure she can complete the tasks at hand, she will ensure that everyone else believes she can.
•A sneaky little thing she is, with light feet and the smarts to cover her tracks.
•Has more money than what she knows to do with. Perhaps she'll find good use for it? . Weaknesses •Emotions who? Never heard of them. (Such thick walls around this little heart...) •Only worried about number one. When trouble comes calling? She's saving her own skin.
•Can't protect herself for anything. She can fight and fight and fight, but in the end she's easy to overpower when cornered.
•Secrets... So many secrets and even a little bit of blood on her pristine hands. How long can she keep on the down low when every royal guard and notable bounty hunter is looking for her pretty face? Other |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
The tavern stank of sweat, sour ale, and desperation -- the usual perfume of the Cracked Fang, a place that barely passed for shelter on the outskirts of the kingdom’s main province. The floors were sticky with spilled drink and gods-knew-what else. Mold clung to the low-beamed ceiling like it had signed a lease there, and a trio of half-shattered windows did their best to keep the evening mist out. They were failing. Aram sat at a scarred wooden table in the tavern’s center, sleeves rolled up, one arm locked in a tense grapple with the thickest bastard this side of the river. The man, an ex-sellsword by the look of the scar down his neck and the smell of rusted iron still clinging to his breath, strained with the full weight of his hulking form. Muscles bulged. Veins stood out like roots on a tree. Aram, however, did not appear to care. His free hand draped casually over the edge of the table, and his blue eyes stared cold and steady across the scarred wood, watching the other man’s reddening face, the twitch in his jaw, the twitchier swing in his pride. A fine tremble danced along Aram’s own arm, but he didn’t flinch. His expression didn’t shift. Only his fingers curled slightly in rhythm with the rising grunts and shouted encouragements from the crowd pressing close around them. “Push him under, Renk!” one man spat, sloshing his drink as he leaned in. “Snap his bloody wrist!” The pot in the middle of the table was nothing grand -- a handful of silvers, a few battered coppers, and one suspiciously shiny piece that Aram guessed was counterfeit. But it was the principle of the matter, not the worth of the coin. The men here didn’t bet for wealth. They bet for pride. And Aram knew exactly how to twist pride into a blade. Without breaking eye contact, he slid his free hand forward and let the last of his coin purse clink softly into the pile. The sound sliced through the tavern noise like a drawn dagger. Renk’s eyes darted toward the table. It was all Aram needed. Slam! The table groaned under the force of the impact as Renk’s arm hit the wood, pinned so hard the cups nearby jumped. The crowd erupted into a cacophony of noises, some with cheers, most with curses. Aram leaned back in his seat and exhaled slowly, shaking out his hand like it had been a mild inconvenience. “Always look a man in the eyes,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but loud enough for Renk and the others to hear. “Anything else is just sloppy.” He began scooping his winnings toward him with lazy fingers, counting only some of it and pocketing the rest. A barmaid, her apron stained and hair tied back with a bit of fraying string, approached with a damp rag and a wary glance. She didn’t speak loudly -- smart, given the heat rolling off the room -- but leaned close enough for him to hear over the rising tension. “The room is stifling,” she said. “Perhaps a brief respite outside would do you good.” Ah, so the owner had decided Aram wasn't welcome anymore. He flashed the maid a quick, wry grin. “I was just thinking the same.” He slid one of the real coins toward her and rose from his seat without looking back. The moment the door swung shut behind him and the cool, damp air hit his face, he heard them rise. Three pairs of boots crunched in the gravel behind him, steps filled with an indignance he could tangibly feel. He didn’t turn until the first one called out -- not Renk, but a younger one, probably looking to make his name. “You call that a win? Felt more like sleight of hand.” Aram finally turned, his silhouette painted in pale torchlight from the tavern’s porch. “If your friend can’t keep his eyes on the game,” he said coolly, “maybe he should stick to dice.” The first punch came sloppy but fast. Aram ducked it cleanly and drove his fist into the man’s gut, pivoting smoothly on his heel to avoid the second attacker’s grab. A scuffle of boots and a curse filled the air as he swept a foot under another man’s stance and brought him to the dirt. One man swung a broken bottle; Aram took a slice along his side but knocked the grubby man out cold with a headbutt. Another tried to grapple him from behind, only to catch an elbow to the ribs hard enough to crack something. Renk himself threw a fist that would’ve dropped a tree, but Aram slipped it just in time, countering with a sharp knee to the jaw that dropped the brute to his knees. When the last of them staggered off into the dark, muttering curses and cradling bruises, Aram stood straight again. His side throbbed. His knuckles were raw. And his coin pouch… He knelt, clicking his tongue as he picked up silver scattered across the road like broken teeth. The pouch itself was sliced open, its strings dangling like severed nerves. “Of course,” he muttered bitterly, glancing at the torn leather with a sneer. He pocketed what he could find, brushed dust from his trousers, and cast one last look back toward the Cracked Fang’s crooked doorway. “Next time,” he said under his breath, “I’ll just cheat properly.” |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
The queen's private chambers. A blood stained knife. A vile of poison. A dead guard. A blood curdling scream... A poor, unfortunate maid to witness their very own sweet, "innocent" princess looming over the bloodied corpse of their slain queen with that blood soaked dagger in hand. “Wait! It's not what it looks like!” She begged, dropping that dagger before more blood could seep onto her delicate hands. But it was, wasn't it? Either way, the job intended had been done, just at the hands of the unknown. Guards were called, but by the time they would reach that chamber, the Princess was already long gone, curtains fluttering around the open window she had jumped from, giving way to the darkening night. - It had been an unfortunate turn of events, truly. No one was supposed to have found her there, but at least Anastasia had been wise enough to already have an escape route planned out. A horse, a rut sack at her back, and more pouches of coins than she safely knew what to do with. Hooves clacked rythmically down a cobblestone path, speeding through the pitch black to carry the Princess away from the castle as the alarm was raised. It wouldn't take them terribly long to figure out she was gone, but she had taken the fastest horse in the stable, no matter how rank the bastard was rumored to be. Even with her station, the sentence for "murdering" the queen would be death, a sentence that her very own father would give unto her without hesitation for hurting his precious wife.
- The thought alone made Anastasia scoff, her heels bumping at the stallion's sides to urge him faster through the night. She turned her head over her shoulder, the hood of her cloak falling down with the pull of the wind. The palace was ablaze with lit torches and lanterns, and she was sure that sooner rather than later, those flickering lights would be spreading outwards to search the grounds for the missing villain. She scowled and turned to face forward again. Let them look. They wouldn't find her, but even if they did, she'd see to their deaths as well. She had needed to escape that damned palace for years, and now she finally had her chance, even if it came with a heavy price over her head.
- The leaves rustled around them as they continued down the path, cobblestone turning to dirt and the occasional lantern light disappearing so that they were only guided by the light of the stars and the moon. She was almost to outskirts, and things were seeming to go quite smoothly. Too smoothly. As if right on cue, a barn owl swooped right infront of them, its sharp talons glinting in the silvery light as it snatched up a rat. The horse decided he'd had enough as he slid to a stop before rearing, showing that rank nature as he began to throw the princess from his back. - Moments later he had succeeded, leaving her in a dusty, crumpled mess on the ground as he turned and high-tailed it back towards the palace faster than he had ever dared to carry her. He had been trying to turn back ever since she'd taken him past the empty guard tower and into the dark, so she wasn't surprised to see him make for home. Only mildly irritated. “You big baby! No wonder they never let anyone ride you!” She growled as she picked herself off the ground, dusting off the back and front of her clothes. She was a bit scraped up from the fall, but she'd survive. She'd endured worse at the palace, after all.
- Anastasia ensured she had not dropped any of the coin pouches before she began walking. She could hear a scuffle above the nightly noise of crickets and rain frogs calling, so knew she she must have been close to a tavern or an inn. Hopefully, it would be somewhere she could gather her bearings and decide where to go from there. Walking in the shadows, Anastasia neared what sounded like a fight. She stationed herself behind a gnarled oak tree as she watched one man take on three. She was sure that he'd be taken out by those three men, but it would seem that wasn't the case.
- An amused smirk caught her lips for the most brief of moments. It would seem that this tavern would be bringing her everything she needed, should her coin be enough. Anastasia emerged from behind her oak tree shield, her boots crunching quietly on gravel. "My my... Seems as though you are a man who knows how to handle himself," she spoke, the dim light from the porch casting shadows over her face as she adjusted the straps of her rut sack.
- Anastasia's head tilted to the right and strands of silky brown hair fluttered around her face as she watched him stand from where he'd been undoubtedly picking up dropped coins. "You also seem like a man in need of a new coin pouch.. Just as I am in search of a man worth my coin," she added after a few moments, the telltale jingle of coins ringing out from somewhere beneath her cloak. She wasn't sure if he'd be persuaded by the promise of coin, but she had always been taught that coin could buy her almost whatever she wanted. It was time to test that theory. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Aram's fingers brushed against cool metal half-buried in the dirt, the faint glint of silver catching the moonlight just enough to ease the sting of his torn pouch. He grunted and flicked another coin into his palm, only for the sound of footsteps, softer this time, to break the rhythm of his search. These steps weren’t the stomping, drunken shuffle of sore losers looking for round two. No, these were lighter, measured,… intentional. He didn’t look up at first. After the night he’d had, a lone traveler was the least of his concerns -- and a woman as the lone traveler? She was either lost, foolish, or worse: looking for something. Either way, she didn’t pose the same kind of threat as a back-alley ambush, and Aram didn’t feel like entertaining nonsense. Not until she opened her mouth. "My my... Seems as though you are a man who knows how to handle himself," came the voice -- smooth, deliberate, and far too amused for someone walking toward the aftermath of a brawl. His eyes narrowed as he straightened slowly from his crouch, dusting dirt from his palms. The tone in her voice wasn’t flirty, but it danced along the edge of mockery, like she knew something he didn’t. Aram didn’t appreciate people like that. Especially not tonight. “I wouldn’t call losing a wallet ‘handling myself,’ but to each their own,” he muttered, not bothering to mask the irritation in his voice. The words were aimed more at himself than at her, but the look he gave her as he turned was pointed -- cautious, curious, and just a bit annoyed. She was young, but not a girl. Her face bore none of the weariness that usually came with traveling alone, yet her cloak was dusted with road and her eyes, sharp as flint, held a flicker of something more dangerous than naivety. A noble’s daughter gone wild? A runaway bride? She carried herself like someone who’d never been told no, or at least never listened when they were. What in the nine hells was a woman like her doing this deep into gutter territory? Aram was about to ask if she’d taken a blow to the head on her way here, but then came the sound -- soft, sweet, and far more persuasive than her voice. Coin. Not copper. Gold. His jaw twitched like a wolf’s at the scent of blood. The telltale clink of wealth echoed from somewhere beneath her cloak, and it pulled his attention like a lodestone. His hand flexed slightly at his side as he straightened up to his full six feet, the dull ache in his side from the fight suddenly far less relevant. "You also seem like a man in need of a new coin pouch... Just as I am in search of a man worth my coin," she added after a beat, her words sliding into the night air like bait off a hook. Aram’s eyes narrowed, just a fraction, and a slow smirk ghosted across his lips. That confirmed it: she wasn’t lost. She was looking for an employee, or cannon fodder. And now, after everything, she thought he might be worth hiring? That was either a very smart decision or a very dumb one. “For a man to be worth all that gold you carry,” he said slowly, voice harder now, cooler, “you’re either horrible at math, or you’re running from someone powerful. Which is it?” There was no malice in the question, only suspicion. If she was bold enough to dangle that much coin out in the open in a place like this, then she wasn’t an amateur. That meant she was confident. Too much so, for his liking; confidence without fear made Aram nervous. He took a slow step closer, enough that the porch light finally revealed her face. He saw the faint scrape on her temple, the wind-tousled strands of dark hair, the fine stitching on her travel-worn cloak. Expensive. Highborn. Her posture was too straight, too proud. She hadn’t slouched once in her life, if he had to guess. And the way she had watched the fight, from a distance and in silence, not fearful, but assessing? That wasn’t noble’s daughter behavior. That was predator behavior. Aram kept his stance casual, but his mind was whirring. This woman was dangerous in her own right -- or else carried the weight of something far worse. No one wandered into these parts without a death wish or a plan, and something told him she was far too alive to be chasing the first. However, whether either of their hearts would be beating soon was still to be decided. Aram could feel eager gazes from the shadows of broken buildings and tilted taverns. The greedy weasels of the town were coming out to play soon, and he and this stranger were standing right out in the open. He exhaled sharply through his nose, then crouched again, snatching up the last few coins that hadn’t been kicked into the unknown. The edge of his torn pouch dangled mockingly at his belt. He muttered something colorful under his breath before rising again. He dusted off his trousers and turned from the tavern's porch light, gesturing for her to follow as he started walking into the night. Like the uncouth delinquent he was, Aram started off right away without bothering with chivalry or manners. “Talk. And walk. You’ve got ten minutes to convince me I shouldn’t run the other way and leave you for our spectators.” |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Anastasia never was one to worry about those who could pose a threat to her. She'd faced enough horror in her last few years of life that a little pain or heartache was child's play, and more often than not, she was seen as less than a threat. Not just by outsiders, but her own family as well. Until then, at least. She was smart, often scheming, and they would come to learn this the longer than they searched for her. She had tweaked this plan for weeks, gathered coin and valuables she could sell. She didn't bring much more with her than the clothes on her back and the map and little knickknacks in her sack. Her main priority had been getting far away from the palace. The most crucial after that? Finding someone to protect her in the dangerous lands unfamiliar to her.
- “I wouldn’t call losing a wallet ‘handling myself,’ but to each their own.” The woman might've laughed at that, had it not been for the irritation in his tone. She was poking a bear, that much she knew, one who was probably injured and had lost a few pieces of his money, but she had to see if this man would really be worth her gold. His pointed gaze was returned with one of curiosity, an arched brow and the ghost of a smile. He was probably a terrifying sight to most women, but she wasn't exactly most women, now was she? If his goal had been to brush her away with a dirty expression, he'd have to do much better work than that. - This man, he didn't bear the bulk or worn appearance like the typical sellsword. He wasn't a merchant or a fisherman, and he was much too rugged to be any sort of shop owner. Self made, perhaps, but not formally. Whatever he was, he was exactly what she needed, and Anastasia could feel it in her bones. Even though he had lost his wallet, he had still brushed off three men, one of which was rather large, and still came out with the ability to collect his fallen money. He'd even managed to catch the eye of a seemingly innocent woman, who was just as insane for wanting to hire him.
- If he wanted to, this man could simply rob her for her worth, but she didn't think he'd do that. Even if he tried, he'd have a hell of a time catching her first. She was ballsy and too confident for her own good, but she wasn't so stupid that she'd present her wealth and leave herself no way out. As he rose to his full height— which was a good foot taller than her own, Anastasia felt a smirk twitching at the corner of her lips. So she'd caught his attention after all? Sure, any man in those parts would be willing to do work for coin, but this would be much different, and he seemed to know that. - “For a man to be worth all that gold you carry... you’re either horrible at math, or you’re running from someone powerful. Which is it?” His harsh tone didn't seem to do much to her in regards of attitude, her head still held as high as before, even when he stepped closer to get a better view of her. “Hm. Now that's the big question, isn't it? Take your guess,” She retorted, letting him get his look at her as her own gaze ran over him warily. She knew he'd see her for the wealth she had, and with wealth followed power. At even the first hint of a muscles twitch, she'd put distance between them. Perhaps even throw dust in his strikingly blue eyes and run, if she felt such measures were necessary. She did fear this man, within reason, but she couldn't just let him know that. Fear was weakness, wasn't it? - Perhaps a deep part of her feared that if this man thought her a weak, delicate little flower, that he wouldn't find her worth his time for any amount of coin. Truthfully, if he knew the entirety of her reason for seeking him out, he'd likely turn her away in a heartbeat. That, or he'd turn her in for what would likely be a large sum of coin, triple what she carried. She wouldn't blame him, either, which was why she would dance around her truth until she couldn't any longer. If she was to survive, she couldn't think like a spoilt little princess, even if by all technicalities she was. She needed to walk in the boots of these men and women, she needed to think like them and protect herself the best that she could.
- He didn't even need to speak as he turned away, her eyes having caught the way he gestured her to follow. She was trailing behind him in moments, and at his side by the time he'd finished his next sentence. “Talk. And walk. You’ve got ten minutes to convince me I shouldn’t run the other way and leave you for our spectators.” Spectators? She hadn't even realized they were being watched... Sure, she knew they could probably be seen and heard from within the tavern, but something about the thought of there being more than just those made her skin start to crawl. Nevermind that, she only had a few minutes to convince this man to protect her until the coin ran out.
- Sighing quietly through her nose, Anastasia looked up at the starry sky, chosing her words carefully as she began to speak. “All I need from you, is protection as I make my way through the cities. I'm headed north for Ravaryn, and from what I've heard it's not exactly the safest of treks to make alone as a woman, especially one who doesn't know the area,” she began, the wind toying with the edges of her cloak and pieces of hair. Her honeyed gaze drifted towards his face, rugged and scarred from who knows what. “I'm running from my father, but he likely won't ever find me, so I hope to promise to you there'll be no trouble on that end. I only need safe passage from you, and should you be willing, I'll pay graciously.”
- Anastasia took another deep breath before selling what would be only line that would convince him to help her. “I'll pay you one pouch of gold upfront, and half of another for each city you safely see me through. I'll pay for our room and board as well, and only once you've gotten me to Ravaryn, I'll give you two more full pouches.” Anastasia told him this, her voice low and only for him to hear. It was a risk to even hint at how much gold she had on her body, but something told her the promise of money would persuade him more than any other promise she'd make to him. |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Aram let her words sit in the air as they walked, silent but not forgotten. Her words were deliberate, measured. He could tell she’d rehearsed that story. Maybe not word for word, but the rhythm of it was too practiced to be raw. People running for their lives usually didn’t sound so smooth. Still, she hadn’t overdone it. No tears, no dramatic flourishes. That earned her a sliver of respect, if not trust. But Ravaryn? North? That wasn’t a beginner’s route. Especially not for someone who didn’t know the land. The road there was long, full of wrong kinds of men, and worse things that didn’t care for coin or breeding. If she had that much gold on her, she was either very clever or very stupid. Or both. And if she was running from someone powerful? He knew how that ended. He’d seen what happened when people got in the way of highborn grudges. Still, the offer stayed in his mind. A pouch of gold upfront. Half more per city. Two full ones at the end. Four pouches, maybe more if he stretched it -- took longer routes, made more stops. Could feed him through the next season. Might even buy him some breathing room for once. But gold wasn’t worth dying for. Not usually. The stable loomed ahead, half-lit by swaying lanterns and nestled in the quiet outskirts of the settlement. A few drunken voices still drifted from the tavern, but out here, it was mostly the creak of wood and the gentle snorts of dozing horses. Aram walked in, still not speaking. He let her stew in the silence, not out of cruelty, but to see what she did with it. People showed their truer selves in quiet when they weren’t being prompted, when they didn’t know if they were being judged. He stopped in front of a stall where his horse stood waiting: a massive dark bay, all shadowed muscle and firelight gleam, with heavy shoulders and intelligent, storm-dark eyes. The beast lifted his head the moment Aram approached, ears flicking forward and nostrils flaring like he’d already caught the scent of something troublesome. “Easy,” Aram murmured, laying a hand along the stallion’s thick neck. “You’re not the only one who smells trouble.” Aram stepped away, drifting down the row of stalls and glancing over the other horses with thinly veiled disappointment: a bony gray that looked like it hadn’t eaten since spring, a chestnut with lazy eyes and a dragging hoof, a young dun that still looked spooked by its own shadow. Nothing worth borrowing, let alone riding to Ravaryn. He came to a stop beside one particularly unimpressive roan, folded his arms, and finally turned to look at her again. “If I accept, lady,” he said, voice even, “then you’re going to have to do more than toss coin at every problem.” His tone wasn’t biting or dismissive, but it was firm, as he was a cautious man laying down ground rules. “You want me to keep you alive, you’re going to have to listen. Not just nodding and doing whatever fancy thing pops into your head. I’ve seen people with more gold than sense get a sword through the spine because they thought they were cleverer than the road.” He let his words settle before continuing, brow raised just slightly. “I get that you’re not going to tell me the full truth. Fine. I’ve worked with worse. But if you’re leading me into something that’s going to bite, I need to know when to duck.” He nodded back toward the stall with the big bay, who now watched them both with his ears pinned. “That one’s mine. He doesn’t like new people. You’ll ride a mellower creature, if we can find one that won’t bolt the second a twig snaps.” Aram turned back toward his horse and started checking the saddle straps with well-practiced motions, his voice continuing over the creak of leather and rustle of straw. “I’ll take the job,” he said at last. “Gold’s enough, for now.” He looked over his shoulder at her again, blue eyes sharp. “But don’t mistake that for loyalty. I’m not your shadow, and I’m not your guard dog. I’m the man you paid to make sure you don’t get gutted between here and Ravaryn.” Then, with a short, almost amused shake of his head, he added, “So if you get any ideas about straying off the road for some sentimental detour, or sweet-talking a stranger in hopes they’ll ‘understand your plight’ -- don’t. You’ll end up in a ditch, and I’m not hauling your noble arse out of it.” A long beat passed. Then, a dry smirk touched his lips. “Also, you better tell me you packed more than silk and sass. Because if I have to share rations with someone who can’t walk half a mile without blistering, we’ve got bigger problems than your mysterious past.” He tugged once more on the saddle and gave the big bay a pat. “Get what you need. Let me know when you are ready.” He didn’t wait for her answer, already stepping into the shadows at the stable’s edge. But his voice drifted back over one shoulder, casual now, almost teasing. “And if you did bring silk, I swear to the gods, you’re carrying it yourself.” |
|
|
| |
Darkseeker
|
Anastasia didn't expect this man to trust her or even be willing to take her without the explicit truth of why she needed safe passage and protection. It was a risky gamble to take, but in her own mind he was much safer without knowing the truth about her title and current troubles. At least if he was seen with her, he could deny knowing her as the princess as well as knowing that she supposedly murdered her own step-mother and queen. Hopefully, deniability would be enough to keep the man out of her own troubles. She knew very well the rage that will have over come her father by that point. He'd be out for blood without a single care if his own daughter was innocent or not before gaining his so called revenge. - As her words sat in silence, Ana was just as cool and calm as before. Her eyes were cast downward, watching the shift of dirt and gravel beneath her feet. Perhaps she looked a bit pensive, her gaze almost sad or troubled. Not because she thought he'd deny her, but troubled for reasons deeper than she could explain to the stranger. She did worry about her future, as she didn't even have the slightest idea of how to survive on her own. Hell, she'd gotten thrown from her horse and left in the dust even by him, so why would a stranger want to take his chances with a strange little noble woman? If he didnt take the job, then she'd just have to move and and pray that she didn't get mugged in the process of searching for another mercenary or sellsword. - Entering the stable behind him, Anastasia crossed her arms over her chest and watched as he studied the horses, speaking to one. She couldn't help as she sent a scowl aimed at the back of his head as he spoke of trouble. He wasn't wrong, gods bless him, but that didn't mean she wanted to be called out. It was wrong to disinclude him from so much important information, but she needed to know whether or not she could trust him first. If he was going to jerk her up and carry her back home, then she'd just continue on as a noble girl running from her father or from a marriage in his eyes. He didn't need to know the truth right away. - She listened to his rules, her expression calm and blank once more without a single sign of her previous trepidation. Thankfully for him, she knew that coin couldn't fix her problems. If it could, she wouldn't be on the run right then. She'd still be safe at home, if she could even call home safe on regular terms.
- “Then you have my word. I'll not only listen to your instruction, but also warn you when my trouble catches up to bite me in the ass,” she told him in agreement, even if her first instinct might be to leave him with trouble while she ran to save her own hide. She might be focused on herself, but she couldn't let an unsuspecting man get killed on her behalf without at least knowing who he was to die for.
- Humming as he mentioned finding her a gentler creature to ride, her nose crinkled a smidge as she recalled getting thrown by her first travel companion. Her hip still hurt and she had quite the headache, but with any luck her next steed wouldn't be nearly as rank as the last. Though... The spare horses at hand didn't look very promising either.
- Leaving that worry for a later time, Anastasia nodded as he agreed to take on the job. She felt a sharp twinge in her heart as he told her not to take his work for loyalty. He was so indifferent and she didn't know whether to take offense or grovel at his feet in thanks. She wouldn't do either, of course, but it was so weird yet refreshing to have someone who wasn't catering to her every whim without question. "Duly noted... Though I think you'll find I have no interest in detours or stranger's pity," she chuckled softly, that hint of a smile having returned in the moment he fell quiet.
- She couldn't help but grin a bit wider at his jab about silks and sass, her head shaking. Perhaps she had packed just a little silk... Even sold at a cheaper price it could fetch a pretty amount of coin out there. Plus, it had its other uses as well.
- As he left, she trailed behind to go off to a shop to gather last minute necessities, his words drifted to her ears, and in response the wind carried back to him the sound of a genuine light hearted laugh. Perhaps this one wouldn't be the constant brooding company she had thought. What fun~
- Anastasia made her way into the corner shop and was greeted by the owner, who seemed to perk up at the sight of her expensive attire and well bred face. “Good evening. I only need to buy a few wares off of you,” she spoke before explaining what it was she needed from the man. She bought a water flask, a few dried foods that would last if needed, and an updated map that would serve her better than the tattered one she had torn out of a history book. She gave the man a couple pieces of coin before stashing the items in her rutsack. Then, she was off to find the man she'd hired. She probably should have taken his name, but oh well. They would have plenty of time together between there and Ravaryn.
- Approaching him again, she gave a small nod of greeting before speaking. “I'm as ready as I can be, I suppose. The further from here we get, the happier I'll be,” she muttered, casting a glance down the direction that she had came earlier that evening. The distant torch lights were nowhere to be seen yet, but that didn't mean that they weren't near. With any luck, they could be in the next town over before the palace guards got anywhere near that little tavern in search for her. |
|
|
Summer Month: 3 
Day 
Earthquake
