// Let's see if I can still properly form a whole sentence. Peer pressure is a dangerous thing, kids.
The ship's wooden planks and floorboard uttered low groans as it shifted in the ever lapping water of Blackstone Bay. It was mid-day, hot, and muggy. Gulls called from overhead as people made their way through the streets going about their business. The low droning of the Keep's citizens and all the sounds associated with a bustling place of commerce was comforting. The sound of civilization was comforting.
This oddly soothing moment was only part of the result of being away from it for too long. Whether it was the wild recesses of some accursed forest or the constant lapping on sea water against the ship's hull in the open ocean, it did not have the energy and vim that an actual port would have. It must be the people-- even if most of the people were distasteful, just the mass of lively people going about their business brought a certain ease to the nerves.
He was a people-person. If there was a legal system established in this place, he'd actively think of a joke involving civil disputes that end in monetary compensation.
With his forearms crossed loosely over each other, elbows against the wooden railing, and back slightly bent at the waist, he simply just stared out at the Keep, its buildings, and the almost swarming movement of all the different people going about their business. Under his breath, he was humming the tune to a foreign ballad, Nocturne de Oblivion, he had heard in his travels. It was difficult to remember all the words, but the melody was as smooth as silk, and quite catchy.
This relaxing moment was a change from his usual activities. Most of his time had been spent quenching his blade's thirst while exploring the region.
Well, he thought, 'explore' is used lightly... since I'm being led by the hand around here.
His companion and mate had said she used to live in this area. It wasn't unbelievable, however he often wondered if that would prove more useful or harmful in their travels. She wasn't exactly known for being friendly and nice to folks... often seeing them below her. It wasn't a problem, because most of the time it was true-- however it did little in the way of making allies and a lot in the way of finding folks who'd slip a dagger in the small of your back in a dark alley.
They were struggling-- stumbling and fumbling over each other trying to figure out one another. Both of them had made certain sacrifices... sacrifices that cost. He knew that she wanted nothing more than to keep him like a caged bird and spend out the rest of their days. Her sense of adventuring had gone with the years, but he had just gotten a sniff of the great 'adventurer's life'. Where she was almost 'too-experienced', he was more or less a green boy. Well traveled, but in lands that rarely used magic, or had monstrous creatures, or even great armies of darkness. It was all new to him.
Though he was managing. His humming paused a moment as a sly smile played across his lips as his hand slipped down to pat his pants pocket, insuring his voucher was still tucked safely away.
Gideon was always full of surprises.
The Alpha Male Chronicles
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The Alpha Male Chronicles
ZOMFGOMBIES!
Five months ago...
Trumpets sounded in a harmonious fanfare as the combatants entered the arena. The crowd roared with excitement as their favored heroes of the Taescadian Fighting Pits all collectively gathered for one final and glorious blood bath. The blazing sun beat down on the glistening bronzed skin of the would-be champions. Weapons were drawn and gleaming in the sunlight as each man, woman, and humanoid beast slowly absorbed the energy and charged excitement in the air. By now, each of them were so drunk with blood lust they couldn't image taking the sweet bottle of slaughter from their parched lips. Whether it was for the money, the glory, or the sick pleasure of the rush... they were all here to not only fight, but win.
One in particular, a strange man whom the crowd seemed to adore for his swift climb to the top. His battle prowess in the arena and sleek display in the public eye made him all the more popular. Was he a slave fighter? Free-lance warrior? A convicted and tried murderer? None knew, however there was a rumor that this armored swordsman was from a distant land, beyond the storm-stricken seas on the Avian Straights-- named such for the large rocs that were said to roost in scattered rocky islands along that particular waterway.
'The Mercenary' they called him-- or as some say, as he calls himself. He always carried a sort of romanticism and mystery about him, always keeping his face masked by a horned helm. He had won every one-on-one match up to date, and had even bested one of the arena's toughest competitors, Trogg the Destroyer. This feat alone turned some very important heads, and the outcome of this last match would determine whether some risky investors would become very rich very quickly, or would be gutted in a backalley by those unsavory folks to which they were indebted.
The cheers of the crowds died down as the Arena Master appeared on the high balcony overlooking the entire complex. It was Duke Kriegor, a hulking beast of a man, who had traded his own arena armor for elegant robes and his sword for a coin purse. He was legend on the eastern shores as the longest living combatant in the Pits. He survived over thirty-three years of non-stop killing for sport. When he retired, he was given a ruling position by the local government as a gift for so many years of entertaining bloodshed.
Then the duke raised his hand, high above his head.
Once the crowd had silenced, there was an eerie calm over the entire arena complex. Not even the gulls from the sea port on the other side of the city could be heard over the hushed anticipation.
And the duke's hand dropped in a slicing motion.
The final battle for this season's arena matches had begun!
Trumpets sounded in a harmonious fanfare as the combatants entered the arena. The crowd roared with excitement as their favored heroes of the Taescadian Fighting Pits all collectively gathered for one final and glorious blood bath. The blazing sun beat down on the glistening bronzed skin of the would-be champions. Weapons were drawn and gleaming in the sunlight as each man, woman, and humanoid beast slowly absorbed the energy and charged excitement in the air. By now, each of them were so drunk with blood lust they couldn't image taking the sweet bottle of slaughter from their parched lips. Whether it was for the money, the glory, or the sick pleasure of the rush... they were all here to not only fight, but win.
One in particular, a strange man whom the crowd seemed to adore for his swift climb to the top. His battle prowess in the arena and sleek display in the public eye made him all the more popular. Was he a slave fighter? Free-lance warrior? A convicted and tried murderer? None knew, however there was a rumor that this armored swordsman was from a distant land, beyond the storm-stricken seas on the Avian Straights-- named such for the large rocs that were said to roost in scattered rocky islands along that particular waterway.
'The Mercenary' they called him-- or as some say, as he calls himself. He always carried a sort of romanticism and mystery about him, always keeping his face masked by a horned helm. He had won every one-on-one match up to date, and had even bested one of the arena's toughest competitors, Trogg the Destroyer. This feat alone turned some very important heads, and the outcome of this last match would determine whether some risky investors would become very rich very quickly, or would be gutted in a backalley by those unsavory folks to which they were indebted.
The cheers of the crowds died down as the Arena Master appeared on the high balcony overlooking the entire complex. It was Duke Kriegor, a hulking beast of a man, who had traded his own arena armor for elegant robes and his sword for a coin purse. He was legend on the eastern shores as the longest living combatant in the Pits. He survived over thirty-three years of non-stop killing for sport. When he retired, he was given a ruling position by the local government as a gift for so many years of entertaining bloodshed.
Then the duke raised his hand, high above his head.
Once the crowd had silenced, there was an eerie calm over the entire arena complex. Not even the gulls from the sea port on the other side of the city could be heard over the hushed anticipation.
And the duke's hand dropped in a slicing motion.
The final battle for this season's arena matches had begun!
ZOMFGOMBIES!