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About Lightsnowe

  • Rank
    The Sloth
  • Birthday 04/28/1988

RP Related

  • Main Character
    Rhode Lightsnowe
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  1. The groaning door swept open then shut, a new figure strutting into the humble little half-pub. If Asimenios registered the addition of another newcomer to the thin herd, it did not show in his vacant, unhappy posture. In truth, he was miles away. Or years, perhaps. A bluebird bounced along just out the window, probing for seed in the unkempt grass. Even its brilliant plumage failed to draw the Au’ra from the deep well of his thoughts, pink and black eyes fixated on nothing at all. ‘Me sir? Me sirrr? SIR!’ The wait girl stamped her foot to punctuate the squeak of her voice. Asime withdrew from his reverie and affected an apologetic, sheepish half-smile. He reached to help her place his meal on the table before him, rumbling with a low ‘ah, thank you darling.’ He hadn’t realized how hungry he’d become until the warm aroma of fresh bread and savory notes of thick stew drifted from his bowl. Despite the gnaw in his belly, he ate slowly and deliberately. Straight-backed and silent. Guiding morsels onto the fork with a brush of the knife, chewing thoughtfully and on occasion daubbing his dark lips with a kerchief kept draped over his lap. He seemed for a moment to fumble his utensils, dropping the fork and staring balefully at it where it lay on the floor. A scathing oath churned in the brilliant pink of his eyes, but never found its way to his throat. Reaching, he pinched the silvery item between two fingers, polished it clean on his kerchief, and set back to work. A keen observer would find the Au’ra man lacked either of his thumbs. Pugilist bandagings wound tightly over firm knuckles as well as the empty sockets where the opposable digits should have been. It made eating with fork-and-knife studious, deliberate work. There was clear temptation to simply skewer the meats and ‘tatoes floating in his stew and wolf the whole lot of them down. Asimenios Dies’irae suffered his indignity patiently, affecting an air of proper nobility. Only when his meal was complete, his belly filled and his legs stretched, did he part with the ghosts of the near-present and afford himself another sweep of the tavern’s inhabitants. Measuring, gauging. And then… Oh. A dusky catte lad, youthful and well-made, was holding eye contact from across the tavern. Naked curiosity dominated the youth’s features. The pale mark over his eye lent him a rogueish charm, the state of his boots and attire suggesting time spent on the road. You too have tread the winding paths of this place. Not all of them have been paved, I see. Asime lowered his horns just so slightly as to convey a solemn nod, then politely turned the intensity of his own appraisal elsewhere. But before he could drift back into some deeply personal reverie, an idea surfaced from the snakepit of his thoughts. He glanced back at the fellow, a Bard if that harp and bow were any indication, and pursed his lips. Debating. Debating. Deciding. Decided. The towering Au’Ra scooped up his little bowl with thumb-less hands, glided up to his feet and bridged the gap to settle back in at D’hezrel’s table. Here he set his empty bowl down, and folded cable-muscled arms beneath the cover of his tattered old cloak. He spoke in a low, sonorous tone that required no repeat despite its quiet delivery. ‘Well met, Minstrel. I wish not to intrude upon you or your business. However I have business of my own, and find myself in need of a guide through these unfamiliar woods. Tell me, are you familiar with the North and its forests?’
  2. The crackle shot out like thunder through the small glade in the wooded forest, casting birds from their perches and critters into their burrows. Another whip-shot crackle, like deep thunder boomed out and another. A voice raised higher and higher before abruptly cutting off. A cluster of figures writhed against one another beneath the stoic evergreens, turning proud grass to churned mud. They had descended upon him from nowhere. Four quick-handed bandits, laiden with knives and swords. Beneath the mid-day sun, dappled by forest haze and the gently questing fingers of tall branches swaying in a cool breeze, he had only an instant’s warning. From the brush, from behind a barrel-wide oak, another dropping from an overhead branch. They were quick and had the element of stealth and surprise, each a lean-muscled brute clad in hard boiled leather and brandishing sturdy weapons. They were hard, tough men. Grinning with wolfish certainty and hunger. Asimenios Dies’Irae didn’t flinch, and he didn’t falter. He had had some years to get tough, himself. In the brief span before the ambush was sprung, he assessed his attackers and moved to deny them. Another, VERY loud crunch echoed through the wooded glade, like the croaking and groaning of a collapsing tree. The bandit Asime struck flew backwards, actually knocked from the ground, and collided with the ground. He skidded to a halt, and didn’t get up. Two of his peers lay in similar disheveled heaps, breathing heavily and moaning in barely conscious pain. The final man standing blinked slowly, taking in the sudden violence with a gasp. His legs began to shake and his fingers quailed as he struggled to notch an arrow and train it on his prey. ‘Mmh,’ Asimenios rumbled in a chest-deep grunt. He fixed the remaining archer with an unencouraging stare, proceeded to stride towards him. The Au’ra towered head-and-shoulders over the Hyur, almost devilish with his dark hair and darker horns. ‘Should’ve thought of that sooner, chum. An arrow flies quieter than any man. I would’ve fired from cover, moved in when it was a sure thing.’ The bandit cursed his fumbling, nearly dropping his arrow. A few paces away, Asimenios could see better the freckles peeking over his poorly shod face-mask, the thin-ness of his half-gloved fingers. The wet fear screaming from panicked eyes. ‘Keep it in mind. For next time.’ The young bandit cursed again, finally setting his arrow and drawing. He released. The arrow went nowhere, snatched right from the bow by a quick metal hand. Asime, having closed the distance in a blink, thwapped the poor kid over the head. The arrow snapped, fell to the grassy floor. With a start, the would-be bandit also dropped on his butt, blubbering in fear. Asime sighed through his nose, surveyed his work. The other three would live, though they might not be popping out from cover and jumping on anyone any time soon. Then he assessed the youth, grumbled some. A satin pouch dropped from beneath his broad cloak, he gave it a kick and it rolled to the lad with the jangle of coin. ‘Tell them you played dead, but nicked me all the same. They’ll respect you. Maybe enough to not ask any questions when you sneak off, and find yourself a -proper- vocation in the city. Mm?’ One of the leather-clad piles nearby groaned, started to come to. The youth stared at the pouch, then snatched it up with clear shame. By the time he looked back up, the Au’ra had gone. Leaving only the forest breeze and the unpleasant noises of men who’d been taught a valuable lesson. ~~~ The tavern was a sleepy little cabin in the thicket of the woods, a sleepy little haven for those bold enough to meander along these northern paths. Little trade came this way, deterred by reports of bandits and other, even less savory things. Asimenios hardly expected to stumble up[on it at all, this dainty little two-story building. Constructed of rows of logs and a steepled thatch roof, it seemed almost so idyllic as if to have been contrived from some author’s imagination. He nearly ignored it and set about being on his way, but for the rumble in his belly and the ache of his feet. An hour or two only, enough to catch my wind, he thought as he marched towards the place, its chimney whispering a thin tendril of dark smoke. No more, then I am on my way. I’ve a decent head start, best not squander it. As steadily as his steps guided him to the tavern, he took care to guide his thoughts away from his pursuers. To dwell on the whole of the picture, the truth of what happened, shot lances of cold pain through his heart and piercing flares of dread in his temples. He hurried across the dirty forest road, as if to outpace his own dreadful memories. A single hardwood door was his only barrier. It groaned conspicuously, disgorging a wave of warm, spiced air while simultaneously announcing the new-comer. Asimenios regarded the rustic interior with a sweeping glance. It was nearly as empty as his belly. He assessed the sparse inhabitants briefly. One could never shake what had become habit; sizing up possible threats, identifying who was and was not on alert, dividing simple curiosity from purposeful intent, the tricks of the trade for any long-lived war dog. For their part, the tender and handful of patrons would catch an eyeful of their own. The Au’ra was of the tall and powerful build common amongst his people, ornamented by a weathered, forest green cloak and a defaulting scowl. Remarkable were the jet black horns protruding from the sides of a dark-haired head, and the harrowing quality of the eyes gazing back at them. They blazed with barely contained savagery, like a pair of pink diamonds set upon pools of abyssal black. Bright irises and dark sclera were not so unusual, but it was as though this one’s eye color had been cranked by some mad Maker’s hand to their extremes. They were unsettling to look at for very long. While one or two opted to stare, much of the tavern-dwellers opted to return to their own business as quickly as possible. Asimenios Dies’Irae found no offense in either category. He understood the nature of his appearance. Certainly there were plenty of dark brutes parading around these days, carrying themselves like conquerors, behaving like cunts. He understood the prejudice. It served him well, at times. Dissuading company has its advantages, on the hurried road. Floorboards creaking beneath his armored feet, the Au’ra crossed to a barren booth, eased himself in with a graceful shift and proceeded to unstrap one of his gauntlets. Before he had set it on the darkwood table a nervous slip of a waitress, a pale haired miqo’te with a tidy red bow set in her braids, scrambled over to offer greetings and a pitcher of water. She seemed unphased by his sullen demeanor. Tall dark and brooding were a gil for a dozen these days. Her fearlessness drew an unfamiliar chuckle of laughter from his parched lips. She did not seem to share his private amusement. He placed an order and set to sinking in the cushions of his booth, tilting his horned head to peer out the adjacent window. And as much as he strained himself to NOT think about it, his mind refused to drift too far from the events of the day prior. His skull throbbed suddenly, his pulse jumped, and his frown intensified as unseeing pink eyes rested steadily on the paths outside.
  3. Lightsnowe


    Well, I would suggest poking and prodding around the forums. Introduce yourself to somebody who seems active. It'll take a little effort, but all worthwhile things do.
  4. Lightsnowe


    Thank you for reaching out, timid one. What is it you're looking for? What's your favorite RP style? In example, I myself don't get around to much RP in-game, but instead trend toward docs and forum posts. Others, as I understand it, do like to host events and weekly gatherings. Ultimately whatever you are interested in, I'm sure you'll find it. Or maybe it will find you.
  5. Olivian smiled disarmingly, smoothed back his hair. He turned to one of the miqo’te, cupping his mouth conspiratorially. ‘She thinks me charming. Haw!’ The acidity of Nubian’s sarcasm evaded him with prodigious talent. They marched along, dappled by passing streamers of sunlight. The lush green vegetation flanking their merry little band locked in an explosion of vibrant green color, inching up to smother more and more sunlight as the years strained along. Olivian occupied his dawdling mind by wondering whether the trees could hear themselves growing. Ring by ring, bark by bark. How utterly dreadfully boring. And predictable! Imagine it, being rooted in the same dull place seeing the same dull things day in and day out. Grazed upon by some ungrateful, turd dropping four legger. Wizzed upon by some passing predator, as though your form were THEIRS to claim as territory. And then hacked to splinters and folded into some simpleton’s cookbook or what have you. Or a cradle for his mewling spawn. Ugh. Surely there was no justice in being born a tree. The forest as equal parts savage and unfair as the great cities of man. At least here the inhabitants would keep their foul and simpleton opinions to themselves. Save for the song of the birds, as they darted in and out of cover overhead. The birds were nice. Pleasant even. Olivian was locked in some deep reverie about what might constitute his most favorite species -leaning heavily towards the north-eastern chickadees for their dark little helmets and brave little hearts- when the call of ambush shouted out and everyone else ducked into cover. Leaving him gawking there in the middle of the road with a curve of his brow and for all intents a thumb up his ass. ‘Hm,’ he stated regarding his predicament. And he twisted about to frown ever at the clutch of birdmen emerging from deep cover. Arrows sliced on by, and with a careening scraw of battle several Ixali warriors sprinted into the dusty road. Unnerved at being so crudely jettisoned from the sanctum of his thoughts, the Summoner swung his bundled coat around in an abrupt arc and slapped aside a volley of projectiles intended for his person. He assessed the positions of his newfound best-friends, the nature of the oncoming foemen. And from the snakepit of his imagination hatched a sufficiently cruel plan. ‘Garuda, my love. Fly to me on your wispy wings!’ His voice was pitched with spectacular effort. He struck a specific, odd pose and relaxed it. There was a savage gust of wind, just then. It swept through the forest, dislodging loose leafs and crackling dry branches. Some lime-green THING darted down from the skies, shrieking with otherworldly superiority. It alighted before the Summoner with a flourish of brilliant wings and a down-gust, regarded him with open amusement. ‘Ah- there you are. Who is my most favorite girl? You, yes you,’ Olivian purred. The miniature primal, a being composed of intense green aether and swirling air shook her head and rolled her eyes, swatting the incorrigible master with one of her arm-wings. She was a meagre fraction of the true Primal whose form she so elegantly imitated, all slender limbs and effeminate hips. But she bore the power of the windy aspect all the same, and when the Summoner gestured to the oncoming wall of Ixil, it was with sudden violence that she swooped in and attacked. It seemed befitting to conjure a simulacrum of their own goddess, after all. Most of the ambushing beastmen gave sudden pause to the sight of their treasured Highness, even while she slashed their throats and sliced their limbs with claws of sharpened air. Would they muster the heart to strike at an image of their most sacred idol? Olivian for his part was interested to observe. Sadly his role as passive note-taker would soon be interrupted. A nimble birdman leapt high above the fray and came raining down upon him with an outrageously long spear. The barbs of its stone head poised for his heart -as little and evasive the black thing could be- and the Ixili shrieked with indignation as it descended faster than lightening. ‘Oh bother,’ Olivian murmured and he ripped off one of his fine white gloves and reached up. He pushed his bare palm into the beastman’s face while catching the spear’s haft with his free hand, the sheer force sliding him back on his heels for several yalms. The Garlian Summoner had broken into a malevolent smile since the ambush had been upon them, and he hadn’t stopped since. The birdman’s face began to smoke and smoulder where the man’s bare skin touched it. It tried to cry out in shock and pain, but only an arid hiss escaped its agape beak, as its skull began to shrivel and crumble into ash. The Aether was being sucked from it, like the intensity of the sun sucking a puddle from the desert. An instant later, it was shriveled like some overcooked poultry, wafting off a similar scent. Olivian tossed the dry carcass aside, his attention set to the crudely crafted spear he now possessed. Too heavy, too brutish, he seemed to assess, merely dropping it in the road. His conjured mini-Gardua screeee’d and scrawwww’d and swooped and killed, and Olivian turned his underwhelmed gaze towards Nubian and her crew. ‘Oh. -These- Ixal. Of course, how could I have forgotten.’
  6. Rhode’s lavender tail swayed and snapped. He regarded the Ladyfel evenly with terrible eyes, gnawing unseen and shredded lips beneath the shroud of his scarf. As the pain settled from sharp and distracting to a more tolerable throb, he was allotted more focus to take in the breadth of his waker. Small and studious, with the charming pointed ears and silent intensity of expression championed by her people. A kindness to her, a care to her attire and effects that bespoke an organized and efficient mind. Empathy too, if her sympathetic wincing were any indicator. A commodity rarer than Ascian Silver, empathy. Mayhap Voldmyr has the right of it; the size of a person only informs how much asshole they can contain. Less than most, this one. Less than most. The lady reprimanded him with a clever quip about how he set his habits, drawing forth a brook-like burble of a chuckle from the Miqo’te. ‘Ah- that’s me, sorted. Wake each and every morning, step one foot on the floor and one foot in some big pisser’s mug and he clocks me back to sleep. Never know how hard it is to get things done in a day when you ain’t roused ‘til noon!’ Well he thought that was funny, at least. Patting his thighs and tending to a phantom tear. These theatrics loosened something vital and cast him in a wracking gasp of pain, palm clutching at his re-arranged ribs. To her inquiries of finding a healer, Rhode presented a charmed and thankful grin. It was swallowed entirely by his unseasonably scarf, given away only by the faint crinkling in the corners of his fathomless eyes. ‘Well I was fixing to jaunt my way back to the ol’ shack. Bossman wanted me back before sunfall and if I get crawling now my carcass should be there by next week.’ It was near impossible to get a read of whether he was being serious or speaking in hyperbole. ‘Thanks for not taking my wallet. Oh, and uh if you're offering...’ A cautious, practiced hesitation. History had also taught Rhode Lightsnowe to be wary in requesting the extended company of strangers. Particularly of the pleasant variety. And that was a lesson he needn't learn twice. ‘Would you mind speeding me along? Back to the bossman at least? I think he’d like to meet you. You seem like good people.’
  7. To my great satisfaction Jenova is just lousy with RP. You can't throw a stick without twelve folks waxing poetic about the clamor it makes rebounding off the street or a fistfight breaking out over who is permitted to approach it first. I always assumed the other servers were similarly populated, maybe ya'll just need more sticks! For my part my time in-game is somewhat limited so I remain very goal-oriented. You know, dailies to run and tomes to gather, and minutes spent admiring the floor of the Eden fights, that sort of thing. For my part I get all my RP in on forums and the like, or through Docs. I've had discord proposed to me as an alternative but I've respectfully declined. SO if you'd like to get something started, toss me an intro either privately or on the forum and I'll have a steady barely legible stream of responses for you as soon as feasible. And welcome.
  8. Rhode lay motionless. Sleeping off the whupping, collecting a fine little puddle of drool. A fly landed on his pale cheek, strutted like a conqueror. His was a brief and unpleasant respite. Visions surfaced and faded, snapshots taken along the winding paths of life. Some were familiar, some were foreign. Most were unhappy. One instant he was pacing a beach clutching the soft hand of a long-lost lover, the next he was casting aside a dented helmet to mourn a fallen brother beneath a war-stained sky. Here there were endless vistas of grey emptiness, presided over by mangled titanic forms, and then just as suddenly he was suspended over a roiling ocean with nary a spec of land in sight. Plummeting, plummeting, throwing his arms over his face and screaming into impact- Splash. All failing limbs and sputtering oaths, Rhode awoke to a world of wet hair and sore joints. He was well enough to curse, at least. He sewed together a tapestry of vulgarity so acidic it could peel the weather-proofing from the planks beneath him. And who could blame him, he was drowning after all. This is it. Committed to the icy depths. May my sins sink with me. Only after a few moments of sputtering and morbidity did the catte come to realize he wasn’t in fact drowning in his phantom ocean. His sins would be sinking another day it seemed, for when a single golden eye cracked open it was to assess a sun-kissed pier and an unimpressed Lalafell. Rhode lay there a bit, entangled in his own limbs and tattered vest. The undone braid of his lavender-and-white hair matted against his frowning face, lending him the sullen visage of some cat-eared swamp thing. ‘Heterochromia,’ he observed in greeting, taking great care to leverage himself onto his back. Indeed, he liked her eyes. Found himself gawking at them upside-down, his head tilted accordingly. When it seemed that would be the end of this conversation, the Miqo’te groaned his way up to his feet gathered his scarf and wound the dusty fabric loosely around his neck then turned to the fair eyed lady. Nimble fingers pinched droplets of her mineral water from his sloppy braid and his scrutiny narrowed. Rhode was of unremarkable height and lean of frame, the figure beneath his shredded attire honed by strife common to the age. Standing just before the Lala, he seemed to affect a slouched posture. Diminishing himself as to not tower impolitely over the shorter stature of her being. Or maybe it was to favor his ribs? He inhaled through his nose and exhaled into the carefully wound scarf, the perfect sigh. His tattered lips rendered invisible, his tattered ego bare to all. ‘Being fair, I had it coming. Stole the bloke’s drink and didn’t need to mouth off at him. Ah well.’ His voice had a lyrical quality to it, a smoothness. It sauntered and swayed to an unheard melody, low and near confidential. It was a tone one would reserve for a near and dear friend, not someone you’d just been drenched by. There was something else. A hollow to the brilliant gold of his eyes. There was something unright about them, about him. Something that zapped the instincts like static. ‘Danger!’ it jolted. ‘Fight it, or flight it!’ For his part, Rhode held eye contact, then turned his gaze elsewhere. Aware of the undefined effects he could have. History taught him the dangers of staring too long. The best augurs are those who divine from the portents of the past. The quote sprang to mind unsolicited. Where had he heard it before? Had he heard it before? These things tended to surface into his thoughts unbidden, bobbing like so many parcels floating from a wrecked ship. A flicker of confusion danced over his expression. He regarded the nearby gulls dispassionately, seeking insight where only squonking could be offered. ‘From the look of it, I owe you a drink too. Water, yeah? And a fish, maybe.' He broke from his solemnity to fire her a toyful wink, gestured at her snapped line with a thumb. 'But arguments could be made that one ain’t entirely on me.’
  9. Every window was thrown wide, begging for just the slightest breath from off the coast. Men of all makes and models slouched or sprawled and it felt like the whole hazy dive was holding back a languid yawn. Darkwood bartop circle-stained with glass-sweat, only the occasional clatter of shuffled ice disrupted the stillness of the place. The heat invited laziness and ill-tempers. The figures lining the bar’s broad counter sank into privacy, to each man his own private and personal hell. Rhode Lightsnowe sulked among them, elbow to elbow with a pair of hardy regulars. Ears flat against his head and tail drooping limp, the miqo’te fellow pressed his cheek into a fist and executed a perfect sigh. The effort dusted away the thin shavings of shelled peanuts arranged in a congregation before him. He traced their passage with half-lidded eyes and tapped the counter. ‘Keep, ‘nother please thank you.’ The barkeeper, a broad sweatstain of a fellow, rumbled consent and lurched into motion. A clink of glass, the bobble of liquor. Rhode cupped his brimming shot-glass with a steady hand, tugged down his scarf and tossed it back. Honeyed fire spilled down his throat, coiled in his belly like a smoldering viper. A pleasant numb scaled its way back up, invaded his thoughts. Gods be good, or Gods be damned. Somebody turn down this heat. Ifrit himself wouldn’t put up with this. ‘A bit much’ he would concede, daubing his horned head with a kerchief. The image caught Rhode unawares, and he chortled at it. The chortle closed up his dry throat, evolved into a cough. The cough in turn got lonesome, invited friends. Soon the lavender catte was hacking and wheezing and lashed out blindly to drink the nearest thing accessible. The beer was rank and unpleasant. But it was nasty enough to do the trick, flushing down his fit in one uncomely glug. Best polish the thing off, just to be thorough. When Rhode smacked the mug back down on the counter, it was with a sigh of satisfaction and total ignorance of the sheer hate radiating from the guy next to him. ‘Oy CATTE. That there was MINES.’ ‘Uhm?’ Rhode retorted, with the masterful prose of a silver-tongued diplomat. He frowned from beneath his scarf, tilting his nose downward and taking in the measure of the mountain stirring beside him. The guy, a Roegadyn of considerable heft, twisted in menace. Eyes of dull bronze regarded Rhode like a tag of tissue stuck beneath one’s boot. ‘Said that was mines.’ ‘Alright alright, I heard you clear the first time, just. Hold on I’ll get you another what-was-that, plumfruit smoothie? No it was a cupcake milkshake, right?’ The heat was putting him in a mood. ‘Say ‘keeper, another Pink Passion Peach Crush for my man here!’ A murmur of amusement evaporated from the sticky crowd. Heads turned and gazes were cast. The Roe’s lips twisted into a not-quite smile, not quite sneer. His irritation hardened into something more akin to gratitude. Like he’d just opened his first Starlight present. ‘Outside. Now.’ ‘Yeah you know what I think that’s a great idea.’ He was wrong. The pier was wretchedly hot, and the flat sea refused to give up even a whisper of a breeze. Once the offended Roegadyn had vented his summery frustrations, Rhode was reduced to an untidy heap easily mistaken for misplaced rubbish. An entrepreneurial gull alighted nearby, to point and laugh and caw its buddies over. His vest had been torn in the beating, something in his ribs had given with a wet snap. One eye was swollen shut entirely, the other unfocused. Just out of reach of his bruised fingers lay his scarf, torn from his face and stomped upon with baleful intent. Rhode strained to reach for it. It was rare enough a concession that he abstained from wearing a helmet, to have the tattered scar-covered tilt of his lips exposed for all to see was an indignity even he couldn’t endure. ‘That’s all you got?’ he rasped and ejected a wad of bright scarlet. ‘Kicking my ass?’ And with that, the miqo’te’s world faded to black.
  10. Hello Eirhildr, and welcome! I don't think you're rambling at all, part of the journey is in finding one's self after all. When you mention you feel like something's missing, that's an interesting thought. What do you feel is missing?
  11. Like any accomplished worm, the deeper beneath her skin he got, the more satisfied Olivian seemed. It seemed genuinely more important to him to thrive off the disapproval of others than to secure his own safety, evidenced by the fact he hadn’t mentioned getting arrowed and how unpleasant and unfriendly that was. So it was, when Ajisai -or Nubia as the grumbly little creature had introduced herself- mentioned she hoped he’d be stuck out in weather conditions he didn’t find comfortable, she was presented a serpent’s smile of venom and appetite. ‘Ah hah, yes very good. Very good in-deed.’ And while his face certainly didn’t -feel- very annoying, he checked it anyway with a white glove and a ‘tut-tut’ reserved for only the most keen of ears. The tall fellow, looming a good head and shoulders above the fairer skinned Summoner, continued to squint at him as though he were trying to read something scandalous on his bones, but that girl teased him into finding insight elsewhere. Fortunately, the Boss interrupted with her instructions. Olivian watched and listened, clearly straining to pay attention. It was altogether too bright for him, out in the middle of the road. He strode some paces away and listened from the cover of trees, polishing off his paper-pipe with a few hurried puffs. Evidently the grand plan was to split up, sensible enough. The Boss seemed to know her guerilla warcraft just fine, hitting and running and forwarding a scout asset to the next mark while cycling the goods back to HQ. Olivian wondered whether she had any formal training, pursuing the thought to its logical conclusion and moving on. Being placed on scout duty seemed to piss Nubia off, which served to deepen Olivian’s insufferable air of satisfaction. ‘Well lets go,’ she placated as amiably as an underpaid babysitter on a Friday night, and delivered on her assessment of annoyance by stomping off in the requisite direction. Introductions were handed out begrudgingly, and to each individual Olivian shared his name and a handshake, should one be welcomed. His hand was delicate, but his grip shockingly firm for one of such floral demeanor. It was a bit redundant to introduce himself three times in a row, but it displayed extraordinary care and seriousness, as though he were there to meet each of the three personally. And with that, they were off. The mid-day sun soon became wearisome along their dusty trek; Olivian shrugged off his jacket and loosened the throat of his tie, revealing his thinnish frame and attention to the high style of an ancient kingdom. He did well to conceal his third, silvery bead of an eye with an unruly plume of coiled black hair, artfully drawing the rest of the mass back into a low tail with a few efficient gestures. ‘Ixal? I am afraid I am not familiar with the term,’ he stated. ‘We will be soon to Buscarrion my dear, what is it expressly we will be looking for?’
  12. As anticipated, his actions caused all manner of fuss and distrust. The crew seemed to snap to the Bosslady’s commands, both spoken and otherwise. They fanned out with some semblance of professionalism, checking the road for waylayers or other such unwelcome subterfuges. Olivian remained as still as prudence permitted, knowing full well any sudden movements or jerking gestures would be awarded with another skewering. Alton's open distrust promised it, nearly begging for the chance. Speaking of, the arrow-wound had taken to mending on its own, owing to a technological marvel the details of which would remain unexplained until insisted upon. Hint: while the body beneath absorbed enough Aether to knit itself back together, the well-dressed fellow’s coat had taken to a shade even darker than before. A near-imperceptible difference, but a difference all the same. A true curiosity; the observant onlooker would have noticed the silver pearl of this odd man's third eye, marking him as a Garlean. And those born of Galarond are well known for having no magical sympathy what-so-ever. Hence the rise of their technologically advanced Empire: where one cannot contend with conjured balls of fire or storms of ice, one must make do with wartanks and mechsuits. Yet here he was, self-mending. And calling forth mini-Primals, no less. Anyway. The bandits shuffled around him, taking stock of the wagon, murmuring among themselves. The Summoner observed placidly, simply raising his palms and side-stepping to keep out the way. From some private pocket he produced a thin, finger long stick of some white paper material and a little silvery rectangle; with the cup of a hand and the flick of a thumb, he bit one end of the little stick and produced a devious little flame to light the other. In an instant, the scent of minty leaves issued forth from him, riding along a long plume of pale smoke that expelled from pursed lips. Olivian tipped some ash and smoked patiently, his poisonous eyes drifting from person to person. The stealthy slip of a girl whom he’d spotted earlier came glowering over, making her demands of explanation. ‘Vitus,’ he corrected politely, curving his lips to the side to avoid blowing smoke in her dark, distrusting face. ‘And I wouldn’t -quite- say I gave up, my dear. More accurately I see no observable reason to oppose you or your industrious kin in your redistribution of locally sourced wealth, and frankly you’re all far too lively to pass up on.’ And she accused him of not being ordinary, which earned her a private, devilish smile. ‘Ah-hah! Hah, aaah… quite.’ he trailed off, as though that were the natural end of that conversation. There were some allowance made about the girl’s temper, even as she grumbled away and shot-putted her rightfully acquired bag of beans back into the wagon with an unaffectionate ‘whump’. Olivian tipped some ash from his little stick, dismissing the notion with the masterfully good nature of a seasoned diplomat, or the flagrant disinterest of a sociopath. ‘Well what a day. What’s next on the itinerary? Something out of this dreadful sun, I do hope.’ A puff and a plume and he chewed his mini-paper-pipe and pocketed his white-gloved hands and stood at the ready, wearing an expression of haughty amusement.
  13. Olivian shirked into himself a bit, shoulders tensing and head scrunching down in the classic form of a man hearing bad news from behind his back. He was facing the wagon by now, all squared up and contended to just walk away from the… colorful youths surrounding him. And his poisonous eyes passed slowly over the spot where Ajisai occupied, and although they did not stop upon her, his lips tilted into a cruel and knowing grin all the same. And just then an Au’Ra fellow sauntered into view, must’ve been a trick of that damnable light which had hidden him prior. The Titans recoiled at the closeness of this individual, gazing between one another in silent debate over who done goofed and let someone get so close to the boss. This new guy, with the horns and the scales and the forced bravado, seemed to be a very sad man roleplaying as a rambunctious girl, something about the quality of him giving away the game to a more studious eye. Or eyes. More on that later. In any case, Olivian found himself distracted by Altan’s performance, less so out of genuine interest and more owing to how the lad’s scaly mouth seemed more suited to frowning than spinning smooth lines about the state of one’s pants. ‘Why yes, they are rather spiffy aren’t they,’ the Summoner agreed, patting down his quite fashionable trousers with a sniff of pride. Not one to be outdone, the leader of the troupe spoke up again, drawing another languid peer over the Hyur’s bloodied shoulder. He frowned at her intelligently, and reached a fine white glove to rub at his forehead, or brush the dark curls of hair as one would part a curtain. He politely waited for her to finish. ‘Vitus, actually. Vie-tuss. Vitus! Now I do recall mentioning ‘silent as the grave’, yes, and I have to say dear lady you are doing a VERY poor job of listening.’ Olivian swiveled around to face the group again, eyes moving from person to person. Pulling in small details; reading the eagerness in eyes, observing the distributed weight of stances, measuring the quality of hardware. He determined quickly who was serious and who was along for the sake of it, but everywhere he looked he found earnesty and pride. It was nearing amusement, to see such energetic folk all gathered together for a single cause. Hells above do I miss war. Sigh. There is a camaraderie you can only find on the field, a kinship tied between souls who have bled together, snored together, wept together, laughed together with their very lives on the line. He saw it here, in these dirty bandits, and that set him back a step. -’come on, almost got it…’- There was a hand peeking up over the rim of the wagon, patting around the interior in search for goodies, the way a cat paws blindly beneath a table. It was charming, and Olivian issued a brief melodic laugh in spite of the threats around him. Of course he could see the girl just fine, though concealed by a glimmer of some mudra or other. Very very few things could pass unnoticed by the third silver eye stuck like a pale bead in the center of Olivian’s forehead, though itself might have passed inspection hidden as it was behind the unruly crop of his jet hair. He fired a knowing wink in Ajisai’s general direction, then righted himself to address the catte lady smouldering before him. ‘But you know what, I think you’re onto something. Let’s be friends.’ The Summoner clicked his teeth twice, and immediately the quartet of oily, muscular manly Titans flexed one final flex before poofing out of existence with a comical plume of white Axe body spray. Well that isn’t true, one stayed behind. It hovered over to the Lallafell driver, who was catching it up on the storied history of the rare and coveted Giannantonio bean, and then proceeded to scoop up the little fellow from beneath his armpits and caber tossed him off into the distance. Some say Bubali Dobali never landed, and indeed continues his flight to this very day, jammering on and on about his wonderful fruit. His conjured men fading from this realm, Olivian was left by himself, offering a devious smile and a courteous bow as he flicked the tailgate of the splintery wagon and down it clunked, freeing up the ill-gotten bounty to be plundered without contest. ‘The Adventurer’s Guild doesn’t pay well enough anyway,’ Olivian reasoned, straightening and adjusting his thin black necktie. ‘Besides which, you all seem much more interesting.’
  14. A target for Olivian’s indignation emerged from the thicket, a lean catte-like slip of a woman as world-worn as she was pretty, with a whole posse of riffraff in tow. They shared knowing smirks with one another, reminding the Summoner of a ragged wolf pack. Or a squad of mates, fresh-faced and earnest, their uniforms still steaming from the Academy's irons. The woman cooed out a clever line about how handsome he was and how meaty his shields were, sounding every bit as smug as a catte cleaning her whiskers after her meal. The sight trimmed Olivian’s fury considerably. In another life, perhaps these very ones would have marched on Ishgard, Olivian mused while he flipped the bloodied arrow around and around between his slender fingers. In another land, Garlemond would have fed these ones and raised them to be full of the pride of the Empire. Perhaps that pride beats still within their hearts, the pride of the Land. But he was reminded of the sting of his arrow-wound, and more importantly the ruination of his fine shirt and with a stamp and a wave of his hand he cast the dark ringlets of hair out of his face and shot an accusatory point at the gang’s conspicuous leader. ‘You there!,’ he declared sonorously, his voice pitched with command. ‘These goods are under the direct protection of Olivian (don’t say it, you've got to remember to stop saying it) Vitus. That would be me. And I would see this chatty fellow and his… provisions to their rightful place. Unless you wish to put me to the test, I would advise you stay right where you are and contemplate every meaning of ‘still as the grave’, or you will find your ill-advised career has come to an unsightly end.’ Not too bad, as far as threats go. Olivian was never one to repeat himself, and though his initial wrath had subsided upon seeing the state of the woman and her brigand brigade, it simmered still just beneath the surface of his poison apple stare. He continued to regard the catte-lady with the intensity of a serpent staring down a blade of grass, while the ludicrously muscular Titan-Egi quartet set to flexing and throwing gang signs and crude, taunting gestures of their own. And though his composure may not have presented someone worth taking seriously, having thus far presented a more suitable pin cushion than foeman, there was an off-putting quality to the discipline of the Hyur’s posture and a sharpness to his movements that betrayed a talent for violence forged by cruelty and tempered in the fires of war. For a very, very brief instant, his fingers of his right hand twitched towards the wrist of his left, peeling back the glove just a hair or so, before ultimately deciding against it. Gloves on, for this one. For now. As for the wagon-driver, well he was blessedly ignorant of his own peril, and took go jabbering to anyone who happened to be nearby about the quality of variously sourced beans. He started hooting on and on to the Titan-Egi who had stopped the chocobo, then set to jammering further to nobody specific while lighting up his little pipe. Of eager Ajisai and stoic Altan, neither party made any notice, leaving them to their own unsupervised devices. The Summoner snapped the arrow, discarding the broken pieces back unto the earth. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, the day has already proven tedious enough without this needless bloodshed, and as it stands I must meet my destination before the set of the sun. I’ve a tailor in-town who will undoubtedly be glad to see me, or rather his pockets will. Honestly, I’m putting his kids through school by now, but such is the cost of quality goods, no?’ And he pointed out the best dressed of the brigands, further indicting him (or her!) with a slight upturn of his fair chin. ‘Ah see this one knows what I mean. That vest is impeccable! It really brings out the best of your build. Well done. ‘See? We are all friends now. Well, I’ll be leaving, take care. And remember! Still as the grave. Ta!’ And he spun around, kicking an elegant whirl in his overcoat and shrugging goodbye with an upturned glove.
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