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Finally, Cylus came to an end. One could almost hear the vile and wicked wail out as the eternal night would be no more, and their lamentations would be heard as the flowers began blooming in the form of flowers. Torches would no longer be a necessity, but another commodity, and the farm life of the Etzori plains would once again return in full blossom. Perhaps the cold breeze would still haunt the days, yet it wouldn’t carry strange whispers with it, nor would force one to look over their shoulder in fright. Life would return both in the world and in its people, who will show no long faces nor listen to sad bard songs in the evening.
Paplo didn’t think much of this change. It would be appreciated, certainly, yet it wasn’t a major change in his routine and perceptions. Instead of hearing beds rocking in the night, he’d hear the overly-enthusiastic moans of women echo in the distance. All life in this world seemed to be based around the notion of someone being inside someone else. Weren’t there better ways to spend one’s time, like learning or eating?
The teacher yawned politely as the last tenants came down the Second-Story Inn’s stairs, all carrying their warmest coats, their pockets full of goods like tobacco, keys, or the occasional flask of liquor to keep them even warmer in the night watch. The individuals themselves differed greatly one from the other; some were young while others were not, some were human and other were not, and some looked intimidating while other did not. The one quality they shared is that they wanted a free dinner for the night from Toom, as no one truly cared to keep the Outer Perimeter safe. Guards existed for that task, after all.
“Is everyone ready?” spoke the leader of the improvised militia, who called himself Garret but everyone called ‘Fungus’ for whatever reason.
The reply from the dozen men and women gathered around the counter was not very enthusiastic. However, they were ready.
“I believe we’re missing one,” communicated Paplo. “He should be here soon, I think.”
“That was a rhetorical question; we’re going out, Toom.” So much for courtesy.
The male split everyone in teams of three, two of those teams heading west and the other two heading east. Some genius had figured out that, since these watches they did often meant sitting outside the tavern, it would be better to just keep walking and circle the Outer Perimeter one time. As such, what Paplo had once considered a free meal had now turned into honest work. Furthermore, the possibility of just jumping one of the militia-men or women in an alley was not a viable option, for Paplo believed it to be too risky once the questions started flying.
Matched with the two individuals he’d spend part of his night with, an old man and some sleazy short fellow, they were quickly handed a short sword each, a torch, and a water skin before being sent off. House after house, they walked forth, looking left and right as the limited but active night activity developed before the passing eyes of the trio. A stray dog that’d soon be hunted by an opportunist, frozen mice in the depths of an alley, men exchanging whispers in corners, and the occasional female giggle that rumbled through the wooden houses without its source ever being found. Tonight, thought Paplo, he would waste his time.
“What’s your name, my good friend?” Paplo asked the old man.
“What!?” yelled said old men, who apparently had hearing problems. His eyes were confused. Paplo was smart enough to look away and never look back. It would be a long night.
Now, as his stomach grumbled, he recalled the broken promise of Lodred, Mastermark in the Etzori Army, a tall and muscular male with greasy pale flesh. The mere mental image made him salivate. It had been a while since Kovic had properly fed; his diet in the eyes of the Etzori was sufficiently big, for he skipped no meals nor saved coin in his purchases. Those meals, however, were insufficient. He could feel his clothing getting looser, his body becoming quicker, his ears listening attentively to the beating hearts of those around him. That was Lodred’s role; to feed him, not to teach dumb orphans how to swing a sword. The Mastermark had promised he’d come, yet he didn’t show up.
Paplo showed no sign of what thoughts crossed his mind. Just like his partners in crime, or justice in this case, he merely walked forth, looked out and about, and nodded to the occasional night wanderer they came across. Sometimes, he’d glance towards his comrades and wonder how much they weight, how well they feed, or how likely he was to get away with their murder.
1st of Ashan, 717
1st Break
1st Break
Finally, Cylus came to an end. One could almost hear the vile and wicked wail out as the eternal night would be no more, and their lamentations would be heard as the flowers began blooming in the form of flowers. Torches would no longer be a necessity, but another commodity, and the farm life of the Etzori plains would once again return in full blossom. Perhaps the cold breeze would still haunt the days, yet it wouldn’t carry strange whispers with it, nor would force one to look over their shoulder in fright. Life would return both in the world and in its people, who will show no long faces nor listen to sad bard songs in the evening.
Paplo didn’t think much of this change. It would be appreciated, certainly, yet it wasn’t a major change in his routine and perceptions. Instead of hearing beds rocking in the night, he’d hear the overly-enthusiastic moans of women echo in the distance. All life in this world seemed to be based around the notion of someone being inside someone else. Weren’t there better ways to spend one’s time, like learning or eating?
The teacher yawned politely as the last tenants came down the Second-Story Inn’s stairs, all carrying their warmest coats, their pockets full of goods like tobacco, keys, or the occasional flask of liquor to keep them even warmer in the night watch. The individuals themselves differed greatly one from the other; some were young while others were not, some were human and other were not, and some looked intimidating while other did not. The one quality they shared is that they wanted a free dinner for the night from Toom, as no one truly cared to keep the Outer Perimeter safe. Guards existed for that task, after all.
“Is everyone ready?” spoke the leader of the improvised militia, who called himself Garret but everyone called ‘Fungus’ for whatever reason.
The reply from the dozen men and women gathered around the counter was not very enthusiastic. However, they were ready.
“I believe we’re missing one,” communicated Paplo. “He should be here soon, I think.”
“That was a rhetorical question; we’re going out, Toom.” So much for courtesy.
The male split everyone in teams of three, two of those teams heading west and the other two heading east. Some genius had figured out that, since these watches they did often meant sitting outside the tavern, it would be better to just keep walking and circle the Outer Perimeter one time. As such, what Paplo had once considered a free meal had now turned into honest work. Furthermore, the possibility of just jumping one of the militia-men or women in an alley was not a viable option, for Paplo believed it to be too risky once the questions started flying.
Matched with the two individuals he’d spend part of his night with, an old man and some sleazy short fellow, they were quickly handed a short sword each, a torch, and a water skin before being sent off. House after house, they walked forth, looking left and right as the limited but active night activity developed before the passing eyes of the trio. A stray dog that’d soon be hunted by an opportunist, frozen mice in the depths of an alley, men exchanging whispers in corners, and the occasional female giggle that rumbled through the wooden houses without its source ever being found. Tonight, thought Paplo, he would waste his time.
“What’s your name, my good friend?” Paplo asked the old man.
“What!?” yelled said old men, who apparently had hearing problems. His eyes were confused. Paplo was smart enough to look away and never look back. It would be a long night.
Now, as his stomach grumbled, he recalled the broken promise of Lodred, Mastermark in the Etzori Army, a tall and muscular male with greasy pale flesh. The mere mental image made him salivate. It had been a while since Kovic had properly fed; his diet in the eyes of the Etzori was sufficiently big, for he skipped no meals nor saved coin in his purchases. Those meals, however, were insufficient. He could feel his clothing getting looser, his body becoming quicker, his ears listening attentively to the beating hearts of those around him. That was Lodred’s role; to feed him, not to teach dumb orphans how to swing a sword. The Mastermark had promised he’d come, yet he didn’t show up.
Paplo showed no sign of what thoughts crossed his mind. Just like his partners in crime, or justice in this case, he merely walked forth, looked out and about, and nodded to the occasional night wanderer they came across. Sometimes, he’d glance towards his comrades and wonder how much they weight, how well they feed, or how likely he was to get away with their murder.
