Post by Capitan Sinn on Jun 7, 2010 0:45:10 GMT -5
Torn paced, he hadn’t liked that he had been asked to meet in this shack two miles beyond Aberon, but the message came from a known Guild courier, and the message itself in the Guild cipher. The message said a lucrative opportunity had presented itself and Torn was the most skilled thief the Guild had in the area. It also said that the opportunity wouldn’t last long and would expect a cut of five-hundred gold crowns whether Torn took the job or not. This was a normal enough practice if the Guild really wanted something, and a cut that large for them meant the job would surely be lucrative indeed.
Still, Torn didn’t like that he wasn’t meeting the contact in one of the Guild’s bars or gambling dens, that’s what made the whole thing suspicious. The shack was small, and poorly built; night had just fallen and already it was cold, in fact, even for a desert night it was rather cold. Torn was on edge, this was unlike him, he normally waited for the contact rolling some dice, or at-least sitting down, at the moment he was pacing and Torn Goodthief did not pace.
Torn sat himself down on one of the chairs at the table through sheer force of will. At the moment he was regretting his no drinking on jobs policy, a nice glass spiced wine might help steady his nerves, or a trough full of Teirm’s roughest rum would probably work better. Torn closed his eyes and retreated into himself. In his core was the pillar of silver fire that was his magic, he was full to bursting for once in a long time. He focused on his magic and the breathing exercises Fox had taught him, he felt better almost immediately.
Torn opened his eyes and looked around the shack once more, seeing if anything had missed his eyes. Nothing had. It was old, rundown and small. One window with no shutters looked out to the open desert opposite to the door that was barely attached to its frame, Torn sat at a small rickety table in one of the two surprisingly sturdy chairs. The only thing puzzling in the one room shack was a mirror that looked almost new.
Torn studied himself in the mirror. His long black hair had a large streak of startling silver at his right side. He had a charming face that looked slightly elfish, though a bit more rugged. A slight scar on his bottom lip was almost impossible to see. As he noticed the scar he smiled at the memory it brought. As he looked at his eyes, the terrible beauty of those venomous green eyes, he wondered how many had guessed at his lineage over the years. He was dressed in a fine loose grey tunic with sea green trim and matching breeches that fit perfectly, not too tight, but not baggy. His amethyst pendant was hidden under the tunic. Over his tunic he wore his studded leather cuirass and the rest of his leather armor, all studded and magically reinforced as well as he could. He curved shortsword, Thaurwen, hung at his side. Hidden throughout his person were eight knives, not including the single edged dagger on the opposite side of Thaurwen.
Torn sat waiting in meditation for another half hour before someone finally arrived, he heard the charging of a large horse, perhaps a warhorse. The man coming was large judging by the sound of his footsteps, he wore heavy armor, custom fitted which meant he was wealthy or someone of import. Perhaps both. The man was armed, with at-least two swords, perhaps more. He burst through the door and stared at Torn, looking nearly dumbstruck.
Torn had been right, he was a large man, he was near seven foot tall. He wore custom fit armor that was the color of rust, or dried blood. He had short hair that matched the color of his armor, he was covered in scars, almost every inch of exposed flesh had a scar, deep jagged ones, and Torn would wager they covered the rest of his body also. The man wore three swords, two at his sides and one large sword strapped on his back.
But what was most striking about him were his eyes, two orbs that encompassed the very definition of pure cold rage, of total hate. They were the same venomous color as Torn’s, but unlike his, those eyes held no humor, no charm, nothing to diminish his horrible gaze.
The man recovered quickly, and spoke in a thunderous voice that dripped with loathing, with an undercurrent of glee. “Torn ‘Goodthief’ Remus Locke, allow me to introduce myself, I’m your younger twin brother, Romulus Septimus Locke. I’m here to kill you.”
OOC: This is the showdown between my characters that I’ve been promising for some time, though you new members won’t recognize either of them and their profiles are sadly out of date. I’ll provide a bit of background so those watching this thread won’t be entirely confused.
Torn ‘Goodthief’ Locke was the second son of the patriarch of the House of Locke, Grange Locke, and the first born to him and his wife, thus his heir. However, Grange is a particularly twisted individual (which is necessary if you want to lead the most twisted noble house around) he would abuse Torn regularly, physically, but he was most skilled at psychological abuse. He would lock Torn in a dark room for days which led to a phobia of silence. Eventually Torn tired of it and grabbed as much loot as he could and ran away to Teirm, Thauren was one of those items. It was an heirloom passed down for hundreds of years from the founder of the House of Locke, its name means Tainted, a full description of Thauren will come in later posts.
High General Romulus Septimus Locke is the younger fraternal twin brother to Torn. When Grange saw him he had him hidden from the public, in fact, few knew of Romulus besides Grange and a select number of trusted advisors. Romulus was treated much like Torn, only he also had no interaction with people besides Grange, when Torn ran away and Grange revealed Romulus, he had no idea how to treat people except how his father treated him. He joined the army and quickly rose through the ranks because of a great prowess in combat and brilliance in tactical planning. He earned his troops respect because he was always with them in the thick of battle, but he also had their fear, at night screams of pain and horror can be heard coming from his tent, he is known as the “Shade General” throughout the Empire. But despite his accomplishments, anger has consumed him, a hate that devoured the humanity that had survived all his father had put him through. He blamed his brother Torn for his misfortune, believing if Torn hadn’t have been born he wouldn’t be the way he is, that if he can kill Torn, he would become normal. Torn had heard that some noble had been chasing him, but he had never any real proof that someone was actively after him, and just assumed it was a vengeful noble spreading rumors to intimidate him, but it had been Romulus the entire time. After these many years Romulus has caught up to Torn and who knows how it will end.
Still, Torn didn’t like that he wasn’t meeting the contact in one of the Guild’s bars or gambling dens, that’s what made the whole thing suspicious. The shack was small, and poorly built; night had just fallen and already it was cold, in fact, even for a desert night it was rather cold. Torn was on edge, this was unlike him, he normally waited for the contact rolling some dice, or at-least sitting down, at the moment he was pacing and Torn Goodthief did not pace.
Torn sat himself down on one of the chairs at the table through sheer force of will. At the moment he was regretting his no drinking on jobs policy, a nice glass spiced wine might help steady his nerves, or a trough full of Teirm’s roughest rum would probably work better. Torn closed his eyes and retreated into himself. In his core was the pillar of silver fire that was his magic, he was full to bursting for once in a long time. He focused on his magic and the breathing exercises Fox had taught him, he felt better almost immediately.
Torn opened his eyes and looked around the shack once more, seeing if anything had missed his eyes. Nothing had. It was old, rundown and small. One window with no shutters looked out to the open desert opposite to the door that was barely attached to its frame, Torn sat at a small rickety table in one of the two surprisingly sturdy chairs. The only thing puzzling in the one room shack was a mirror that looked almost new.
Torn studied himself in the mirror. His long black hair had a large streak of startling silver at his right side. He had a charming face that looked slightly elfish, though a bit more rugged. A slight scar on his bottom lip was almost impossible to see. As he noticed the scar he smiled at the memory it brought. As he looked at his eyes, the terrible beauty of those venomous green eyes, he wondered how many had guessed at his lineage over the years. He was dressed in a fine loose grey tunic with sea green trim and matching breeches that fit perfectly, not too tight, but not baggy. His amethyst pendant was hidden under the tunic. Over his tunic he wore his studded leather cuirass and the rest of his leather armor, all studded and magically reinforced as well as he could. He curved shortsword, Thaurwen, hung at his side. Hidden throughout his person were eight knives, not including the single edged dagger on the opposite side of Thaurwen.
Torn sat waiting in meditation for another half hour before someone finally arrived, he heard the charging of a large horse, perhaps a warhorse. The man coming was large judging by the sound of his footsteps, he wore heavy armor, custom fitted which meant he was wealthy or someone of import. Perhaps both. The man was armed, with at-least two swords, perhaps more. He burst through the door and stared at Torn, looking nearly dumbstruck.
Torn had been right, he was a large man, he was near seven foot tall. He wore custom fit armor that was the color of rust, or dried blood. He had short hair that matched the color of his armor, he was covered in scars, almost every inch of exposed flesh had a scar, deep jagged ones, and Torn would wager they covered the rest of his body also. The man wore three swords, two at his sides and one large sword strapped on his back.
But what was most striking about him were his eyes, two orbs that encompassed the very definition of pure cold rage, of total hate. They were the same venomous color as Torn’s, but unlike his, those eyes held no humor, no charm, nothing to diminish his horrible gaze.
The man recovered quickly, and spoke in a thunderous voice that dripped with loathing, with an undercurrent of glee. “Torn ‘Goodthief’ Remus Locke, allow me to introduce myself, I’m your younger twin brother, Romulus Septimus Locke. I’m here to kill you.”
OOC: This is the showdown between my characters that I’ve been promising for some time, though you new members won’t recognize either of them and their profiles are sadly out of date. I’ll provide a bit of background so those watching this thread won’t be entirely confused.
Torn ‘Goodthief’ Locke was the second son of the patriarch of the House of Locke, Grange Locke, and the first born to him and his wife, thus his heir. However, Grange is a particularly twisted individual (which is necessary if you want to lead the most twisted noble house around) he would abuse Torn regularly, physically, but he was most skilled at psychological abuse. He would lock Torn in a dark room for days which led to a phobia of silence. Eventually Torn tired of it and grabbed as much loot as he could and ran away to Teirm, Thauren was one of those items. It was an heirloom passed down for hundreds of years from the founder of the House of Locke, its name means Tainted, a full description of Thauren will come in later posts.
High General Romulus Septimus Locke is the younger fraternal twin brother to Torn. When Grange saw him he had him hidden from the public, in fact, few knew of Romulus besides Grange and a select number of trusted advisors. Romulus was treated much like Torn, only he also had no interaction with people besides Grange, when Torn ran away and Grange revealed Romulus, he had no idea how to treat people except how his father treated him. He joined the army and quickly rose through the ranks because of a great prowess in combat and brilliance in tactical planning. He earned his troops respect because he was always with them in the thick of battle, but he also had their fear, at night screams of pain and horror can be heard coming from his tent, he is known as the “Shade General” throughout the Empire. But despite his accomplishments, anger has consumed him, a hate that devoured the humanity that had survived all his father had put him through. He blamed his brother Torn for his misfortune, believing if Torn hadn’t have been born he wouldn’t be the way he is, that if he can kill Torn, he would become normal. Torn had heard that some noble had been chasing him, but he had never any real proof that someone was actively after him, and just assumed it was a vengeful noble spreading rumors to intimidate him, but it had been Romulus the entire time. After these many years Romulus has caught up to Torn and who knows how it will end.
