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Old Aug 30th, 2013, 01:46 AM
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Caecielien Caecielien is offline
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Dramatis Personae

A copy of the application here, please.
Also, learn about Sangus here!
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Old Aug 31st, 2013, 03:08 PM
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Music for a woman of poor character.

Name: Vivandière Washpot
Sex: Female
Race: Dusk Elf (Dreamspeaker)
Age: Not known, not hugely a matter of concern. 132 as far as she can guess.
Class: Witch
Alignment: Not Lawful Good

Description: She started out as a young, thin, dirty elf, probably quite a looker under all that muck. Odd collection of elvish high fashion and cheap tat, however that depends on what she has managed to loot recently. She has been known to wear a flag as a cloak, it helps to hide the centipede. she likes the idea of pretending to show loyalty to the local military power. Chances are that she has killed and robbed a patrol for the banner however.

She looks unsavory - attractive but kind of wrong - but there is no telling her about trends. Never been keen on shiny stuff, too obvious. Flower in the hair, the boys seem to like that sort of nonsense. Will steal a pretty dress and get a bath when possible.

Background: Vivandière kills, cooks and eats lame horses. They may or may not be her favourite food, she does not know, having had limited experience with more exotic fare. The rump is good, obviously, the ribs less so to her palate. The ribs are where the rider sits, and these horses are still sore from carrying them. Sometimes the rider is still mounted, dead, or trapped under the bulk of the animal.

Vivandière is a camp follower, one of the pageantry and entourage if you politely equate her with the military wives, a cutthroat scavenger if you do not. She would not. Her mother was a scrubber, a washerwoman who followed the army as they marched, a pathetic soul really, trawling after the grand armeé as it waged its endless campaign. She would earn the odd extra penny by stitching the dress of an officer's wife, or stealing the odd bit of kit from the soldiery, but she mostly trudged and behaved herself.

Vivandière is both lowlier and more ambitious than her mother. This life is no good for her, being a seagull following a fishing boat, a fly buzzing on dung. On the other hand, she will degrade herself more than her dear mother would - sure, they all eat horseflesh, and most of them will service a soldier for a few coins - but Vivandière is the one who digs around in bodies for rooted arrowheads, who saws at the feet of horses in the freezing mud to retrieve an iron shoe, who has slept with a lieutenant on the morning before a battle then in the evening cut his throat as he lay moaning in the bloody mire.

She currently wears a flag of orange with a red sun on it, a loud and boastful garment, but it shows her 'loyalty' to the current army, The Inevitable Dawn, The Marquis-General Ceawlin Springgreeter's elvish mob. They tell her they are the good guys. Who knows? After the last battle she listened for a while to a pair of dying, enemy half-Orc survivors discussing the luck of war. It seemed all the same to her. Still, she has stayed with The Inevitable Dawn because they are elves, so she still kind of fits in (fewer questions) but more importantly, they look like they are winning.

In the past few months she has acquired a friend, oddly. Most people come and go, good for a few coppers or they die at sword point, but this one has stayed. She met him as he crawled out from under a dead horse he was eating. Of course, she at first tried to stab him, but he spoke, which was unexpected. Unexpected for a centipede, anyway. He told her things. He told her why she could hear the wind speak and why the fools with swords and lances were indeed fools, and how she could become more than any army, more than filthy pots and stinking mud in watered down ale. A wise mentor is Pythagoras the centipede.

Her immediate goal is to enjoy this different experience, she has seldom left the trail of an army before and is keen to march to her own tune. Her longer ambitions involve power to defeat prancing knights and chortling generals, without the aid of fawning bannermen or the sacrifice of countless troops. Not her own troops, anyway.

RP sample
The Larrin expedition had struck camp for the morning. Last day on the foothills before heading up the Five King Mountains. People are in high spirits.


Happy campers, and you should see the stuff they leave behind when they wake up. A hatpin here, a pack of Elfbread wafers there... Here's a couple of silver pieces trampled under a tent. Amateurs.

Still, it's all fun, even if some of these punters act like they are going on a nature ramble. Probably less fun in the mountains - note to self, grab some furs from somewhere. In the meantime, breathe that bracing air. Ah, people, silly people.

Team Larrin was certainly more interesting than The Inevitable Dawn, less keen on the self-righteous crusading, more into ancient secrets and ruins. Just right for a clever girl like Vivandiére. She kind of fits in, sort of. Has talents. Talents people want.

Later in the morning, some bandits try to rob the party. Can you imagine? How silly. She knows thin and desperate when she sees it though. Bad luck chumps.

People all run around in a tizzy. The big boys do their roaring and start clanging swords, their usual antics. Vivandiére hides behind a tree.

"Hello." There is a bandit archer crouched in a bush. He doesn't look very confident.

"Bad villain. Go home, kid." She stares and smiles at him. He Slumber hex. Yeah!flickers his eyes and falls over into the bush.

"Am I not merciful? Yes I am. Now for my mercy tax." She robs the sleeping boy of his dagger and bow and the few coins from his pocket then heads back to the road with the rest of the group. They all seem to have prevailed too, and were doing their typical boasting and shouting.

"Went the battle well, boys? Jolly good.

Now, who will give me five gold for this fine shortbow?"

'Echoes of the Abyss' is a very odd title. Infinite repeats of infinite planes of misery. This will be fun.
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Old Aug 31st, 2013, 04:13 PM
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They See Me Rollin'...
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Graknok's Application of Virtue!
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Graknok the Half-Orc Fighter

”I fight not for myself nor my employer - I fight for my family and the purity of good.”

As a Half-Orc, Graknok is expectedly tall and well-built. His hair is long and dark, often pulled back into a ponytail or warbraid. His eyes are a steely blue and large, and his jaw portrudes only slightly enough to let his small lower tusks poke upwards. His gear changes regularly, though he prefers the protection of heavier armors. When not expecting battle, Graknok likes to feel as free as he can; this leads him to often be found without a shirt, exposing several scars and warpaint-like tattoos across his chest and back.

”History”Graknok is a Half-Orc born from the unlikely union of his human father, Daevind, and his Orcish mother Markena. Daevind was a personal guard employed to defend a small homestead in the plains, while Markena was a fierce Orcish huntress in a small roaming tribe.

Markena’s hunting mark (a rather beautiful wolf with an imposing stature) once lead her to the outskirts of the homestead, where it got the better of her by reuniting with its pack. Her Orcish ferocity barely allowed her to crawl away with her life, and she surely would have died that night if Daevind hadn’t stumbled upon the woman on his patrol.

As such, he healed her and they eventually fell in love, as seems to happen on occasion. Eventually they gave birth to a son and daughter both; Half-Orc twins in fact. Graknok and his sister Bellza grew up happily with their parents, if away from most of society. As such, they became quite sheltered to the world’s real attitude towards what they were.

This fact became all too apparent after Daevind passed, leaving Markena with a pair of teenagers who were both beginning to show off quite a bit of their orcish heritage through their attitudes. What’s more, without Daevind to give the family a reputation of good in their home village they were ran out (much to the twins’ surprise).

Markena had no choice but to wander various towns in search of mercenary work, leading Graknok to spend much of his young adult life wandering with her and helping when he could. He eventually learned the ways of battle from his mother, as did his sister. Eventually she suffered one too many injuries and was forced to settle down in a cheap shack on the outskirts of some Human city.

Bellza then became Markena’s caretaker whilst Graknok carried on his mother’s work. He was soon known to be rather violent in his reputation as a mercenary, and this reputation began to bother Graknok quite a bit. After all, he felt himself a good person who was just trying to get by - but then again, how many lives had he took?

These thoughts wore heavily on his soul as he wandered, sending money back to his family to care for them. Blood money… each day the weight of his actions grew heavier upon him until he broke down and refused to kill a target.

This target, who was currently cowering beneath the half-orc waiting for the final blow, turned out to be a member of a roaming band of hunters and knights, serving the land under the banner of the god Erastil.

This group saw Graknok’s potential and took him into their employ, wandering the land to do good while selling hunting and trade goods for profit. The knights (who followed the word of a cleric that travelled amongst them) taught Graknok the ways of Erastil, and through these teachings he learned to control his violent urges (most of the time) and channel them into the energy he needed to slay evil and bring forth good for all.

Though now separated from his friends, he still follows the ways of this extended family and continues his quest to spread good while taking care of his family to the best of his ability, though he does still sometimes succumb to his inner rowdy nature.

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Old Aug 31st, 2013, 04:20 PM
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(NOTE: several small aspects have been changed for integration into the party)

Name: Aerren Sethowin (Sheet)
Sex: Female
Race: Fetchling (Kayal)
Age: 23
Class: Rogue (Knife Master archetype)
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Aerren is by no means an adventurer. She might travel far and wide in search of danger and mystery, but only in the name of vengeance. She would find those who wronged her and take from them that which was lost: her father's life. A shifting whisper of manipulation by day and a creature of shadow by night, she was more than just a pretty face.
(Day) At first glance, Aerren resembles a gaunt Drow of with ashen gray skin and short silver hair that only just covers her ears. She might even speak Drow should the need arise, but, for those wise enough to know the difference, her eyes reveal her secret. A soft, pale green that glows subtly in the dim light; her unnaturally lithe frame and decidedly unpointed ears are merely footnotes in the story they tell: she is not of this natural plane.
(Night) Wrapped from head to toe in garments ranging from one shade of black to another, her luminescent eyes are the only recognizable feature left uncovered. The tip of a carefully tucked dagger occasionally catches the curious evening light, but only for a brief moment as she moves out of view; or was that just a shadow playing in the dark? You really can't be sure, but you suddenly feel better knowing that seeing anything at all meant you probably weren't in any danger.
As a Fetchling, or Kayal as she would later learn, Aerren was born on the Plane of Shadow. She can't recall what it was like, if she was ever there to begin with, because she was raised by a Drow couple with no children of their own. They found her as an infant bundled up in a small basket outside their tent one particularly miserable winter's eve. As members of a traveling group of entertainers they raised her within a larger community of uniquely talented individuals, always bustling about in preparation for their next show. Mind you, they were also petty criminals, swindlers and crooks, but they filled her childhood with fond memories of what she knew to be home. These people would teach her all manner of skills a young girl with idle hands and greedy eyes ought to know. Such juvenile theft was often overlooked, but Aerren's natural proclivity for the shadows would prove a reliable escape from those more mindful of their valuables.

It wasn't until her teenage years that she would come to understand the consequences of this lifestyle when a man killed a performer he'd caught stealing during the show. She didn't really know the recent addition to the cast. He was brash and foolish for getting caught. His fate was deserved, but it would forever stay with her as a reminder of the dangers that lie in wait of failure. Her father spent the days that followed seeking out mercenaries to employ for protection, but she knew that it was, in part, for the security of his obscure dealings.

One such man would practice throwing a set of knives every evening before attending his post. Switch, as he called himself, fascinated Aerren; his graceful movements were like a dance in the sun's fleeting light. The hum of each blade cutting through the air mesmerized her as she watched from the shadows. One evening he turned and invited her to try; he had always known she was there. Her instincts compelled her to flee, but her curiosity couldn't be denied. The two became an odd couple, an amiable association of sorts. Each understood the friendship to be expendable, but a common interest brought them together to further such ends.

Switch taught her how to carry a blade and when to throw it. Hitting the target was simple, but burying a blade took focus. He explained that his knives weren't just tools; they were an extension of his body. For this reason, he cleaned and sharpened them every morning; a habit Aerren quickly adopted. In turn, her knack for "losing" valuables proved a valuable skill for Switch. She taught him ways to hide his deadly tools that he knew would one day save his life. A more lucrative offer would eventually take Switch to other parts of the world, but his blades were left to Aerren to care for. It was an odd gift for a young woman, but she understood the sentiment their granting represented.
Just over a year ago, Aerren's father was killed in a fire set by a group of men he had boastfully duped just days before. Bitter over the gold lost to his schemes, they set his tent ablaze in the night while he was sleeping. He managed to wake Aerren's mother and shield her from the flames as they escaped, but the severe burns covering his body were beyond recovery. Aerren should have been in the tent with them, but her practicing was keeping her up late into the night. She believes that had she been there she might have saved her father. She carries this guilt with her to this day. These events have since driven her to track down the men responsible for her father's death. While she knows almost nothing about them, her skills have allowed her to obtain various items to trade for the information she needs.

She finds herself, now, in Peitro's expedition under the false pretense that she is a purveyor of rare antiquities capable of identifying and appraising their condition. In reality, she is there to kill one of the hired guards whom she has identified as one of her father's murderers.

(It is entirely possible that while her cover story "should" hold up to a cursory inspection by the average individual, Pietro or the hiring agent senses her dishonesty. They could be bringing her along in the belief that she is actually from a competing party and wish to "keep their enemies close.")
Roleplay Sample"Um, excuse me, I think I'm lost," her feigned voice called out in distress. A single guard for such a big tower? she wondered, You make this too easy, Wizard! The complacent man seemed startled by her presence and clumsily muttered, "Oh! Uh, where're you goin'?" Now mere feet from him, Aerren couldn't help but smirk as she pointed over his shoulder, "That way!" Clearly confused, the guard briefly looked over his shoulder before sputtering, "Wait you canhng. . . go. . thhhhrr," as his body slumped to the ground; the stub of a tiny dart now stuck in his neck. Money well spent she admitted, stepping over him before dragging his restful mind off where it wouldn't be noticed.

Slipping the cloth bracelets from her arms into her pouch, the illusion of a vibrantly dressed noble woman faded from her to reveal the blackened garb she was accustomed to. Looking about one final time she crept through the dark archway, satisfied her ruse had gone unnoticed.

(Roughly an hour later)

Leaping from the balcony onto the nearby rooftops, she rolled to her side upon landing. Glowing orbs of an eerie green light were flickering into existence about the tower before floating out in all directions. "Okay, maybe not so easy," she gasped as she quickly composed herself, checking that her prize was still safely nestled in her bag. She didn't know what it was, but the man promised information on the men she was after if she brought it to him. To that end, she tightened the straps of her bag and took off across the rooftops. Leaping from building to building she artfully tumbled down their sloping decline towards the city slums.

By now, the town guard bells were ringing and the lanterns of patrols were winding through the streets below her. She wasn't worried, though, as she approached her destination. Reaching into her pouch once more, she retrieved the bracelets and slid them over her arms. A moment later, she was the fitting image of a desperate beggar. She dropped down into the dark alley, propped herself up against the low hanging wall and waited out the night.

Aerren is not your stereotypical rogue due to her childhood upbringing. She finds the idea of combat uncomfortable and prefers to use her knives (daggers) from the shadows if she is unable to avoid her obstacles altogether. She excels in social aspects, pickpocketing and disguises due to the grifter lifestyle of her "extended" family.

When faced with a challenge, her preferred action is to observe either from a distance, through disguises or while hidden in shadows. If she identifies a threat, she will attempt outflank it, but reacts violently to situations where escape has been prevented.

Depending on the campaign's progression, I'm considering picking up Shadow Dancer (Core) or Master Spy (APG) as a PrC down the road.

Last edited by IDentityCrisis; Sep 3rd, 2013 at 07:18 PM.
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Old Aug 31st, 2013, 08:23 PM
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Female Half-elf Summoner
Chaotic Good
Trait: Lucid Dreamer
Character Sheet

Poliahu has long white hair, icy blue eyes, and deeply tanned skin. Cool, calm, and collected, Poliahu has always been a "big picture" type of person. People often perceive her as detached, but Poliahu is actually several steps ahead in any conversation and waiting for others to catch up to her. Laid back and patient, Poliahu is very easy to get along with and her personality makes people naturally trust her. Though she rarely gets truly angry, Poliahu despises people who inflict their will upon others and will openly rebuke tyrants and bullies. If such people have a problem with her, they will find Poliahu's eidolon, Pele, to be much less agreeable than the timid half-elf.

Poliahu has always had an interesting relationship with her dreams. A lucid dreamer since a young age, Poliahu has found she can shape and control every aspect of her dreaming subconscious. It was in a dream that she first encountered Pele. The fiery woman lay asleep in Poliahu's dream, adrift in a sea of fire. Intrigued by the being she saw, Poliahu reached out and plucked Pele from the fire. When Poliahu awoke, she found the most miraculous thing had occurred: Pele lay beside her, somehow brought to the Material Plane through Poliahu's force of will. Bonded to Poliahu as her eidolon, Pele has accompanied her as her guardian ever since then.

Poliahu has been a drifter her entire adult life. The waking world holds it's own wonders, and Poliahu's restless soul has sought out both natural and man-made beauty in her travels. Her worldly, and otherworldly, knowledge is her strong point and Poliahu sells her knowledge for life's necessities. The interesting and random facts she possesses are truly astounding and sometimes quite useful.

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Female Outsider
Chaotic Good
Character Sheet

Poliahu's eidolon appears as an ashen skinned woman with hair like a cooling lava flow. The thin grey layer coating her body doesn't fully conceal the glowing magma beneath her skin and she appears to have a radiant aura around her at all times. Her eyes glow a supernatural white from the intense heat within her and they are capable of unnerving even her most stalwart opponents. Although she emits copious amounts of heat, Pele has enough control over her body to conceal herself with a robe without causing it to combust.

Native to the Plane of Fire, Pele doesn't remember much from before she became Poliahu's eidolon. As far as she knows, she didn't even exist before that point. A very emotional being, Pele struggles at times to keep her cool. This is quite a literal statement, as Pele sheds her ash skin and erupts into flames when angry. Due to their disparate personalities, Pele often has disagreements with Poliahu. Regardless of their squabbles, however, Pele is always a fierce guardian to her mistress, whom she refers to as "sister." She fights without fear or hesitance to defend the woman who gave her life and purpose.

RP Sample

"I'm bored, Poli," Pele complained. The outsider stretched her arms and yawned, her mouth glowing with intense heat. "Are we there yet?"

Poliahu rolled her eyes at Pele's impatience, "We are. Now let me do the talking and we might have something to eat this evening." As if on cue, the half-elf's stomach rumbled.

Pele laughed bemusedly, "Neat trick, sister. When did you train your bowels to bark on command?" The outsider laughed some more before Poliahu's staff landed on her head. The staff scattered some of the ash on Pele's hair, exposing molten lava for a split second before cooling and being coated once more. "Ouch," Pele grumbled, rubbing her head. It didn't really hurt, but the eidolon had to make her point. The two had heard of an expedition setting forth to explore an ancient city and Poliahu's wanderlust had gotten the best of her. Now they had been walking for days to sign up for the expedition and Pele was trying to make Poliahu feel as guilty as possible for forcing her to do a single task for so long. Poliahu could focus; Pele, not so much.

"This expedition is funded by some man named Peitro Larrin," Poliahu explained, "It could mean fun, adventure, treasure, and food. Tell me you're not interested in that." Poliahu had a smile plastered to her face as she contemplated the trip.

Pele looked deadpan at Poliahu, "I'm not interested in that." Poliahu turned to Pele in shock, the smile gone in a second. Pele smiled herself, as though she had caught the expression as it flew off of Poliahu's mouth. "What? You never said I had to be telling the truth." Both women chuckled as they approached Peitro Larrin's residence.
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Old Sep 1st, 2013, 03:24 AM
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Name: Jigar Dun
Race: Human
Class: Ranger (Savage Stalker, Skirmisher)
Age: 27
Homeland: The steppes of Iobaria east of Golarion



DescriptionA sturdy man with a stern gaze, Jigar does not seem the best choice of person to mess with.

Wearing a ragtag suit of armor consisting of leather and metal scales, heavy steel boots and a loose coat of thick linen, the man looks quite unusual. Aiding this impression on close inspection is his face, with unusualy narrow eyes set into hard features framed by bushy dark eyebrows and a slightly hooked nose.

Small scars from a lifetime of battle adorn his face - one of them standing out, running across his nose right below his eyes. An old wound, already mostly faded on his cheeks, but quite visible on the bridge of his nose, where it left a little notch.

His face is adorned by a long mustache, with small pieces of horn and bone woven into the slim strands, and a thin beard on his chin. The ornaments can also be found in his wild black hair, which would fall on his shoulder if he didn't keep it upright by a long leather string.

He wields a wicked spear, bearing a short blade sharpened on one side instead of the more common simple sharp point - giving the weapon a look reminiscent of a strange glaive. When not engaged in battle he tends to use it as a walking staff if the need arises at longer journeys.
In addition, he is equiped with a sword that could be described as a straight scimitar, wearing it strapped to his back as a backup weapon. A set of four javelins with leather cords wound around the shaft joins the sword there, stored in an overly large leather "quiver" beside the scabard.


DescriptionJigar is a man of action. He would rather jump into the fray than hold agelong discusions that tend go nowhere. He doesn't so much enjoy killing, but he loves the thrill of battle and of hunting, both being of equal importance to him.

When talking, he tends to use short sentences to bring his point across. He isn't stupid though, he just finds long talk tendious and unneeded in most cases, often building up a temper when confronted with people who just can't shut up.

Alcohol, women and entertainment are things he values highly, after all he has to do something with all the money he gets paid.

He is not one to pick fights with no reason, but joins those in a heartbeat when the opportunity arises - tavern brawl and muggings alike.

His life follows no set course of action, Jingar lets himself flow wherever his legs and fortune guide him to, trusting in the spirits to guide him to some higher cause if he ever should be worthy again.

BackgroundLife can be hard. The chieftain's son, revelled hunter and warrior - things of the past.

Jigar broke the holy law, sinking his spear's tip in the flesh of his kin. Killing his brother was not forgiven, his reason not accepted - he regreted the act the moment it happened.
For stealing his bride he put out the flame of Guran's life. For doing so he was driven away and forbidden to return. Sawali don't kill their people as retribution - not even for murder.

He was the chieftain's son, now he is no more than hands holding a spear.
Now he kills for others, now he sells himself to other men, hoping to find salvation and escape the demon's of his past - searching oblivion on the fields of battle.
He hasn't found it yet; his demons still await him each night - the spear bathed in red, the face of his brother - a distorted image of rage and pain.

His steps took him westward after the banishment, leaving the lands of his fathers - as a kinslayer he wasn't worthy walking the same soil.
Taking on the name Dun, meaning outcast in his tongue, he tried to find a new place for himself, hoping one day to overcome his sin's mark on his soul if the spirits will it.

A time he spent as a bandit, joining a group of thugs, attacking unworthy prey - fat men in carts loaded with spices and silk. Killing the guards was no problem, living with his deeds was.

He went farther west, into the River Kingdoms. A spear was always needed. He met bandits again, though this time it was mostly his spear who did the meeting.
Now he worked for those same fat men he once robbed - this felt much better, though less exciting by leagues.

His name spread farther than he thought, men valued him as a guard and mercenary - they would not if they learnt the truth of his crime.
He took on more difficult jobs, guarding expeditions, raiding goblin and orc hideouts.

He worked for a friend of Peirro Larin once, saving the man's throat from being slit by a goblin's knife. Jigar's name was dropped, his service bought.
Now he is one of many, watching scholars dig in dirt, scouting the dangers ahead, cleaving the heads of those who try to dig in scholars' wagons.

Role-Play SampleA week since the last real settlement.

Jigar was on the road, searching for a new patron - though it seems he might have chosen the wrong road. Not that he had a problem with a little break from work.

Two days ago he was attacked by a half-crazed goblin wearing a man's skin as a coat. The little pest must have been blind thinking him easy prey - now there was one less goblin walking the River Kingdoms, and one less man staring from beyond death at his desecrated remains. Jigar hoped the unknown fellow had found peace, now that he had burned what remained and spoke to the spirits to ease the victim's anger.

One day before that, he found the remains of a merchant's cart - and of the merchant's guards, not the merchant's though. This was propably the work of some more capable bandits, but he never encountered them. Bandits with strong arms, judging from the cracked bones and heads.

And now another person was approaching, the first person he met on this half-forgotten path through the woods since entering it - the first that didn't try to skin him for clothes at least.
It was an old man, baldheaded and with nothing but a wooden bowl and a walking staff to call his own, but his step was swift and secure.

Jigar was quite relived to finaly see a friendly shape, and the man thought so in return apparently, as his eyes lightened up at the sight of Jigar and he bowed formaly when they were standing face-to-face.

"Greetings to you, good man." the beggar said with a hoarse voice. "You be travelling dangerous roads, all but forgotten by good people who rather not venture in forest or bush anymore." The man added, eyeing the strange warrior before him warily.
Jigar was surprised to hear such refined words from a low beggar, but returned the courtesy with a respectful bow. "You speak true old man. This road a dangerous one is, though i had no grave problems yet. - I witnessed signs of others who were not as lucky though."

He leaned on his spear in a manner you would on a walking staff, after a long day of wanderings. This way, he hoped to shed some of the dangerous look he supposed to have for the unarmed man before him.
"I've walked this faded path towards Kargasa for days, looking to find men there in need of my spear. Do i follow it still, or have i been lured away by bad chance? - I was warned this forest played tricks on travellers, some never coming out again." As he said those words, he felt as if a little tension had dissipated from the old man - though he wasn't even aware of it before.

The wrinkled face took on a honest smile, which allowed a glimpse on surprisingly perfect teeth, with no signs of bad hygiene or malnourishment.
"Indeed, the trees here tend to play tricks on those who trample without thought.", the man replied with amusement in his voice.
"You took the short way, ignoring warnings of impeding doom - You have the courage of a fool, or despair urging you forward." The smile vanished slowly, being replaced by a cold, calculating stare.

Jigar decided this was no beggar lost in the woods - no, not a simple beggar at all.

"What you may call foolishness, i call embracing fate. - Danger can be found on all sides, as an old saying of my tribe says." He smelled something dangerous nearby in the woods and had the impression of being watched.
"Wander where the wolf sleeps and you will know where he lies. Crouch in the dirt trembling with fear, and you will find him at your throat."
Jigar felt the tension slowly fading with the words. Apparently the strange fellow was pleased by his answer.

"Yes indeed, your tribe is a wise one, wanderer. But remember not to fall trap to false pride. After all, even wolves sleepwalk at times, or so i heard." with these words a wide grin split the old man's face in two, and he laughed heartily.
"You shall have no problems to follow the path further, this so called town Kargasa is a mere day away. You are a guest now among the trees and no harm will come to you on this journey."
A bony hand padded Jigar on his shoulder, the man stretching to reach it. He smelled of mud and wet animals.

"I have matters to tend to, so go your way. You may walk this path freely as long it still is one."
Jigar felt quite relived when this strange man resumed his walk, though the slight grin he was bearing startled him still.

"The spirits be with you, hermit." he muttered with a swift look back - long enough to catch the sight of a big shadow moving silently between the trees - following the old man.
"And with me." he added in a whisper, then picked up his spear again and resumed walking.

Jigar was happy that his walking staff had a sharp end - just in case the wolf decided to sleepwalk this time.

Last edited by sertaki; Sep 28th, 2013 at 07:49 AM. Reason: added quick reference
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