Aerion [IC] Rated M
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January 19th, 2013 (7:09 PM).
Crystia watched Roland from the corners of her eyes, as he bent his head and proclaimed his duty to the supposedly honorable quest, and wondered where he got that stick up his ass. Wherever it originated from, it affected him with more than just an arrow-straight spine. He seemed to think he was important in the grand scheme of things, simply because two humans wearing shiny clothes rutted one night and showered him in gifts that no others would benefit from, suffering at the whims of a mere man, each of whom were unfit to rule. In her experience, anyone who thought they were important was usually just a pompous moron who couldn't deal with their own pathetic insignificance and the fact that what they did was meaningless. Inconsequential. Such thoughts would be broken soon enough, seeing as the inhabitants of the world needed a magic item to fix their problems, instead of the poetic justice that was meant to fall upon their heads. Not that the elf would have begrudged them it; they'd be very boring if they weren't dim.
Further blabbering from the mouths of Monks, potentially including the entire group, to inflate the egos of those not capable of realizing their own self-worth. It was an interesting concept, for her of all people to be a Lord or Knight, though she suspected their titles would be worth less than a severed foot to anyone outside of this Tower of Oculus. Despite the fact that these Monks seemed to think their titles would be well known, for they wouldn't get to be swarmed by ne'er-do-wells without a star hovering over their heads, announcing to their armed audience that the heroes had arrived. She needed to compose a good name for the bards to sing of, assuming that they were at all successful in their quest. Or that the whispering book didn't reveal an unfortunate secret. Or act like a magical beacon to those who would seek them out, which would be quite unfortunate indeed. Not that she'd let go of it, in either case.
Ser Crystia, she liked the sound of that, descended the depths of the tower at the instruction of the Monks with the same reserved steps and demeanor that she'd carried herself with throughout the whole ordeal. Though she was particularly dreading the trip to come, having to concentrate on a rocking ship that would attempt with all the ocean's might to give her a queasy stomach or unrestful sleep. That was before she could dread the idea of eating whatever food the sailors brought with them, or their potential rowdiness, or whatever amorous activities might occur beneath the deck of the ships. If she could help it, she would spend much of her time in the Crow's Nest, so she could watch the trials and tribulations of the people; one of her favorite activities, in fact, and in no small part for the thrill of invading the privacy of others, as though she were some kind of omniscient being. Except not that, for Fate would doubtless try to poof her away if she were to compare herself to it.
The ship itself was doubtlessly elegant, even featuring one of her favorite colors, but it was clearly intended to intimidate those with fear in their hearts and no food in their bellies. There were so many legends on the tip of her tongue, describing phantom ships or pirate lords, that were no doubt passed around with all the twists of many tellings, much like the talk of her own people, in fact. She imagined she looked quite the oddball to the other Knights of Ekilore, though they would come to know her soon enough, what with the cramped spaces they would no doubt have to find lodging in, and the landscapes of Aerion did not lend themselves to a comfortable bed for every day of travel, so they would need to set up guard duty, as well. Though the armored man could probably be suckered into such a thing, given his immediate response to the sight of the ship. Nobility and honor, all of the things that such folk claimed to represent yet rarely acted as such.
Then came the Captain, who Crystia simply had to watch introduce himself, even though she had to watch him discreetly. She stepped slightly ahead to greet the Captain, a smile coming to her pale lips. "It's lovely to meet you, Richard of House Crewe, and might I say that your hat is glorious?" She complimented him enthusiastically and without any regard for etiquette; in her eyes, kindness was enough. "I haven't seen such a fine article of clothing since acquiring my cloak."
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