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Old June 17th, 2012 (7:08 AM).
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Legend Legend is offline
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Join Date: Apr 2008
Location: New Jersey
Age: 26
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Varian Sigmund and Cassandra Alexandera- Village on the Outskirts of Dalenham

Varian grasped his axes tightly as he slowly pulled them out of the body of the orc he had just felled. One was stuck right on the orc's eyes, penetrating deep through the skull and entering the brain. The other dangled from the orc's chest, where his entire chest was collapsed and caved from the impact made of the axe swing. Varian positioned one foot on the orc's body and heaved the two weapons out of the corpse. Wiping his left axe (which was covered with the brains of the orc) across the clothing of the corpse, he glimpsed around to see nothing but the broken or mangled corpses of their foes around. Varian stood from the orc's body and grinned for a second, satisfied with the work his group had done.

Varian's eyes now traveled across the village in search of his companions, but were unable to spot them instantaneously. He did, however, from the corner of his eye, spot a trail of blood leading into a corridor between two houses. Knowing the reputation of one particular member of his mercenary group, Varian had a feeling he knew exactly where, or more specifically whom, the blood trail led to. Varian casually walked to the blood trail as he adjusted his axes on the baldric across his back in their traditional 'X' position. As he approached the blood trail which seeped into the corridor, he noticed the sliced limbs and heads of orcs which polluted the path. As the corridor narrowed, the blood, limbs, and entrails of the orcs seemed only to grow, and as did their stench. Varian covered his nose with his arm as he passed through the area.

The path opened to a brighter courtyard, which was littered with well over a dozen bodies of orcs, their limbs, blood, and innards decorating the streets like bits of wine and bread after an ostentatious party. And right in the center of it all, sitting on top of a pile of slayed orcs was a petite, yet striking woman with short, unkept, red hair and a large, two-handed claymore in her hands and an open bottle of liquor in the other. Cassandra Alexandera, known to Varian as Cass.

Varian stared at her with his usual cynical, dreary-appearing look, which really was only his normal facial expression. He eyed the area filled with orcs, wondering to himself if this was done all by her own hand, but figured he'd ask instead. Cass liked to gloat as much as the next sellsword, after all.

"Was this all your hand, then?" He asked her, motioning to the orcs in the area. He wouldn't be surprised if she would say yes. After all, she was probably the best fighter Varian had ever met.

"Oi! Varian! Come to join the party eh? I'm afraid you are a little late. I seemed to have massacred the entire village," Cass said with a wave and a robust laugh, before draining the bottle of liquor into her mouth. Cass rose from her comfortable seat of a dismembered orc corpse before gently descending down to Varian's level. She was lucky that her pile of bodies resembled a poorly constructed staircase. Despite being far from sober, Cass managed to not trip and crash into the ground. Then again, Varian was all too aware that she has had years of experience drinking and walking. As she crept closer, Varian couldn't help but notice that despite the carnage Cass had left in her wake, she was relatively free of any injury or blood. All that was on her clothing or person was the caked on dirt of months of dirty travel and combat. Even her sword (which Cass proceeded to put back in its sheath on her back) was free of blood, though Cass probably licked the blood off in her deranged intoxicated state.

Shoving her empty bottle of booze into Varian's chest, Cass removed the flask of old alcohol from her belt and began to take a few whisks of that in her boredom. "Ugh, this Swamp crap from the south tastes like orc piss," Cass complained before shrugging and drinking more. It didn't matter to her. Booze was booze. "Anyway, think those rookies we picked up are still alive? That pretty elf probably got a bunch of axes stuck in her. She didn't look like much."

Varian eyed the empty bottle Cass handed to him before throwing it off to the side, and looking around again, wondering if the other two really were dead. He shrugged. "I guess we'll wait and see. They may be green, but I usually know how to pick them. Come on, we'll meet them at the gates of Dalenham. We've earned another drink."

"I like the way you think," Cass replied with a wink before leaning to Varian as if to flirt with him. Cass was guilty of doing this all the time...with everyone she met. Varian wasn't special. "Well, let's hurry up. I am tired of this dump. Reminds me off that city down south. Yamcha was it called? Hell, like I remember. That place could be blown by little green goblins for all I care."

Roland Grey and Percival Grey- Port of Ekilore

Sir Roland of the House of Grey adjusted one of his dark-red gauntlets onto his arm as he prepared for his ship to arrive on Ekilore. He had answered the summons of the Monks of Ekilore in representation of Hector Reigncliff, his lord and who Roland believed was the true and rightful King of Ethora. It was an honor he could not describe, but Roland couldn't help but wonder of the circumstance of the summons. He assumed it was largely due to the assassination of the Ethorian king. If that was the case, he wasn't certain if he would take much pleasure in the visit. They would no doubt seek a diplomatic solution to the problem of the empty throne, and yet Roland would prefer if they would not meddle in the affairs of the Ethorians at all. Hector was the true king, and Roland had every intention of seeing him crowned, no matter who got in his way. Whatever the monks had planned, it usually came in the form of prophecy, so no matter if Roland wished not to have foreigners meddle, it would be foolish not to at least hear them out.

"My lord." A squire spoke as he entered, his head bowed with respect at Roland. "We have landed on Ekilore."

Roland nodded as he adjusted his sword onto his outfit. He picked up his shield momentarily, before deciding not to bring it with him. He was fully armored, but bringing his helmet and shield may give off the wrong impression to the monks, who were supposed to be largely peaceful and isolated folk.

"Prepare my horse, squire." Roland commanded the squire without looking at him. The squire looked at him confused.

"Your horse, my lord? But...the walk is very brief..."

"And you expect me to walk that distance?" Roland interrupted, staring at the squire for the first time. "I care not if it is one thousand leagues or twenty steps. I travel to the monks on behalf of the future King of Ethora! I must show not just the monks, but every man in sight that I am a worthy emissary for his grace, with my every movement and gesture."

"O-of course, my lord." The squire stammered. Roland motioned him away.

"Go! Or shall I make youcarry me into the Tower yourself?!" The squire yelped and departed quickly, leaving Roland chuckling to himself.

Moments later, Roland was upon his horse riding through the small wooden dock of Ekilore. He looked upon no one but the large Tower of Oculus before him. The sun beamed off his shining armor, making him appear even more radiating than he already was. He held perfect posture and a look which seemed to say that he was better than everyone else and he knew it.

Roland rode up to the entrance of the tower. His eyes was set on the enormous building the whole time he rode, even as he got off his horse at the entrance. The gray marble tower displayed the insignia of the monks right in front of it as it extended deep into the clouds. From his view, Roland could not see the top of the tower, and doubted anyone could from the island itself. Roland's eyes departed from the tower for one moment to see a surprising figure standing right beside him, someone he had no intention of seeing here. In fact, he had no reason he should here, unless he was representing another lord of Ethora. This made Roland livid, especially because the man was his younger brother, Percival Grey.

"You! What in Andal's name are you doing here!?" Roland demanded of him.

"Oh, it's you," Percival stated, barely acknowledging the existence of his so called brother. Percival was far too much into thought to bother in conversation with Roland. Percival was on orders from his new sworn lord, Robert of House Welm, one of the great houses of Ethora, serving the summons of the Ekilorian Monks. Having never been to the Tower of Oculus, Percival was admiring the sight before ultimately getting wrapped into what he assumed was politics and other complicated issues that while he had great experience with was aware that things often never go well for anyone. The Tower of Oculus was one of the great wonders of the world, having stood for as long as civilization existed, with myths and legends of Old Hyrus describing its ornate design in great detail. It's marble craftsmanship being the envy of many masons. It's sky stabbing height legendary. It is said that no matter where one stood, the grand tower could be seen.

"Don't 'oh it's you' me! Answer the damn question!"

"Same reason you are here. I am representing House Welm."

Roland's eyes were filled with anger. He had usually not let others bother him so, but his brother had time and time again tested him with his casual speech and indifferent persona.

"How dare you! Have you lost all that is left of your decency!? You are of the House of Grey, loyal to Hector Reigncliff, and yet you persist on your injudicious devotion to this feeble House with a swine for a lord! It is as if with your every breath you seek to single-handedly tarnish the reputation our family has forged over decades!"

"And what reputation would that be?" Percival said with little emotion, as if spending any emotion on the conversation was pointless. He finally met the burning eyes of his brother, though with an empty icy gaze. Roland gritted his teeth as he returned the gaze at his brother. Like many times in the past in their conversations over the years, he once again was resisting the urge to skewer Percival where he stood. Had he not held the name of Grey, he would have done so a long time ago. He stood silently, no longer interested in pursuing a conversation with his brother, but instead, more interested on the purpose of the meeting.

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