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Old January 3rd, 2013 (10:23 PM).
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Butcher of the Sands
  • Crystal Tier
Join Date: Sep 2009
Location: Syndicate HQ
Age: 25
Gender: Male
Nature: Modest
Posts: 1,955

Victoria “Alys” Taimor – Sabamin, Eveamoor

”Victoria, listen to me please!” Elizabeth was far from pleading, verging on ordering Victoria to follow her orders; but this was an issue Elizabeth had no control over Victoria with. “You have to marry him; it will strengthen our ties with much of Ethora.”

For years Elizabeth had been pressuring Victoria to marry some noble from some major house in the north, and for every single day of those years she had refused. Ever since their parent’s death, Elizabeth had been made House Leader on their section of Ethora and almost constantly pressed the issue with her. She was not looking out for Victoria’s happiness, rather trying to strengthen her own political power and standing as one of the youngest House Leaders. Victoria refused to aid her sister without some sort of incentive; and moving to the frigid northern lands far from her home was not the best of reasons.

“Mother and Father may have left you in charge, but you will never control me. Never!” Victoria’s blood was boiling as she shouted at her sister within her private chambers.

It was not uncommon for the sisters to bicker; neither was it rare that Victoria would get upset or disagree with Elizabeth on a particular issue. A cool breeze washed over Victoria as the sun hit her hunting leathers strapped to her body. Within their abode in Rowanion, Victoria preferred to roam in her commoner clothes or hunting leathers, but today she had her hunting leathers strapped tightly to her body, bag slung over one shoulder and ready to head out. Victoria would miss the friends she had made with the populous of Rowanion, but she needed to get away, she needed to escape the grip her sister had on her.

“Goodbye, sister…”

The wooden club smashed into her shoulder, pushing Victoria to the side; her notched bow flying off somewhere into the distance. Cursing she grabbed her shoulder and pain quickly spread to ever corner of her body and small trickles of bleed began weaving down her arm. If her leather shoulder pads hadn’t taken the brunt of the hit, she would have had to deal with a broken shoulder making her bow completely useless to her. She could feel the hot breath of the orc looming over her, casting a wide shadow as it lifted its club up again for another strike.

“Sh*t,” she cursed, rolling to the side as the monster’s grunt was followed by the unmistakeable thud of wood meeting hard ground. She had rolled over on her sore shoulder, sending sparks of pain flying outwards from her shoulder. Cringing, she fumbled blindly for the hunting knife that sat comfortably by her waist. Despite having had years of no contact with Rowanion, the memories of the past still crippled her to this day; the memories flooding back at sometimes the most inappropriate time. She lay there on the ground beneath the hulking body of her Orcish foe, bow having skittered away out of reach and only a small hunting knife in hand to protect her. Victoria crumpled up her nose as the beast’s foul, rotten breath rolled over her body. She had one chance, one shot to kill the brute least she fail and die.

“Goodbye….sister…” She whispered beneath her breath as she thrust her body upwards in one fluid motion, springing forth and plunging the blade hilt-deep into the stomach of the brute. Blood sprayed out much the same as the roar that came from its throat. Victoria rolled out from under it as the Orc’s body fell heavily to the ground wincing as she again rolled over her injured shoulder. She walked over to her bow, dusting the dirt off it as she lifted it from the ground, notching one of her final arrows and aiming at the head of the recently felled Orc.

During her several years of wandering looking for hired work, never had Victoria been anywhere near Dalenham. A rogue attempt to destroy a man’s business in Curilan was the only time Victoria had been in Eveamoor and after that she was glad to be out of the country. However Dalenham was an exception. Market street caught Victoria’s attention; it was enormous and had hundreds of vendors selling everything from flaming arrows to cow dung. Above the stall roofs she could see houses bordering the square-like street; a blend of high society and low society mixing into one. Dalenham seemed like one big business city where merchants flocked day by day to sell their wares.

“Hey girl!” came a sharp, raspy tone from a nearby stall. Looking around, Victoria came across the old man; skin like parchment and deep set eyes. She pointed to herself, making sure he was talking to her, “yes I’m talking to you, silly girl.”

Victoria’s blood began to boil, oh how she disliked to be called girl, but regardless she stopped following the others to approach the man. “Yes?”

In his frail hands lay a small bottle with green liquid resting carefully in the bottom. The bottle was triangular in shape, the liquid barely reaching up to the neck. “This, is ‘Dragon Fire’, a mystical substance that will burn through wood, stone, even steel. Yours for only fifty silver.”

Victoria looked at the man like he was insane, “One, I don’t have fifty silver on me, and two, I don’t believe in liquefied pig sh*t.” She turned on her heels, leaving the man stunned and quickly made her way back towards the bar.

Victoria made her way post-fight to the small, dingy tavern that Varian had set up as a meeting place for their small band of mercenaries; The Broken Keg. Once inside, she joined Varian at the bar, admiring the vast array of ales and liqueurs that lined the shelves behind.

“Raelus Fire Ale for me, Bartender.” Coming from a largely shipping city like Rowanion, Alys had often drunk some of the imported beverages with the locals; even the alcoholic ones. Brewed in the Hills of Fire in Raelus, the brew consisted of mostly pyro-weed; a potent plant. The Ale itself was tasty and somewhat spicy, however the pyro-weed gave it a ‘kick’, that unless you continued to drink the ale, would produce a slight burning feeling in the back of the throat. The paradox of the situation was that the more Ale you drank, the hotter the burning feeling in the back of the throat became. Despite this, Victoria had taken quite a liking to the ale.
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