Alden Marshal
Widely Known
Roleplay posts: 1,420
Age: 30
Physical Description: Alden is 6 even, with shoulder length messy black hair, and several days worth of beard stubble. He is handsome, with a powerful jaw, mid set cheek bones, and a perpetual grin that makes him seem younger than he really is. His bright green eyes, constantly sparkle with barely contained mirth. He has the lithe well muscled body of a swordsmen, and he moves with considerable grace and dexterity.
If one where to take more thorough examination of Alden's eyes they may notice a further detail. Around the outside edge of his iris's there's an intricate series of minuscule grey runes.
Alden rarely removes his shirt, but should someone see him with it off, they would find his body to be covered in scar tissue. Starting from just below his neckline, there is very little space that does not sport some relic of a past injury. A particularly observant person may also note that among these scars, some are a bright scarlet. These scarlet scars form an intricate series of runes hiding among the others.
Those of a more magical bent may be able to decipher the runes in his eyes and on his skin. Identifying them as sigils more commonly found on magical items. The most obvious effect of the runes on his body, are increased speed, strength, and durability.
The runes on his eyes give him the ability to detect magical auras and residue, as well as allowing him to see through low level illusions and glamours. They also maintain his vision regardless of the current light level, and even if there is a sudden shift. His eyes are also capable of dropping into the infrared spectrum in complete darkness.
The rune work on his body enhances his natural strength, speed, endurance, durability, and reflexes to almost super human levels. The effects make him a formidable opponent for most magical creatures though only because they are supplemented by exceptional skill.
This means that all though he is almost super human in a straight contest of strength or speed he would most likely loose to most other magically enhanced humanoids such as vampires or were wolves.
Alden's runes also greatly increase his healing rate allowing him to recover from injuries that would normally take a few months for a person to recover from in a few short weeks. Not only do Alden's runes accelerate healing they also enhance it. A normal persons body will repair itself until it is functioning again then stop, thanks to the runes Alden's body will continues to fix itself until it is in near perfect condition. His healing abilities enhance his already prodigious stamina as it repairs muscle damage and lactic build up and it also increases longevity as he does not accumulate long term damage as most people do.
Finally his body runes provide protection from people attempts to find him magically. Detection spells will be obfuscated their readings on his location being off by about 20 meters. Long distance scrying and tracking spells are only able to narrow down his area to somewhere within a mile radius. It should be noted that these protections can be overcome by someone with sufficient power or ingenuity.
His runes cannot be removed unless they are cut off of his body using an appropriate ritual knife and magic. If the runes are disrupted in any other way they will simply grow back in a few weeks time.
The final thing that only someone versed in rune craft and enchanting would be able to tell is this: The process of these runes being carved into his bodies would have been unbelievably painful. A normal person would have been driven insane or to suicide if they had this happen to them. During the carving process un-directed magical energies would begin to take hold and tear apart your soul. The pain this would not cease until the rune pattern was completed. This means the pain caused would be on a spiritual and physical level of incredible magnitude.
Clothes and Equipment: Read this post for equipment update: http://thefantasysandbox.boards.net/post/27933
A re-paired and enchanted grey cloak, leather armor, twin short swords, bag of candy, full water skin, a few days worth of travel rations, enchanted leather boots, and a brace of throwing knives.
Player's online availability : On and off during the day, more active during evenings (EST)
Registered: Oct 30, 2015 14:59:43 GMT -8
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Post by Alden Marshal on Sept 6, 2016 20:48:30 GMT -8
When the prisoner stirred one of the guards left. The other two keeping their eyes on Attla. A few minutes later Alden accompanied by a woman in a red robe. He stands in the center of room and eyes the man. His gaze can best be described as disinterested. He is just happy his order were followed correctly. Apparently Attla had pissed off one of his Marshals. If the man could be that infuriating then he deserved a modicum of respect. Which meant Alden had insured no chances were taken. Taking a breath Alden speaks his voice low, calm, and even. Not a hint of malice or anger can be detected.
"My name is Alden. I am High Marshal of Isra. I am empowered to ignore the law if it impedes the fulfillment of my duties. As are all marshals. Because of this I am taking your guilt for granted. Your trial, if there even is one, is already a foregone conclusion. We have multiple reliable witnesses to your crimes. Including the high lady of the city. There is quite frankly no question of your guilt."
Alden pauses and lets his words sink in. Then he continues in the same level tone of voice.
"My associate here."
He indicates the woman in the red robe.
"Is going to be cutting you with a knife. This is not a form of torture. Though I assure you it will feel like it. She will give you a rolled up piece of leather to hold in your mouth. I recommend biting onto it as hard as you can. If you don't you may find that you bite off your own tongue. She will be carving a rune into your flesh it will take some time. This rune is known as a rune of weakness. Recently developed by my recommendation. The pathways of the rune redirect the flow of magic in your body to power it. Once it is complete you will be unable to channel magic even with the cuffs removed. You will also find your physical abilities extremely limited. I will not be answering any question, so please hold your breath. You will need it for screaming."
Alden nods to the woman. Just as he said she approaches and offers Attla a long rolled up tube of leather. Careful to keep her hands from his mouth. Then she ensures his restraints are keeping him tight against the wall. Once she is certain she begins. She would slip the scalpel expertly into his flesh. Just past the epidermal layer so it will scare, without damaging any organs. Moving her hands steadily and carefully. Pausing whenever Attla jerked or twitched from the pain, making sure her marks are steady. Attla would find the pain excruciating as the woman was not just cutting his flesh, but into his very spirit. Though the spiritual pain is thankfully muted due to the anti magic cuffs. Once those are removed though the rune would take hold and it would be most unpleasant.
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Attla, the Conniving
Committed
life
Roleplay posts: 84
Age: 27
Physical Description: A shrewd and bent over nomad, deprived of food at a young age, giving him malnutrition. His thin bones and muscle weaken him physically. He is just 5 foot 5 inches and has a weak and flimsy gait.
He is usually wearing a form of battered cloak, over black robes that hang loosely across his protruding figure.
His weakness extends to his legs, where he cannot run effectively. Instead, he must hobble at a slow pace, making him simple to outrun.
To most people he would be considered an outcast, a useless fruit of society, living off the work of others in a parasitical one-sided form of symbiosis.
His face is droopy, his eyelids purple, a permenant state caused by his lack of sleep. He is an insomniac and thusly has use magical means to get himself to sleep.
He has beard, congealed with silver and brown hairs, which is spewed haphazardly across his chin, in an ugly show of his unclealiness.
His hair is a mess of dirt and grime. It is hard to gauge of his hair is brown, or it is merely the mud that lumps together inside of it.
His eyes, a brilliant green iris, contrasted by the vicious red tendrils in his eyes, a sign of bleariness and tiredness.
His nose is long and angular, ending at the near hidden, slim mouth stuck in a grimace of pain and anguish.
He near always has a thin cover of sweat across his body, with little pieces of grit mixed in, like a foul soup.
Clothes and Equipment: As mentioned, he has a black, torn and weak robe, covering a small fleece of sheep's wool. Over this robe, a battered and torn black cloak covers him fully. His is connected to his robe by a simple headwrap, creating a black hood to shield himself from the sun with.
He wears large leather boots, worn and old, with obvious mistreatment. No attempt to clean his boots has been made.
He carries a twisted and gnarled ironwood root, as a walking stick and makeshift weapon. He uses it as a way of casting magic, using it to gather energy in the same way a lightning rod would conduct lightning.
Underneath his robe he carries a satchel. In the satchel he keeps a small coin purse, and a small box where he keeps various nefarious equipment, such as lock-picks, needles, small daggers and some throwing darts, all of these stolen or created by him.
Registered: Mar 18, 2016 23:24:09 GMT -8
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Post by Attla, the Conniving on Sept 17, 2016 3:35:35 GMT -8
His mind was set on only one thing: survival. How he would recover from the rune is all that he cared about.
No rune is permenant. That is a fact, a fundamental law of magic. It would require an infinite amount of magical energy to make a rune impervious. Therefore, Attla was not scared. It was a temporary affair, this rune of weakness.
Considering it altered the movement of energies in his body, all it would require to counteract the rune would be to re-calibrate the paths themselves. Magic itself is like law - the true masters of it aren't those with brute force, rather those with knowledge on the technical aspects of it. A powerful magician requires cunning and craftiness. Luckily for Attla, he had no end of both.
As a final measure, spiritual healing would cure his weakness. He had immediate access to skilled mages, due to his position in the Inferno Assembly. He could have the rune purified, easily, through use of their magics.
Still, he must play the part, else they may view him as more of a threat, which would most likely cause him to sustain heavier injuries. He feigned fear, preparing for the knife.
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Alden Marshal
Widely Known
Roleplay posts: 1,420
Age: 30
Physical Description: Alden is 6 even, with shoulder length messy black hair, and several days worth of beard stubble. He is handsome, with a powerful jaw, mid set cheek bones, and a perpetual grin that makes him seem younger than he really is. His bright green eyes, constantly sparkle with barely contained mirth. He has the lithe well muscled body of a swordsmen, and he moves with considerable grace and dexterity.
If one where to take more thorough examination of Alden's eyes they may notice a further detail. Around the outside edge of his iris's there's an intricate series of minuscule grey runes.
Alden rarely removes his shirt, but should someone see him with it off, they would find his body to be covered in scar tissue. Starting from just below his neckline, there is very little space that does not sport some relic of a past injury. A particularly observant person may also note that among these scars, some are a bright scarlet. These scarlet scars form an intricate series of runes hiding among the others.
Those of a more magical bent may be able to decipher the runes in his eyes and on his skin. Identifying them as sigils more commonly found on magical items. The most obvious effect of the runes on his body, are increased speed, strength, and durability.
The runes on his eyes give him the ability to detect magical auras and residue, as well as allowing him to see through low level illusions and glamours. They also maintain his vision regardless of the current light level, and even if there is a sudden shift. His eyes are also capable of dropping into the infrared spectrum in complete darkness.
The rune work on his body enhances his natural strength, speed, endurance, durability, and reflexes to almost super human levels. The effects make him a formidable opponent for most magical creatures though only because they are supplemented by exceptional skill.
This means that all though he is almost super human in a straight contest of strength or speed he would most likely loose to most other magically enhanced humanoids such as vampires or were wolves.
Alden's runes also greatly increase his healing rate allowing him to recover from injuries that would normally take a few months for a person to recover from in a few short weeks. Not only do Alden's runes accelerate healing they also enhance it. A normal persons body will repair itself until it is functioning again then stop, thanks to the runes Alden's body will continues to fix itself until it is in near perfect condition. His healing abilities enhance his already prodigious stamina as it repairs muscle damage and lactic build up and it also increases longevity as he does not accumulate long term damage as most people do.
Finally his body runes provide protection from people attempts to find him magically. Detection spells will be obfuscated their readings on his location being off by about 20 meters. Long distance scrying and tracking spells are only able to narrow down his area to somewhere within a mile radius. It should be noted that these protections can be overcome by someone with sufficient power or ingenuity.
His runes cannot be removed unless they are cut off of his body using an appropriate ritual knife and magic. If the runes are disrupted in any other way they will simply grow back in a few weeks time.
The final thing that only someone versed in rune craft and enchanting would be able to tell is this: The process of these runes being carved into his bodies would have been unbelievably painful. A normal person would have been driven insane or to suicide if they had this happen to them. During the carving process un-directed magical energies would begin to take hold and tear apart your soul. The pain this would not cease until the rune pattern was completed. This means the pain caused would be on a spiritual and physical level of incredible magnitude.
Clothes and Equipment: Read this post for equipment update: http://thefantasysandbox.boards.net/post/27933
A re-paired and enchanted grey cloak, leather armor, twin short swords, bag of candy, full water skin, a few days worth of travel rations, enchanted leather boots, and a brace of throwing knives.
Player's online availability : On and off during the day, more active during evenings (EST)
Registered: Oct 30, 2015 14:59:43 GMT -8
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Post by Alden Marshal on Sept 18, 2016 16:17:09 GMT -8
The rune is inscribed as ordered leaving Attla without any power. His assessment was correct to an extent. Anything wrote with magic could, in turn, be undone with magic. Though it would not be as easy as he believed. Runes carved directly into the body were designed to be difficult to remove. If he did not get a master rune scribe to do the work than he would likely die. As a single misplaced cut could shatter the stream of his spirit. At which point he'd be an empty husk. Still, he was not without hope if he managed to escape.
Since Attla was, in essence, crippled to the point of being an invalid. His physical strength reduced to that of a child's. His magic being continuously drained to power the spell that weakened him. He was released from his anti-magic shackles. Two burly men coming in to let him down and replacing them with normal shackles. These on his legs and on his hands. Then he was directed to sit at the table. Once he has Alden would sit across from him. A sheet of paper and a quill are set on the table in front of Attla.
"In front of you is a confession. A relatively new concept given to me by Lady Naoki. In essence, it is a written statement of your guilt in the attack on the central plaza. Though there are some gaps in the narrative your involvement has been adequately verified. Even if we gave you a trial it would hardly be a fair one. You and your dragon friend are both going to pay for what happened. From what I have gathered nobody particularly cares who was the mastermind and who wasn't. We simply want to drive home a message. Do not fuck with Isra."
There is a brief pause as Alden drums his fingers upon the table.
"My role in this is simple. I am to get you to sign the confession. If you do so now you will be escorted back to your cell. There you will wait until it is decided what to do with you. If you do not sign it I will torture you until you do. If that fails I will turn you over to Grandma again. She will remove your soul from your body and then animate the lifeless husk which will sign it for us. Before you question the legality of this I would remind you what I said earlier. I am a Sun Marshal. We are empowered to ignore the law in pursuit of our mission. Which means I don't care if this is legal. I only care about getting the result requested of me. I recommend you sign. But the choice is yours."
Alden eyes the man carefully. He doesn't make mistakes he doesn't get careless. Even someone who was effectively powerless may attempt something stupid. But stupid could work if you got caught off guard. Thus Alden didn't relax his.
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Attla, the Conniving
Committed
life
Roleplay posts: 84
Age: 27
Physical Description: A shrewd and bent over nomad, deprived of food at a young age, giving him malnutrition. His thin bones and muscle weaken him physically. He is just 5 foot 5 inches and has a weak and flimsy gait.
He is usually wearing a form of battered cloak, over black robes that hang loosely across his protruding figure.
His weakness extends to his legs, where he cannot run effectively. Instead, he must hobble at a slow pace, making him simple to outrun.
To most people he would be considered an outcast, a useless fruit of society, living off the work of others in a parasitical one-sided form of symbiosis.
His face is droopy, his eyelids purple, a permenant state caused by his lack of sleep. He is an insomniac and thusly has use magical means to get himself to sleep.
He has beard, congealed with silver and brown hairs, which is spewed haphazardly across his chin, in an ugly show of his unclealiness.
His hair is a mess of dirt and grime. It is hard to gauge of his hair is brown, or it is merely the mud that lumps together inside of it.
His eyes, a brilliant green iris, contrasted by the vicious red tendrils in his eyes, a sign of bleariness and tiredness.
His nose is long and angular, ending at the near hidden, slim mouth stuck in a grimace of pain and anguish.
He near always has a thin cover of sweat across his body, with little pieces of grit mixed in, like a foul soup.
Clothes and Equipment: As mentioned, he has a black, torn and weak robe, covering a small fleece of sheep's wool. Over this robe, a battered and torn black cloak covers him fully. His is connected to his robe by a simple headwrap, creating a black hood to shield himself from the sun with.
He wears large leather boots, worn and old, with obvious mistreatment. No attempt to clean his boots has been made.
He carries a twisted and gnarled ironwood root, as a walking stick and makeshift weapon. He uses it as a way of casting magic, using it to gather energy in the same way a lightning rod would conduct lightning.
Underneath his robe he carries a satchel. In the satchel he keeps a small coin purse, and a small box where he keeps various nefarious equipment, such as lock-picks, needles, small daggers and some throwing darts, all of these stolen or created by him.
Registered: Mar 18, 2016 23:24:09 GMT -8
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Post by Attla, the Conniving on Oct 14, 2016 16:14:45 GMT -8
Attla was illiterate, in the native tongue that most spoke. He had only became literate in dragonic runes and that was only recently. And by literate, I mean he can write a hundred to two-hundred dragonic symbols, with reasonable accuracy. This was of course a huge bar on his ability to write a confession. Dragonic runes are difficult to write in and Attla did not have a rune-dictionary at hand to check. He scribbled on the paper for a second or two, forming one or two runes before immediately stopping. It would take far too long to write the entire confession out using runes. Therefore, he took a slight shortcut while writing it.
A slight shortcut meant that he didn't write the confession at all. He turned the paper around, and drew the dragonic rune of confession, across the entire page. It was crude and difficult to read. It could easily be mistaken for the rune of wine. After all, the runes are similar. To finish this, he formed a single dot next to the rune. It would then read out as: "I did it." or, if misunderstood "I am wine.". He admired his handiwork for a second. He wasn't happy with it, sure. But he couldn't care less. He held the page up, indicating that it was finished.
As for the crippling rune, Attla had one other trick up his sleeve. An ancient practice, that sacrificies the mortal body for a more powerful, spiritual form, the art of Lichdom. It was true the rune would be still attached to his spirit, if he ascended into the form of a Lich. However, he would have full control over the movement of magic within his body as a Lich. Therefore, he could break the seal and suffer no consequences, for if he broke the seal, the magic that would escape could be easily reformed into his spirit. This crippling rune would be a mere hurdle in Attla's quest for power.
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Alden Marshal
Widely Known
Roleplay posts: 1,420
Age: 30
Physical Description: Alden is 6 even, with shoulder length messy black hair, and several days worth of beard stubble. He is handsome, with a powerful jaw, mid set cheek bones, and a perpetual grin that makes him seem younger than he really is. His bright green eyes, constantly sparkle with barely contained mirth. He has the lithe well muscled body of a swordsmen, and he moves with considerable grace and dexterity.
If one where to take more thorough examination of Alden's eyes they may notice a further detail. Around the outside edge of his iris's there's an intricate series of minuscule grey runes.
Alden rarely removes his shirt, but should someone see him with it off, they would find his body to be covered in scar tissue. Starting from just below his neckline, there is very little space that does not sport some relic of a past injury. A particularly observant person may also note that among these scars, some are a bright scarlet. These scarlet scars form an intricate series of runes hiding among the others.
Those of a more magical bent may be able to decipher the runes in his eyes and on his skin. Identifying them as sigils more commonly found on magical items. The most obvious effect of the runes on his body, are increased speed, strength, and durability.
The runes on his eyes give him the ability to detect magical auras and residue, as well as allowing him to see through low level illusions and glamours. They also maintain his vision regardless of the current light level, and even if there is a sudden shift. His eyes are also capable of dropping into the infrared spectrum in complete darkness.
The rune work on his body enhances his natural strength, speed, endurance, durability, and reflexes to almost super human levels. The effects make him a formidable opponent for most magical creatures though only because they are supplemented by exceptional skill.
This means that all though he is almost super human in a straight contest of strength or speed he would most likely loose to most other magically enhanced humanoids such as vampires or were wolves.
Alden's runes also greatly increase his healing rate allowing him to recover from injuries that would normally take a few months for a person to recover from in a few short weeks. Not only do Alden's runes accelerate healing they also enhance it. A normal persons body will repair itself until it is functioning again then stop, thanks to the runes Alden's body will continues to fix itself until it is in near perfect condition. His healing abilities enhance his already prodigious stamina as it repairs muscle damage and lactic build up and it also increases longevity as he does not accumulate long term damage as most people do.
Finally his body runes provide protection from people attempts to find him magically. Detection spells will be obfuscated their readings on his location being off by about 20 meters. Long distance scrying and tracking spells are only able to narrow down his area to somewhere within a mile radius. It should be noted that these protections can be overcome by someone with sufficient power or ingenuity.
His runes cannot be removed unless they are cut off of his body using an appropriate ritual knife and magic. If the runes are disrupted in any other way they will simply grow back in a few weeks time.
The final thing that only someone versed in rune craft and enchanting would be able to tell is this: The process of these runes being carved into his bodies would have been unbelievably painful. A normal person would have been driven insane or to suicide if they had this happen to them. During the carving process un-directed magical energies would begin to take hold and tear apart your soul. The pain this would not cease until the rune pattern was completed. This means the pain caused would be on a spiritual and physical level of incredible magnitude.
Clothes and Equipment: Read this post for equipment update: http://thefantasysandbox.boards.net/post/27933
A re-paired and enchanted grey cloak, leather armor, twin short swords, bag of candy, full water skin, a few days worth of travel rations, enchanted leather boots, and a brace of throwing knives.
Player's online availability : On and off during the day, more active during evenings (EST)
Registered: Oct 30, 2015 14:59:43 GMT -8
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Post by Alden Marshal on Oct 18, 2016 20:04:04 GMT -8
Alden looks at the almost childish scrawling of the man. Apparently learning to read or write hadn't been a priority on his mad grab for power. He looks at the red robed mage next to him who nods. Evidently, it was good enough. Without a word the paper is handed off to a guard for delivery and The High Marshal exits Attla leaving the man in the interrogation room. A few minutes later a few armed guards come and escort Attla back to his cell, where he will remain until such time as his fate is decided. His cell is utter barebones, with a bucket for his business and a blanket to lay on, nothing else.
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Attla, the Conniving
Committed
life
Roleplay posts: 84
Age: 27
Physical Description: A shrewd and bent over nomad, deprived of food at a young age, giving him malnutrition. His thin bones and muscle weaken him physically. He is just 5 foot 5 inches and has a weak and flimsy gait.
He is usually wearing a form of battered cloak, over black robes that hang loosely across his protruding figure.
His weakness extends to his legs, where he cannot run effectively. Instead, he must hobble at a slow pace, making him simple to outrun.
To most people he would be considered an outcast, a useless fruit of society, living off the work of others in a parasitical one-sided form of symbiosis.
His face is droopy, his eyelids purple, a permenant state caused by his lack of sleep. He is an insomniac and thusly has use magical means to get himself to sleep.
He has beard, congealed with silver and brown hairs, which is spewed haphazardly across his chin, in an ugly show of his unclealiness.
His hair is a mess of dirt and grime. It is hard to gauge of his hair is brown, or it is merely the mud that lumps together inside of it.
His eyes, a brilliant green iris, contrasted by the vicious red tendrils in his eyes, a sign of bleariness and tiredness.
His nose is long and angular, ending at the near hidden, slim mouth stuck in a grimace of pain and anguish.
He near always has a thin cover of sweat across his body, with little pieces of grit mixed in, like a foul soup.
Clothes and Equipment: As mentioned, he has a black, torn and weak robe, covering a small fleece of sheep's wool. Over this robe, a battered and torn black cloak covers him fully. His is connected to his robe by a simple headwrap, creating a black hood to shield himself from the sun with.
He wears large leather boots, worn and old, with obvious mistreatment. No attempt to clean his boots has been made.
He carries a twisted and gnarled ironwood root, as a walking stick and makeshift weapon. He uses it as a way of casting magic, using it to gather energy in the same way a lightning rod would conduct lightning.
Underneath his robe he carries a satchel. In the satchel he keeps a small coin purse, and a small box where he keeps various nefarious equipment, such as lock-picks, needles, small daggers and some throwing darts, all of these stolen or created by him.
Registered: Mar 18, 2016 23:24:09 GMT -8
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Post by Attla, the Conniving on Oct 22, 2016 4:43:41 GMT -8
He lay there in rest, in preparation for what is to come.
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The Isran Empire
Dedicated
Roleplay posts: 468
Allegiances: The Isran Empire
Registered: Apr 3, 2016 10:52:37 GMT -8
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Post by The Isran Empire on Dec 28, 2016 11:33:52 GMT -8
Attla is roused by a man wearing the armor of an Isran soldier. A rather meaty man, at that, whose armor doesn’t quite fit correctly on account of his massive pecs.
“Oi. Get up.”
In the case that Attla doesn’t hear him, the man knocks on a nearby wall with his gauntlet. Behind him, Attla would be able to see a small handful of similarly dressed men.
“This is how things are going to happen. You’re going to stand away from the door. I’m going to open it, come in, put these ‘cuffs on you, and then we’re all going to leave. We’re going to get on a cart, and take you away. We’ll turn you lose, and you’ll leave Isra, and not return. Is this all clear?”
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Attla, the Conniving
Committed
life
Roleplay posts: 84
Age: 27
Physical Description: A shrewd and bent over nomad, deprived of food at a young age, giving him malnutrition. His thin bones and muscle weaken him physically. He is just 5 foot 5 inches and has a weak and flimsy gait.
He is usually wearing a form of battered cloak, over black robes that hang loosely across his protruding figure.
His weakness extends to his legs, where he cannot run effectively. Instead, he must hobble at a slow pace, making him simple to outrun.
To most people he would be considered an outcast, a useless fruit of society, living off the work of others in a parasitical one-sided form of symbiosis.
His face is droopy, his eyelids purple, a permenant state caused by his lack of sleep. He is an insomniac and thusly has use magical means to get himself to sleep.
He has beard, congealed with silver and brown hairs, which is spewed haphazardly across his chin, in an ugly show of his unclealiness.
His hair is a mess of dirt and grime. It is hard to gauge of his hair is brown, or it is merely the mud that lumps together inside of it.
His eyes, a brilliant green iris, contrasted by the vicious red tendrils in his eyes, a sign of bleariness and tiredness.
His nose is long and angular, ending at the near hidden, slim mouth stuck in a grimace of pain and anguish.
He near always has a thin cover of sweat across his body, with little pieces of grit mixed in, like a foul soup.
Clothes and Equipment: As mentioned, he has a black, torn and weak robe, covering a small fleece of sheep's wool. Over this robe, a battered and torn black cloak covers him fully. His is connected to his robe by a simple headwrap, creating a black hood to shield himself from the sun with.
He wears large leather boots, worn and old, with obvious mistreatment. No attempt to clean his boots has been made.
He carries a twisted and gnarled ironwood root, as a walking stick and makeshift weapon. He uses it as a way of casting magic, using it to gather energy in the same way a lightning rod would conduct lightning.
Underneath his robe he carries a satchel. In the satchel he keeps a small coin purse, and a small box where he keeps various nefarious equipment, such as lock-picks, needles, small daggers and some throwing darts, all of these stolen or created by him.
Registered: Mar 18, 2016 23:24:09 GMT -8
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Post by Attla, the Conniving on Dec 29, 2016 4:25:57 GMT -8
"I see you have came. My knight in shining armour!"
He snickered, giving a mocking glance towards the Isran soldier. He was to be freed, it seemed. Perfect. It was time to engage in stage two of his plan. He was afraid he'd spend the rest of his time in a dungeon, without no way shape or form for him to escape. He only had minor trivialities to deal with - the rune, which he would deal with via the Inferno Assembly - they had the resources in order to develop a countermeasure. If not, then he still had one more option. Necromutation. Or, rather, the transformation into Lichform.
He nodded, giving a sly grin towards the man, as he addressed him. He moved back towards the wall. The removal of his strength had not impacted him too greatly. He had lived his childhood sickly and weak. He could get along. He payed no heed to it; he would think about his methods to counteract this. He extended his wrists towards him, offering up his hands for the handcuffs. He would not resist, or move, allowing the soldier to bind them onto him easily. The steel was cold against his flesh. But, it differed from the shackles in his cell. With that, he felt a sense of freedom.
He was at the mercy of the guards, and wherever they would move, he would move. He followed them out of the prison.
[Exit?]
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The Isran Empire
Dedicated
Roleplay posts: 468
Allegiances: The Isran Empire
Registered: Apr 3, 2016 10:52:37 GMT -8
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Post by The Isran Empire on Dec 29, 2016 16:45:56 GMT -8
Unsure whether he appreciates Attla’s lip or not, the man offers no comment, instead of proceeding to unlock the door, hand the key off to one of his fellows, and enter the room, shackles in hand. After turning Attla around, the man handcuffs Attla behind his back.
One would find that the shackles, as might be expected, are of the variety that prevents the wearer from utilizing magic. As so long as they remain on, Attla will find himself unable to practice any variety of magic or supernatural ability.
Once the shackles are in place and locked to his satisfaction, the soldier gestures toward the door, suggesting that Attla exit. Though he remains close behind, the man neither pushes or shoves; seeing as how Attla is cooperative, there is no need.
The rest of the entourage proceeds along as well, to ahead, behind, and to either side. Perhaps ten or eleven of them in total, each more or less functionally the same. The whole procession proceeds up, to a cart that seems to have been prepared. The cart itself is fairly ordinary, made of wood, with spoked wheels and such. It is attached to a horse, and a man sits atop it, reins in hand. In the cart, there is a cage. As opposed to the cart itself, the cage is metal, and seemingly a fine, if bland and utilitarian piece of metalwork. It is cubical in shape, and very nearly five feet to a side. The bottom and three of the sides are all solid metal. The top and one of the sides are primarily small bars, spaced about an inch or so apart. It would seem as if the top hinges off, and is secured with three latch mechanisms on the exterior of one of the solid sides.
Currently, the cage is open, and secured in the back of the cart by a few ropes tied around rings seemingly intend for such a purpose. Around the cart, though not between Attla and it, are several horsemen.
The horsemen are rather obviously also soldiers of Isra, though they seem quite prepared to embark on a journey on horseback. Each of them rides atop their respective horse, all of which are saddled, loaded with saddle bags, and armored to a degree. Some of the men carry long swords, others maces. Most of them have unstrung bows strapped to their mount, and one fellow is rocking a hefty lance, for whatever reason. “Up you get.”
Attla is helped up into the back of the cart, and into the cage, which is subsequently closed and locked. Now that is within, Attla would be able to see that something of a cloth has been laid out across the floor, to be a rug, or a blanket, perhaps. The first of the guards, the one who addressed Attla and put the shackles on, takes a position next to the driver of the carriage. The lot of them share some discussion for a few minutes before deciding that all is in order and they can depart, so they proceed to do so, moving as a group through the gates of The Citadel, through Isra to the Southern Gate, through the southern gate, and off down the road.
[Exit.]
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Attla, the Conniving
Committed
life
Roleplay posts: 84
Age: 27
Physical Description: A shrewd and bent over nomad, deprived of food at a young age, giving him malnutrition. His thin bones and muscle weaken him physically. He is just 5 foot 5 inches and has a weak and flimsy gait.
He is usually wearing a form of battered cloak, over black robes that hang loosely across his protruding figure.
His weakness extends to his legs, where he cannot run effectively. Instead, he must hobble at a slow pace, making him simple to outrun.
To most people he would be considered an outcast, a useless fruit of society, living off the work of others in a parasitical one-sided form of symbiosis.
His face is droopy, his eyelids purple, a permenant state caused by his lack of sleep. He is an insomniac and thusly has use magical means to get himself to sleep.
He has beard, congealed with silver and brown hairs, which is spewed haphazardly across his chin, in an ugly show of his unclealiness.
His hair is a mess of dirt and grime. It is hard to gauge of his hair is brown, or it is merely the mud that lumps together inside of it.
His eyes, a brilliant green iris, contrasted by the vicious red tendrils in his eyes, a sign of bleariness and tiredness.
His nose is long and angular, ending at the near hidden, slim mouth stuck in a grimace of pain and anguish.
He near always has a thin cover of sweat across his body, with little pieces of grit mixed in, like a foul soup.
Clothes and Equipment: As mentioned, he has a black, torn and weak robe, covering a small fleece of sheep's wool. Over this robe, a battered and torn black cloak covers him fully. His is connected to his robe by a simple headwrap, creating a black hood to shield himself from the sun with.
He wears large leather boots, worn and old, with obvious mistreatment. No attempt to clean his boots has been made.
He carries a twisted and gnarled ironwood root, as a walking stick and makeshift weapon. He uses it as a way of casting magic, using it to gather energy in the same way a lightning rod would conduct lightning.
Underneath his robe he carries a satchel. In the satchel he keeps a small coin purse, and a small box where he keeps various nefarious equipment, such as lock-picks, needles, small daggers and some throwing darts, all of these stolen or created by him.
Registered: Mar 18, 2016 23:24:09 GMT -8
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Post by Attla, the Conniving on Mar 2, 2017 2:13:58 GMT -8
He would comply, weak arms gripped by stronger, trained muscles, pulled like a naughty child stepping out of line. Resignedness mediated his features, blank-face – a stony, inhuman façade, washing away all emotion. Protest formed at his lips, as he was painfully hoisted along, lips then forcefully closed as he thought better. A bead of sweat snaked down his dirty face, down the bridge of his noise, towards his lips. Dirt parted, to enable this bodily stream passage. Reaching the top of his quivering lip, it darted down into his mouth, where his tongue tasted the salty taste of its own essence.
Dragged down flashy corridors, he finally breached into the day outside – freezing, foreboding gales brushed down his face and neck, otherworldly spirits and banshees screaming at him. He failed. The darkened sky, alight with piercing stars taunted him, with whispering of freedom, hope and ambition. His head lolled, staring upwards. A darkened, smoky cloud passed over, denying him the tired, quilt of night. Attla brought down, in a worried gesture, his teeth upon his lip, incising the flesh inadvertadely. A dribble of blood sprouted, staining his face and clothes, no hands ready to clear the mess.
He struggled in his cuffs, shook, as the ever-present hands of Isra’s men held him static, at mercy. He fell limp. Eyes shut themselves and he soon found himself too weak to open them again, congealed sweat and dirt acting as a sealant. Lax muscles loosened more, as a weak breath flitted in his lungs, at once he was at peace; catharsis. The puppeteer of sleep graced his lulling head, driving his mind into great images of ox, deer and horses all meandering in a plateau-field, melancholy, contrasted by a wolf slipping on stones and rubble, desperate to reach the animals. A great bull, thrice the size of the rest came, stomping upon the scrabbling paws, as the canine released and fell, as it fell, regressing in age. From an adult wolf, came out a younger and younger wolf, until finally, a mere pup. The pup contorted and shifted, into a human male, spindly and broken. The man curled into a fetal position. The ethereal dream observer of Attla, felt nothing. He stared on.
Cold, wrought iron pressed against his naked leg. Eyes blurring opened, an oscillation of beats and turbulence of a vehicle, shaking him. The harrumph of a horse, as it clopped and clopped against cobbles. Strands of metal encapsulated him, trapping him. I am only a mere child. Hands clasped twin bars, feeling their stoic, durable form. I do not know. Fists collided with the spiders web of black. Blood sprouted from his knuckles, but blows flew and tears fell, with ferocity. I do not understand. Teeth gritted, so concrete, it was if he had lockjaw.
He curled up.
Attla remembered the ship, so long ago. His first memory. Birthed to a labourer, who laboured for no pay, with a permanent collar of steel. The sensation of a club, with on-beat rhythm, as he spewed up blood. No food. Mother dead; no food. Father dead; no food. All those he knew, cared about; no food. He remembered the passing of his final friend. Cut himself on a nail. He coiled up, cracked and died.
Starvation took its cruel hand. Memory of flesh. Human blood dripping from his lips, as he weeded and weeded over what was left. The last died, upon the collision with the ground. Engine cut out suddenly. But he did not die.
Set me free. I did not deserve this.
Weakly, his forehead collided against the cage. Why? Why.
[exit]
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