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 5, 2017 21:43:01 GMT -8
Through a green wall, intent on arresting his passage, his body brushed aside the great hands of the forest, dew drip-dropping with hesitation, disintegrating upon the dense forest floor. The sonorous chatter of birds, awoken at the first dazzling beam of sunlight, contrasted the greyness of the early morning. The trees shuffled, shook, as indeterminate animals flitted between them. The atmosphere was cold, damp, with a refreshing edge. The scent of berries filled the nose.
Crunch.
Each step, slow as it was, led the cripple closer to his goal. The easing of the brown, gnarled pillars informed him, he was close. The dense overhead foliage, diluted under the blue of the sky, letting precious sunlight through. A pattern of sun formed, the blocking silhouette of trees creating a haphazard imprint of yellow.
The ground became less solid, wetter and harder to traverse. The crippled cripple’s feet sunk, crusting up to his ankles with mud. Attla waded, with slow deliberate movements, ignorant of the change in terrain, sunken eyes set forward in a thousand yard stare. The marshland was abuzz with insects, the beauty of dragonflies, the filth of mosquitos, the stealth of a spider within a tree trunk, the knight-battalions of ants, marching for battle.
Roots curved over, twisted, weathered hydras, pumping the nutrients out of the rich soil underneath. He was thigh-deep by now, but he pressed on. A kingfisher plunged, snatching a vivid green fish, darting away towards a concealed tree, where it perched. Not even the jaunt of the bird’s flight distracted Attla; he was malnourished, crazed and sleep deprived. A rough cloth bag hung over his back, rope binding the end, yet with some slack.
The ground hardened, towards a flat plane, rocky but still of the marsh. The ground ran deep fissures, dissecting the ground into dry cracks of stone. The earth seemed to ‘breathe’, as the cracks rose and dropped steadily. The very air was alit with blue, cracking beams of energy spitting out of the field, determined to suade all from approaching. The air began to warm up. He burned. But it was no burn; a flash sensation. The barrier was a ploy, the true nature of this location lay within its heart.
The light rose to strike him down, it was alive, real. He raised his stick towards the source, pointing. A great spear of lightning flew down, as if to spear him in the chest, before capturing itself upon the hardwood, captured for a matter of seconds, before he threw it to the side. The lightning itself curved away, following the magical tool. A hiss, more of a serpentine roar screeched in fury, a beast so terrible, no eye could see. For the seconds he had, the crippled cripple mustered his energy, pressed upon his heel, darting forwards with a heave.
His ‘prize’ sat coiled, a sapphire snake, surrounded with a womb of energy, consolidated. The cripple twisted at the lip, bag put over the creature. It was silent, to be born to the world in moments to come, no perception of the world. Once more, the great beast cried, another beam prepared to arc towards him.
Patience. A plan formatted, calculated, by a keen mind. Half-a-second. Energy cancels energy. The bag was thruster towards the beam of light, congealing in a plasma of mana, deflecting, delivering a hole of devastation through the tree-line. He exhaled, the tightening gone for a split second within his chest, as he had nearly perished.
He left the field of energy, it could not influence him anymore. The bag squirmed. His fast twisted, lip emanating maleficent glee.
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Appopo Popolimpapo
Established
Roleplay posts: 34
Physical Description: 1.86 meters tall and onyx black skin. Appopo is a tall Imp.
Clothes and Equipment: Clothes are in avatar picture. Uses the "Polotimpimpapimpopo Wand". This wand is full of dark magic and commanded by voice spells.
Registered: Feb 26, 2017 15:18:53 GMT -8
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Post by Appopo Popolimpapo on Mar 5, 2017 22:26:23 GMT -8
A black cloud came zooming in, and on it was a figure in black wizard garbs. He really didn't know where he was, but his soecial Orb sent him here. The wizards garments covered his entire figure except his large yellow eyes.
Coming down from the sky, he slammed on the breaks in front of Attla. Appopo sat Indian style and held his hands in his lap. His yellow eyes looked Attla up and down, letting out a slow 'Pooooo' in a sighing formation.
"Hi." He spoke to Attla as he raised a hand to waive, "Where are we?"
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Roxanne Fletcher
Main Character
Roleplay posts: 816 
Age: 22
Physical Description: Roxanne is tall with white hair and a narrow, athletic build. She has a pleasant face and only a couple of scars.
Clothes and Equipment: Heavy armor, Elven bow (stolen), and a longsword.
Player's online availability : Early mornings and late evenings
Registered: Aug 2, 2015 8:58:10 GMT -8
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Post by Roxanne Fletcher on Mar 5, 2017 22:39:49 GMT -8
Roxanne picked her way through the swamp, clutching her coat around herself protectively. It wasn't particularly cold out, but she didn't want the fur lining to get ruined by the swamp. It was a nice coat, after all. This was why she usually didn't buy nice clothes! However, she'd splurged on a finely-made coat crafted by some viking traders, and here she was now. Sighing, she decided to just take the coat off and put it in her backpack. It was better than having it be destroyed by mud, after all. It was strange, taking off a coat to protect it. She wasn't used to caring so much about getting her clothes dirty. Still, it would be a shame for the polar bear fur to be ruined by swamp mud. Having put the coat away, she re-tightened her armor and got back to her current task: looking for a Mud Salamander. She'd noticed a flyer in town, offering a decent price for a salamander tail. Having nothing better to do, she'd taken the job. Somebody had told her that salamanders grew pretty big around here, but how much trouble could a salamander be, really? She glanced up to see how much daylight she had left, and spotted what looked like a person in a pointed black hat riding a dark cloud. What could that possibly be? Some sort of witch? The last time she'd met a witch, she'd had a bit of fun, but she didn't want to take that risk again. Still, her curiosity got the better of her, and she followed the cloud until it landed. Arriving at the landing site, she spotted the two men and approached cautiously.
"Hello! Have either of you seen a Mud Salamander around here?"
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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 7, 2017 5:28:53 GMT -8
A wave of exhaustion struck the man. Limited strength slackened his joints, his hand waveringly gripped a tree, claw-like hands on the claw-like bark. No stave to aid his travel. He was no materialist, yet he sorely missed his stave. A sorcerers downfall. The uncomfortable trunk, holding his weight, didn’t hold the comfortable, familiarity of the hardwood.
The swamp surrounding him became foreboding, a place to fear. How would he leave? He felt nearly as if was going to faint. The underlying filth, the dirt and feces, would come up to swallow him. A toothy smile rose from his lips, single canine missing. A fitting end for him, he decided. But yet, the human ambition of survival filled his weary joints, permissing him to wade through the mud, from the first tree, to the next and then…
A dark cloud sprouted from the horizon, a black sheep against the wooly clouds of above. But it was not a weather cloud, but a sorcerer, cloaked in energy. He came down from above, alike a Djinn. Graceful, with firm speed he arrived next to Attla, being observed his entire passage of travel from the sky. Attla rose an eyebrow, a poker-face of a raised eyebrow, shock running underneath.
What would this sorcerer have to do with a filthy cripple such as he? An invalid, in a swamp? He could not have possibly known, of the Mana Viper. He must have some other intention. Attla stood lost in thought, preparing for the sorcerer to tell him his business, trying to find what he was going to say, before he even had. The sorcerer spoke with unexpected causality. He had no idea of where he was. He must be a young, inexperienced sorcerer.
He throw a look towards the young sorcerer, with eyes narrowing for a second, suggesting ‘Why are you here?’.
He coughed, before talking, voice husky and deeper than he had expected. He returned the greeting, with a fanciful Gauldish greeting, trying to be polite.
“Bonjour. We’re at the Spirit Swamp.”
A measurable silence grew.
“I am Buldin, once-sorcerer. And you?”
It pained him to use the name Buldin. It was a name he had left behind; Attla his preferred title. He could not use his actual name, however. That would put his identity on show – he was a criminal. He wouldn’t blunder and tell them, he better be cautious. His face poised immaculate at his lie, not giving anything away.
New steps arrived from behind. Who? An accomplice of the sorcerer? No, they led behind too far. His eyes squinted, unable to discern the features of the approaching figure. Then, after rounding a tree, they made themselves visible. Female. Well-dressed. Possibly rich. What would such a person do in a swamp? Especially with such finery on her person.
Attla coughed once more, making his attention obvious towards her. No introduction, intention made explicit. A Mud Salamander? Simple to find, yet a pain to get out. At this time of season, they lived far underground, hidden. You found them by looking for especially rich soil, the digging down. The rich stuff was darker than the rest. Mud Salamanders naturally released precious nutrients into the ground, accelerating the process of soil development. He could hedge a bet that this lady was going for a Mud Salamander for a farm, or something. Or she was finding ti for somebody else. They were very useful in a field, it was self-explanatory why.
“A Mud-Salamander? They’re at their deepest this season-“
He dropped suddenly, a wave of exhaustion hitting him once again. He regained himself, before continuing.
“-are you sure you want to look for them?”
The newcomers made him wary. He clutched his bag close to his side. His hand reached for his dart-box. No chances.
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Appopo Popolimpapo
Established
Roleplay posts: 34
Physical Description: 1.86 meters tall and onyx black skin. Appopo is a tall Imp.
Clothes and Equipment: Clothes are in avatar picture. Uses the "Polotimpimpapimpopo Wand". This wand is full of dark magic and commanded by voice spells.
Registered: Feb 26, 2017 15:18:53 GMT -8
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Post by Appopo Popolimpapo on Mar 10, 2017 15:47:11 GMT -8
Appopo stared at the man blankly for a minute trying to understand exactly what he was and what he was doing here. His yellow eyes scanned around him before focusing back on the man.
"Appopo." He spoke calmly to Alden, "why is a pugly human here?"
The other woman came around and Appopo looked at her also. He scratched the side of his head in curiousity at the humans. He noticed the man clutch a satchel and Appopo sniggered.
While everyone stood in the muck, Appopo still floated on his cloud.
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Roxanne Fletcher
Main Character
Roleplay posts: 816
Age: 22
Physical Description: Roxanne is tall with white hair and a narrow, athletic build. She has a pleasant face and only a couple of scars.
Clothes and Equipment: Heavy armor, Elven bow (stolen), and a longsword.
Player's online availability : Early mornings and late evenings
Registered: Aug 2, 2015 8:58:10 GMT -8
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Post by Roxanne Fletcher on Mar 10, 2017 22:50:57 GMT -8
Roxanne glanced between the two strange figures. What were they doing here? Who were they? They didn't seem to know each other. The man seemed to know a thing or two about mud salamanders, though.
"Are they really that deep? No wonder they're paying so much...and I just want the tail, really. Easier than wrestling with a four-foot salamander all the way back to town."
Of course, everyone knew that if you took a mud salamander tail and put it in some nice moist mud, it would grow back into a full (albeit smaller) salamander. The tailless salamander would eventually regenerate its tail, and end up no worse for wear. Roxanne had seen it done many times. Farmers would buy salamander tails at the market, then "plant" them in the fields. A few weeks later, they'd have nice, lush crops from all the salamanders in under their fields.
"I was hoping I wouldn't have to dig too deep for them. Why, are you catching salamanders too?"
She gestured towards the wriggling bag. Perhaps there was a tail in there. She then glanced up at the odd figure, sitting on a cloud. She'd never understood magic, but figured that it must be nice to cast spells like that. That cloud looked comfy.
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