Merryman Humour
Established
'Ha, Ha.'
Roleplay posts: 15 
Age: Ageless
Physical Description: Humour is 6'2", appearing well-muscled and broad. His skin is hidden away, underneath his full garb and mask. What is underneath isn't known for sure, but he is seen to pulse at the seams of his robe, and spews foul miasma from gaps in the material. This miasma is deadly, and is a powerful tranquilizing agent if inhaled. Humour's robe is light blue, with faded brown cloth upon the outsides.
Commanding, bright and forward, Humour holds his posture high, chest protruding, emphasizing his cocky characteristics. His innate haughtiness gives him an edge of delicality, but also precision. He carries the air of an aristocrat, but with none of the wealth to speak of.
When Humour "speaks", miasma escapes from the slits in his mask and a scratchy, etherwordly begins. This voice is telepathic, and can only be communicated short distances.
Humour must expel his miasma, else he will explode. Breathing through the slits in his mask can remove part of the miasma, however he must directly use his abilities in order to truly expel the miasma.
Clothes and Equipment: Light-cloth robe. Unarmoured.
Metal-plated leather boots. Produces a light 'clank' noise when walking.
Leather belt. Can strap stuff to.
Gloves. Tightly bound to robe. The fingers appear bloated.
Player's online availability : Australian time GMT+8
Registered: Dec 19, 2016 4:31:50 GMT -8
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Post by Merryman Humour on Jan 16, 2018 1:27:06 GMT -8
 The stone bridge slices a river in two, but with this stands a perpetual war between the river and bridge. The aged stone of the bridge, encased in moss, stands tall versus the endless barrage of blue. On the left of the bridge is a dense, dark forest and on the right, a sandy crag filled with dry stumps and fallen trunks. Once a bountiful forest, there's little left of that now. Coming from Isra, you will come from the left side. The place is tense, the air stagnant and poised. Who knows what could lay beyond, in the forest? |
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Archbishop Alured Norian
Committed
Roleplay posts: 71
Age: 356
Physical Description: Seven-feet-tall wearing a heavy, black leather cloak. A wide brimmed hat sits upon his head, and he wears a curious, pointed mask, fit with black lenses that hide its eyes. Occasionally sickly-sweet smelling gas rises from small vents on their side of the "beak".
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When not wearing what he refers to as his ceremonial garb, he reveals himself to be an elf. His face is lined with age and his hair is short and slicked back, black streaked with gray. His eyes are orange, and despite his races propensity towards merriment, he wears a permanent scowl that exudes a cold aura of authority.
Clothes and Equipment: A heavy leather jacket, gloves, a wide-brimmed hat and a plague doctor's mask. He has with him on a strap a holy book, bound in black leather with silver linings.
His mask has enchantments that largely eliminate inhaled poisons, sight-based magics or effects or even the need for air. His jacket functions as a flexible suit of metal armor and hampers weapons as such. It cannot be slices, however crushing and large amounts of piercing damage may penetrate it. It can be fixed, but it takes time, and thus can't be performed during battles.
He carries no weapons and fights unarmed, although he has a knife for general purposes. His leather gloves function as gauntlets and can pack quite a punch.
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Allegiances: The Church of Varafel
Player's online availability : Frequent
Registered: Dec 22, 2017 15:51:51 GMT -8
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Post by Archbishop Alured Norian on Jan 16, 2018 1:42:51 GMT -8
One day, perhaps he should write these travels down. At least the particularly interesting bits. This, however, seemed not to be one of them. Striding along the pathway, a figure clad entirely in black save for a rather unsettling mask seemed almost to drift along. Isra had been a particularly fulfilling stop on his never-ending road. He would, of course, return soon. After all, his business had yet to be concluded, but that didn't exclude him from scouting out the area. After all, he was always searching for a more strategic spot for a new Cathedral.
Of course, his intentions weren't entirely predatory. Indeed, cultivating healing magic and providing Israns with their services might save a great deal of people, or so he hoped. Although it hadn't been without its rough patches. Dealing with the Empress had proven to be particularly trying. She was smart, smarter than most of the people he'd dealt with. Worthy of respect and of caution. Even so, she was still young, and it showed. A fledgling Empress in a Fledgling kingdom...he hoped he would be around long enough to see how it grew.
Stepping onto the bridge he was slightly distracted, although the unsettling mask revealed nothing of that.
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Merryman Humour
Established
'Ha, Ha.'
Roleplay posts: 15
Age: Ageless
Physical Description: Humour is 6'2", appearing well-muscled and broad. His skin is hidden away, underneath his full garb and mask. What is underneath isn't known for sure, but he is seen to pulse at the seams of his robe, and spews foul miasma from gaps in the material. This miasma is deadly, and is a powerful tranquilizing agent if inhaled. Humour's robe is light blue, with faded brown cloth upon the outsides.
Commanding, bright and forward, Humour holds his posture high, chest protruding, emphasizing his cocky characteristics. His innate haughtiness gives him an edge of delicality, but also precision. He carries the air of an aristocrat, but with none of the wealth to speak of.
When Humour "speaks", miasma escapes from the slits in his mask and a scratchy, etherwordly begins. This voice is telepathic, and can only be communicated short distances.
Humour must expel his miasma, else he will explode. Breathing through the slits in his mask can remove part of the miasma, however he must directly use his abilities in order to truly expel the miasma.
Clothes and Equipment: Light-cloth robe. Unarmoured.
Metal-plated leather boots. Produces a light 'clank' noise when walking.
Leather belt. Can strap stuff to.
Gloves. Tightly bound to robe. The fingers appear bloated.
Player's online availability : Australian time GMT+8
Registered: Dec 19, 2016 4:31:50 GMT -8
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Post by Merryman Humour on Jan 16, 2018 2:12:16 GMT -8
A rustle in the bushes, a twitch here and there, the sound of a grunt far off. These were all small noises, but a perceptive few could detect an ambush. The beady eyes of a deserter, still garbed in his Isran armour locked on to the passing figure. With a twist of his lip, he gave a toothy smile, stepping out of his concealed position in the undergrowth. His gnarled features gave a devilish look toward Alured. There was a moment of silence, before the Bandit spoke.
"Coins, clothes, weapons, now." He spoke, throatily and with a harsh, flawed tone.
His hand reached for his hip, to his arming sword. He raised his other hand, passing a command to some unseen observers. The elastic spring of a nocked string resounded four times, and the glint of arrowheads sparking through the bushes. Any wrong move now, and four arrows would find themselves lodged in Alured's chest.
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Merryman Humour
Established
'Ha, Ha.'
Roleplay posts: 15
Age: Ageless
Physical Description: Humour is 6'2", appearing well-muscled and broad. His skin is hidden away, underneath his full garb and mask. What is underneath isn't known for sure, but he is seen to pulse at the seams of his robe, and spews foul miasma from gaps in the material. This miasma is deadly, and is a powerful tranquilizing agent if inhaled. Humour's robe is light blue, with faded brown cloth upon the outsides.
Commanding, bright and forward, Humour holds his posture high, chest protruding, emphasizing his cocky characteristics. His innate haughtiness gives him an edge of delicality, but also precision. He carries the air of an aristocrat, but with none of the wealth to speak of.
When Humour "speaks", miasma escapes from the slits in his mask and a scratchy, etherwordly begins. This voice is telepathic, and can only be communicated short distances.
Humour must expel his miasma, else he will explode. Breathing through the slits in his mask can remove part of the miasma, however he must directly use his abilities in order to truly expel the miasma.
Clothes and Equipment: Light-cloth robe. Unarmoured.
Metal-plated leather boots. Produces a light 'clank' noise when walking.
Leather belt. Can strap stuff to.
Gloves. Tightly bound to robe. The fingers appear bloated.
Player's online availability : Australian time GMT+8
Registered: Dec 19, 2016 4:31:50 GMT -8
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Post by Merryman Humour on Jan 16, 2018 2:26:31 GMT -8
This wanderer had piqued Humour's interest. He was in an all-black garb, with some elongated mask. The wanderer carried himself with a straighter posture than most doggerel Humour had seen, and that suggested to him that this man was most important. As a Merrymaan, he is sworn to upholding the cause, through the effects of his curse. Therefore, he is compelled in order to help improve the stature of the group. This mystery man was of the.. sneaky-looking sort. Perhaps he would be so kind to help advance the causes of the Merrymen? Letting that question sit, he pondered his next move, laying hidden about a hundred feet away, crouched.
A croaky voice erupted from a position in front of Alured. Immediately, Humour got to his full height. Peering over the dense undergrowth, he attempted to spot the new arrival, even going so far to get up on his toes. No such luck, how frustrating. Forced to leave his hidey-hole, he attempted a quiet shuffle to an elevated hill. A visceral crack erupted from a large stick.
"Humour, you are a fool." Sneered his inner conscience.
At least he'd got himself the high ground. But, in the act, he'd revealed his position. A deadly mistake if this weren't to go well. Scanning quickly, he spotted a lone Swordsman, confronting the black-garbed man. But why, in all of that, was the air so tense?
That all became crystal clear with the sudden twang of an arrow past his head.
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Archbishop Alured Norian
Committed
Roleplay posts: 71
Age: 356
Physical Description: Seven-feet-tall wearing a heavy, black leather cloak. A wide brimmed hat sits upon his head, and he wears a curious, pointed mask, fit with black lenses that hide its eyes. Occasionally sickly-sweet smelling gas rises from small vents on their side of the "beak".
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When not wearing what he refers to as his ceremonial garb, he reveals himself to be an elf. His face is lined with age and his hair is short and slicked back, black streaked with gray. His eyes are orange, and despite his races propensity towards merriment, he wears a permanent scowl that exudes a cold aura of authority.
Clothes and Equipment: A heavy leather jacket, gloves, a wide-brimmed hat and a plague doctor's mask. He has with him on a strap a holy book, bound in black leather with silver linings.
His mask has enchantments that largely eliminate inhaled poisons, sight-based magics or effects or even the need for air. His jacket functions as a flexible suit of metal armor and hampers weapons as such. It cannot be slices, however crushing and large amounts of piercing damage may penetrate it. It can be fixed, but it takes time, and thus can't be performed during battles.
He carries no weapons and fights unarmed, although he has a knife for general purposes. His leather gloves function as gauntlets and can pack quite a punch.
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Allegiances: The Church of Varafel
Player's online availability : Frequent
Registered: Dec 22, 2017 15:51:51 GMT -8
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Post by Archbishop Alured Norian on Jan 17, 2018 7:47:55 GMT -8
As the bandit revealed himself, stepping onto the bridge, Alured halted in place.
"Alured, you are a fool." the thought crossed his mind, unknowingly syncing with his momentary ally.
He could take one lone swordsman, but the archers were a problem, even with his armor. If he had more presence of mind they would have been nothing but a nuisance. Now they were a threat. When he heard one loose their arrow he lifted his arms in an attempt to shield his masked face, but found it wasn't aimed at him. Indeed, the bandit who had confronted him glanced back at the situation in confusion. After all, if they weren't firing at the man in black before him, who were they aiming at?
Unfortunately for him, that was a question he'd never get answered. He'd barely look back by the time Alured had closed the distance, a closed-fist blow to the sternum driving the breath from his body, forcing him to stagger back a step as black suns filled his vision. Then, caught by the front of his armor, he was pulled in close. The thwip of an arrow from the bushes found itself erringly in his back before, with a casual sweep of his arm, Alured discarded him off the side of the bridge, landing with a clang into the fast-running waters below.
Even so, the Archpriest wasn't in any position to enjoy his small victory as he dashed across the bridge, hoping to find cover before the next arrows came. Only a fool relied too heavily on their armor, no matter how perfect they thought it was.
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Merryman Humour
Established
'Ha, Ha.'
Roleplay posts: 15
Age: Ageless
Physical Description: Humour is 6'2", appearing well-muscled and broad. His skin is hidden away, underneath his full garb and mask. What is underneath isn't known for sure, but he is seen to pulse at the seams of his robe, and spews foul miasma from gaps in the material. This miasma is deadly, and is a powerful tranquilizing agent if inhaled. Humour's robe is light blue, with faded brown cloth upon the outsides.
Commanding, bright and forward, Humour holds his posture high, chest protruding, emphasizing his cocky characteristics. His innate haughtiness gives him an edge of delicality, but also precision. He carries the air of an aristocrat, but with none of the wealth to speak of.
When Humour "speaks", miasma escapes from the slits in his mask and a scratchy, etherwordly begins. This voice is telepathic, and can only be communicated short distances.
Humour must expel his miasma, else he will explode. Breathing through the slits in his mask can remove part of the miasma, however he must directly use his abilities in order to truly expel the miasma.
Clothes and Equipment: Light-cloth robe. Unarmoured.
Metal-plated leather boots. Produces a light 'clank' noise when walking.
Leather belt. Can strap stuff to.
Gloves. Tightly bound to robe. The fingers appear bloated.
Player's online availability : Australian time GMT+8
Registered: Dec 19, 2016 4:31:50 GMT -8
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Post by Merryman Humour on Jan 17, 2018 19:01:51 GMT -8
The arrows came in a second volley, but due to the distance they all but missed Humour. Pinned down, he'd need a diversion in order to improve his position. That moment came as the Black figure attacked the swordsman on the bridge, disabling him with a well-placed punch. Humour was sure this would hold the attention of the archers for a while. Preying on this opportunity, Humour exited his cover, making a break for the river bank.
Just at the edge, he gave a running leap. Then, strangely, instead of plummeting, his near-weightless form caught the wind, allowing him to glide down to the other side of the river. Landing lightly, he erupted into a burst of speed and made his way towards a defensible point in the thicket. No doubt he'd have lost the advantage of the diversion now, and now he must commit to helping his ally.
And to do this, he'd need to give Alured and him some breathing room. And he had just the plan for that. His hand glowed as he placed it to his chest, gas expelling out, as he amassed a solid ball of miasma.
[Charge: 1]
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(The bowmen are focused on you, so I'll let you control them for your post.)
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Archbishop Alured Norian
Committed
Roleplay posts: 71
Age: 356
Physical Description: Seven-feet-tall wearing a heavy, black leather cloak. A wide brimmed hat sits upon his head, and he wears a curious, pointed mask, fit with black lenses that hide its eyes. Occasionally sickly-sweet smelling gas rises from small vents on their side of the "beak".
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When not wearing what he refers to as his ceremonial garb, he reveals himself to be an elf. His face is lined with age and his hair is short and slicked back, black streaked with gray. His eyes are orange, and despite his races propensity towards merriment, he wears a permanent scowl that exudes a cold aura of authority.
Clothes and Equipment: A heavy leather jacket, gloves, a wide-brimmed hat and a plague doctor's mask. He has with him on a strap a holy book, bound in black leather with silver linings.
His mask has enchantments that largely eliminate inhaled poisons, sight-based magics or effects or even the need for air. His jacket functions as a flexible suit of metal armor and hampers weapons as such. It cannot be slices, however crushing and large amounts of piercing damage may penetrate it. It can be fixed, but it takes time, and thus can't be performed during battles.
He carries no weapons and fights unarmed, although he has a knife for general purposes. His leather gloves function as gauntlets and can pack quite a punch.
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Allegiances: The Church of Varafel
Player's online availability : Frequent
Registered: Dec 22, 2017 15:51:51 GMT -8
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Post by Archbishop Alured Norian on Jan 17, 2018 20:52:40 GMT -8
The second volley of arrows sailed past him, causing him, for a moment, to doubt these archer's abilities. It wasn't until he saw the strange figure land slightly further down the bank that he realized their true target. It seemed this bizarre individual had been their target this time. Did that make it an ally? It disappeared from view among the brambles, and Alured was pressed to act. There was no sense doubting it now while under fire. A glancing arrow caught his sleeve, ricocheting end-over-end past him as he quickly closed the distance to the first archer. How many were there? At least four he was fairly certain.
The archer he had reached attempted to draw his blade, though received a blow to the throat for his efforts. The bandit staggered backwards, spasming slightly as he reached for his own throat before the priest reached out, yanking the sword out of his opponent's scabbard and plunging it painfully into the archer's stomach. The elf cursed as two more arrows made contact, failing to penetrate his coat, but sending a throbbing pain where they hit. He ducked to the side, behind a nearby tree as he tright to catch his breath, breathing in the lilac-scented filter of the mask.
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Merryman Humour
Established
'Ha, Ha.'
Roleplay posts: 15
Age: Ageless
Physical Description: Humour is 6'2", appearing well-muscled and broad. His skin is hidden away, underneath his full garb and mask. What is underneath isn't known for sure, but he is seen to pulse at the seams of his robe, and spews foul miasma from gaps in the material. This miasma is deadly, and is a powerful tranquilizing agent if inhaled. Humour's robe is light blue, with faded brown cloth upon the outsides.
Commanding, bright and forward, Humour holds his posture high, chest protruding, emphasizing his cocky characteristics. His innate haughtiness gives him an edge of delicality, but also precision. He carries the air of an aristocrat, but with none of the wealth to speak of.
When Humour "speaks", miasma escapes from the slits in his mask and a scratchy, etherwordly begins. This voice is telepathic, and can only be communicated short distances.
Humour must expel his miasma, else he will explode. Breathing through the slits in his mask can remove part of the miasma, however he must directly use his abilities in order to truly expel the miasma.
Clothes and Equipment: Light-cloth robe. Unarmoured.
Metal-plated leather boots. Produces a light 'clank' noise when walking.
Leather belt. Can strap stuff to.
Gloves. Tightly bound to robe. The fingers appear bloated.
Player's online availability : Australian time GMT+8
Registered: Dec 19, 2016 4:31:50 GMT -8
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Post by Merryman Humour on Jan 17, 2018 21:11:49 GMT -8
He couldn't see what the other man was doing, but a yelp from a nearby bush told him all he needed to know. One down, he guessed. Out of the corner of his eye, an archer spun, drawing an arrow. Humour was faster than him, noticing him seconds before. With no hesitation, he let loose the ball of miasma, striking the ground underneath his foe. The gas spread quickly, reaching to the man's mouth before he had time to react. A fatal inhalation left the man crumpled, hitting the ground with a distinct 'clang'.
No time to celebrate this small victory; there was work to be done. Glancing over, the black figure had already darted away, leaving in his wake a skewered bandit. The forest floor ran wet with bandit blood. Two down. His 'ally' was currently engaged with another bowmen. That left Humour with the last few; he wasn't sure if there were four or five archers. His beating heart filled his temples and for a second, he let his breath mellow. Catching a scuffle by a nearby bush, Humour burst suddenly, arms outstretched, out to tackle whomever is within the thicket.
Out from it pointed a bow, aiming shakily towards Humour. The arrow escaped like a flash, digging into his right thigh. Humour cringed from the pain, but from his adrenalin and built up momentum, he barreled into the criminal. Fearful eyes met Humour's, meeting an immaculate, expressionless face. Humour wrapped his arms around the man, forcing his miasma into the man's lungs.
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Archbishop Alured Norian
Committed
Roleplay posts: 71
Age: 356
Physical Description: Seven-feet-tall wearing a heavy, black leather cloak. A wide brimmed hat sits upon his head, and he wears a curious, pointed mask, fit with black lenses that hide its eyes. Occasionally sickly-sweet smelling gas rises from small vents on their side of the "beak".
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When not wearing what he refers to as his ceremonial garb, he reveals himself to be an elf. His face is lined with age and his hair is short and slicked back, black streaked with gray. His eyes are orange, and despite his races propensity towards merriment, he wears a permanent scowl that exudes a cold aura of authority.
Clothes and Equipment: A heavy leather jacket, gloves, a wide-brimmed hat and a plague doctor's mask. He has with him on a strap a holy book, bound in black leather with silver linings.
His mask has enchantments that largely eliminate inhaled poisons, sight-based magics or effects or even the need for air. His jacket functions as a flexible suit of metal armor and hampers weapons as such. It cannot be slices, however crushing and large amounts of piercing damage may penetrate it. It can be fixed, but it takes time, and thus can't be performed during battles.
He carries no weapons and fights unarmed, although he has a knife for general purposes. His leather gloves function as gauntlets and can pack quite a punch.
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Allegiances: The Church of Varafel
Player's online availability : Frequent
Registered: Dec 22, 2017 15:51:51 GMT -8
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Post by Archbishop Alured Norian on Jan 19, 2018 10:45:47 GMT -8
He wasn't certain how what the strange creature who had followed him was doing, but from the noise of the scuffle, he knew he's have fewer bandits to deal with. His elven hearing was sharp, and he pressed his back to the tree trunk, stilling his breathing. They had ambushed him on the way over, but now he knew they were there. They had lost the element of surprise and frankly: That had been the only element in their favor.
Strafing, placing each foot carefully on the root of the tree he braced himself on to avoid crunching the sticks or acorns that would otherwise be underfoot when he heard it: Someone else making that very mistake on the other side of the tree. Stopping the priest faced the direction he was coming from, waiting a few patient moments as the archer backed up around the curve of the tree, casting about frantically in the opposite direction. He certainly didn't expect as Alured grabbed the side of his head, driving it with a solid crack into the trunk of the tree and following through with several more until the man stopped moving. Letting him slump to the ground, Alured fussed with the dark-red stains on his already black coat.
He was alone now with...whatever it was that had come to his aid, and although he stepped away from the tree into the open he glanced at where he had last seen the creature.
"Your aid is...appreciated." he offered to the Merryman. Despite his words, however, he folded his hands behind his back, begining to etch out a few runes in the air behind him, whispering the verbal components of his spell. It never hurt to be prepared.
[Charge: 1]
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Merryman Humour
Established
'Ha, Ha.'
Roleplay posts: 15
Age: Ageless
Physical Description: Humour is 6'2", appearing well-muscled and broad. His skin is hidden away, underneath his full garb and mask. What is underneath isn't known for sure, but he is seen to pulse at the seams of his robe, and spews foul miasma from gaps in the material. This miasma is deadly, and is a powerful tranquilizing agent if inhaled. Humour's robe is light blue, with faded brown cloth upon the outsides.
Commanding, bright and forward, Humour holds his posture high, chest protruding, emphasizing his cocky characteristics. His innate haughtiness gives him an edge of delicality, but also precision. He carries the air of an aristocrat, but with none of the wealth to speak of.
When Humour "speaks", miasma escapes from the slits in his mask and a scratchy, etherwordly begins. This voice is telepathic, and can only be communicated short distances.
Humour must expel his miasma, else he will explode. Breathing through the slits in his mask can remove part of the miasma, however he must directly use his abilities in order to truly expel the miasma.
Clothes and Equipment: Light-cloth robe. Unarmoured.
Metal-plated leather boots. Produces a light 'clank' noise when walking.
Leather belt. Can strap stuff to.
Gloves. Tightly bound to robe. The fingers appear bloated.
Player's online availability : Australian time GMT+8
Registered: Dec 19, 2016 4:31:50 GMT -8
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Post by Merryman Humour on Jan 19, 2018 21:26:13 GMT -8
The battle was won; or not, but the silence made that fact likely. Struggling out of the bush, Merryman attempted to crawl out, dragging his wounded leg on the ground behind him. In the heat of the moment the pain in his leg was manageable, but now his adrenalin had gone. Now, his leg burned. His thigh dribbled something, his hand passing over to feel. It was wet. He wouldn't dare look down; dread rising in his stomach. Blocking out the pain, his mind entered a shock state. He began breathing heavily, feverishly sweating, as he let out an agony-fueled snarl.
He wouldn't hear Alured's words, falling onto his pounding ears. Looking down, he retched: the arrow dug far and his leg was in bad shape: he reached out to the man, to plead him for some respite. Maybe, just maybe, the black figure would give aid. He paused. Now why would he help him? Humour had served his purpose. He was just extra baggage, along for the ride. He'd hoped the man would assist him, still. Even if it was unlikely.
Laying in the bush, he lapsed into unconsciousness, losing blood from the open wound.
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Archbishop Alured Norian
Committed
Roleplay posts: 71
Age: 356
Physical Description: Seven-feet-tall wearing a heavy, black leather cloak. A wide brimmed hat sits upon his head, and he wears a curious, pointed mask, fit with black lenses that hide its eyes. Occasionally sickly-sweet smelling gas rises from small vents on their side of the "beak".
-------
When not wearing what he refers to as his ceremonial garb, he reveals himself to be an elf. His face is lined with age and his hair is short and slicked back, black streaked with gray. His eyes are orange, and despite his races propensity towards merriment, he wears a permanent scowl that exudes a cold aura of authority.
Clothes and Equipment: A heavy leather jacket, gloves, a wide-brimmed hat and a plague doctor's mask. He has with him on a strap a holy book, bound in black leather with silver linings.
His mask has enchantments that largely eliminate inhaled poisons, sight-based magics or effects or even the need for air. His jacket functions as a flexible suit of metal armor and hampers weapons as such. It cannot be slices, however crushing and large amounts of piercing damage may penetrate it. It can be fixed, but it takes time, and thus can't be performed during battles.
He carries no weapons and fights unarmed, although he has a knife for general purposes. His leather gloves function as gauntlets and can pack quite a punch.
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Allegiances: The Church of Varafel
Player's online availability : Frequent
Registered: Dec 22, 2017 15:51:51 GMT -8
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Post by Archbishop Alured Norian on Jan 20, 2018 0:47:27 GMT -8
As the strange man (man?) pulled himself from the brambles, clearly in pain, Alured danced lightly back a step. Glancing down at the Merryman's wounds, however, he noted the condition his leg was in just before the stranger collapsed. Indeed, technically he had no cause to rescue this strange creature. Still, while Alured had confidence in his skills, he was not so certain he would have survived that ambush unscathed. Shaking his head slightly he approached the downed figure, kneeling nearby. The wound was bad, but for his powers it was hardly insurmountable.
Using the magic he had been preparing instead to heal the man's wounds, Alured made certain that it was properly cleaned and treated. Humour would likely still feel twinges of pain for the next day or so, but he would find himself very much alive. As for the blood loss, that was a bit harder to treat and typically required sustained healing techniques and a static, well-maintained camp or area. Fortunately, although it had been enough to topple the man, the Archbishop attributed that more to adrenaline and shock than to lack of blood, and concluded that he'd be fine recovering on his own with proper food and rest.
The larger concern was how this man looked...ill. Incredibly ill. In fact, he honestly had the pallor of a man who'd already succumbed to said illness, yet it was nothing he could sense. Was this a curse?
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