Foxgloves
Committed
Roleplay posts: 77 
Physical Description: Foxgloves is shaped like a man for the most part, tall and lanky. He wears a long coat with innumerable pockets and a hood with two long points that flop about like a rabbit's ears. The fingers of his gloves are long and thin, and his pointed boots are unadorned. Most notably, he wears a white mask, behind which only darkness can be seen. He is very light, as though stuffed nothing but cotton and cobwebs.
Registered: May 14, 2019 20:08:06 GMT -8
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Post by Foxgloves on Jan 31, 2020 23:19:07 GMT -8
Fiona would be relieved to find the hand to display no signs of any strangling tendencies, although it did seem to be unnecessarily grabby. It appeared to have little regard for any sort of propriety and had an unsettling habit of scuttling around and climbing up people, but was otherwise harmless. It seemed to prefer to cling to Fiona, avoiding Azra'il and Sylhom as much as possible.
The prisoner transport wagon came trundling along the road right on time, a testament to the efficiency of the Isran guard. It was a rather ordinary open-topped wagon, pulled by a pair of horses and driven by a single guardsman. Four more guardsmen on horseback flanked it, two on each side. All seemed to be armed with swords and crossbows, but their relaxed posture and idle chit-chat made it clear that they weren't expecting any trouble. Why should they? After all, it was a routine trip and they'd gone several hours without seeing a lick of trouble.
In the back of the cart sat four convicts, ankles and wrists shackled. A heavy chain linked the four of them together and ran through an iron ring in the center of the wagon floor, preventing them from going anywhere quickly. One of the prisoners was hooded with a canvas sack over his head, and Fiona would be able to quickly recognize that none of the other three were the forger they were looking for. The wagon approached, soon drawing near enough that the three would-be kidnappers would be able to hear the prisoners speaking.
"Hey you," said one of the chained men to another. "You're finally awa-"
He was cut off when the wagon suddenly jolted to a halt, horses whinnying as the driver jerked on the reins. The guards stared out at the skinny young man who'd suddenly fallen out of a tree onto the dirt road before them, wondering what exactly they should do. Helping him seemed to be the moral thing, but hadn't their orders been to keep moving at all costs? After a long moment, one of the mounted guards rode over and poked Sylhom cautiously with the tip of his sword.
"Hey," he said, his voice gruff and impatient. "Hey, are you alright? If you can move, you need to get out of the way. We're on imperial business."
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Fiona Blythe
Dedicated
Roleplay posts: 107
Age: 25
Physical Description: ==================================================
Quite attractive, which is quite the benefit of her public profession. High cheek bones, a sharp jawline and thin nose, soft cheeks, and a stunning outlook about her.
Her eyes are a warm green, and her skin on the paler side, but it is hard to tell if it's natural or just well applied makeup until closer inspection. Her hair drops down past her shoulders, and a dark, aged timber brown.
Catching one's eye is her goal, afterall.
She is of medium height and wonderfully maintained build, toned but soft where it matters.
Clothes and Equipment: ==================================================
In public, she can be seen wearing expensive dresses, low cut at the front, and perfectly tailored. As well as her modest jewellery, she wears a specific broach worn by those of her profession, the silver dove of the working women's union, a group of independant whores and escorts.
During her more clandestine dealings however, she wears an incognito set of clothes, featuring a tight pair of dark green greaves, soft and comfy boots that reach up her shins, a basic white shirt, a dark red vest with a handful of pockets, and a dark green hooded cloak that matches her greaves. On top of this, she wears a belt with plenty of pouches to carry her tools of the trade. Finally, a dark maroon scarf is worn over her pale features to hide her identity.
For weaponry, she carries a pair of knives, hidden away for her own protection, however she has also been seen with a seemingly basic bow from time to time. On her belt, however, she hides a small hand-crossbow, and just enough bolts to get her out of a tight spot.
Her tool belt contains many tricks of the trade, including lockpicks, a glass cutter, smoke bombs for a quick get away, and even a handful of stink bombs.
Registered: Jan 12, 2019 23:02:23 GMT -8
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Post by Fiona Blythe on Feb 3, 2020 23:57:55 GMT -8
With the whump of the elf falling from the tree, she knew it would be time, and thankfully the cart had stopped in just the right place. Using a piece of rope she had tied to the tree, she gently lowers herself, which takes a lot more effort than many would realise, and a pair of thick gloves so she wouldn’t cut into her fingers with how tight she would have to grab hold of it. Her precision is unmatched when it came to this kind of work, and with the soft pat of her specially padded boots, she lands behind the cart, out of prying eyes.
They’re all watching the road and the elf. Great! She peers over the back to check things out. Just as she suspected, none of the others were who they needed, so that left sack boy. If anyone were to see her, she’d stick a finger up against her covered mouth in a shushing motion, then with a gentle step, she steps around the side, and waits for a moment, looking at the nearest guards and ready to scramble should she need to. The elf would need to name some noise to keep them away, that’s for sure.
She slowly takes off her gloves and retrieves the lock picking set from her belt, one that would see a lot of use tonight, and climbs onto the wagon, quietly. She looks between them, hoping they get the picture. “One at a time,” she whispers, just enough that they could barely hear her, then peeks under the bag over the suspected forger’s head.
If its him? She gets to work on the locks as quietly as she can.
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Sylhom Darviel
New
Roleplay posts: 8
Physical Description: Sylhom is quite tall and skinny. He lacks much body fat and looks malnourished most of the time. He has messy orange-red hair that he usually keeps tied back. His eyes are green. His body is crossed with scars, mostly on his back and sides. On his back left shoulder is a brand.
Clothes and Equipment: His clothes are standard and quite loose and light for easy mobility. He carries two daggers with him and a small backpack in which he carries supplies.
Registered: Jul 25, 2019 8:48:46 GMT -8
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Post by Sylhom Darviel on Feb 13, 2020 8:35:06 GMT -8
Sylhom thanked every God he could think of that he knew how to take a fall without getting hurt. It sounded terrible, but he felt fine, in fact a little better due to the adrenaline rush he was getting. He let out an embarrassing groan as he sat up, rubbing the top of his head but decidedly not moving. When the guard's started speaking and poking at him, he turned, eyes wide like a child that had been caught with their hand in the sugar jar.
"I'm so sorry," he said, seeing out of the corner of his eye that Fiona had began to work. Perfect. "I was trying to get something out of that tree, but I couldn't reach it. I guess it's gone."
He paused, and then began to grab at his knee. "I think my knee is hurt," he whined, "can you look at it for me?" He tugged up his pant leg. His legs were pale and basically all bone, but his knee did have a nasty bruise on it that looked fresh. An accident, but he wasn't going to deny that it was useful. Didn't impair his movement too much either, at least as far as he could tell. Movement wasn't going to be much of an issue if this plan went well, since he would have to stay in the road and distract them for as long as possible.
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Azra'il
Established
Roleplay posts: 16
Age: Unknown
Physical Description: With skin as white as death and eyes of ethereal blue, there is an unmistakable otherworldliness to her immediate figure. The once good and benevolent monk corrupted by unfathomable dark forces. Azra'il wears the monk robes from her past life, dyed black, signifying her personal fall from grace, and wears her black hair in an up-do, with shaved sides. The same as it was in life, yet forever changed in un-life.
Registered: Nov 16, 2019 22:16:06 GMT -8
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Post by Azra'il on Feb 17, 2020 20:46:39 GMT -8
As Azra'il observed the theatrics, she realized that the impatient guards weren't going to fall for Sylhom's pitiful attempts at acting. They seemed about ready to toss him to the side just to be on their way. Perhaps she should lend him a hand. "Nïɐn ǝp ǝnbɹɐɯ ɐl ɔǝʌɐ ǝɟlǝ,l zǝssᴉpnɐɯ 'ɹnǝlnop ɐl ǝp ʇǝ ʇuǝɯɹnoʇ np sǝuɐɟoɹd xnǝᴉp," the necromancer uttered as she read from her little black book, repeating the phrase three times as she focused on the elf, who would begin to writhe in absolute agony. It should provide a suffice distraction, as the guards would have a better time believing the elf was in real pain. It might only be a momentary shock to them, and they might still try to set them aside, but it would buy them an extra minute or two, which should be enough.
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