Brief Encounter (closed: GD Caerydd)

Nell du'Galle · November 19, 2006, 02:21 PM

TS: Towards the end of Ponutis, Winter of Era XIII (pf)

Well, he’d really exceeded himself this time, the tall figure thought as he gazed at the town of Mysty Marshys. This really was the back of beyond, a town that was no more than a village and where the houses stood above the boggy marshes, one presumed to stop them sinking into oblivion. He wrinkled his nose with distaste, noted that it was unlikely his robes would remain free of mud and walked into the village. Only to turn around and walk straight out once more. No, it was intolerable, truly intolerable to receive the suspicious looks that had met his eyes each way they’d turned and tramping along with disdain, he headed for the lake to the North of the town. He’d been charged with a task, and was bound to see it through, but even his master would baulk somewhat at having to speak with those who inhabited this boil on the face of Telath. Or so he’d hoped, for he’d noticed on several occasions that his boss had something of the common touch and sometimes it left him wondering just who had been left in charge of all … this.

Yet as he trudged onwards, he began to reconsider. After all, random citizen had been the instruction, with no discrimination paid to wealth or appearance, and it was a task that Manyc Úlairi had undertaken with typical dispassionate interest at first. For himself, Manyc was an unremarkable figure with black robes partially covered with a further layer of deep brown furs swathed about his shoulders. Tall and lean, he struck most as a somewhat awkward figure, with his dark brown eyes holding fast on whoever crossed his path. His pale face was somewhat tightly pulled by the harsh pony tail that kept black hair under tight control. Slight tips to his ears indicated the half-elven heritage, although these were somewhat pink in the low temperatures, and he kept his hands deep in the folds of his robe as he grumbled inwardly.

Perhaps he’d been hasty. Perhaps his master really wanted to speak to one of these common folk with probably no thought beyond what they were going to eat for pracenda. Unusually for the thin man, he chuckled, trying to imagine the conversation. Random citizen indeed, he thought, and looking ahead, he saw someone who would fit the bill perfectly. From the looks of it a common fisherman and no doubt stinking of the produce caught each brightening by his own hands.

OOC: Note for GMs. NPC of Manyc Úlairi belongs to Milo L’Evienne and is being used here with permission of Milo and the GD for the purposes of a plot. PMs welcomed with queries.

Caerydd · November 21, 2006, 10:34 AM

There was indeed a common fisherman. His father had been a fisherman, his grandfather. Their fishwives would carp on about how it was in their blood, for ever since a Lubbock boy could walk, he would be put to work mending nets, gutting fish, and any other job that would stand him in good stead when his father finally hung up his galoshes and his hat, and passed the fishing boat over to him. There were scores of lads like Ned Lubbock along the shores of this particular in land sea; fresh water fish and shellfish were something of a specialty in Lauryllian cooking.

A human, he was. No elfish blood at all. A weak jawline, crooked teeth, but kind blue eyes and a head of raven black hair. Ned was not a looker, but he wasn't ugly. His young wife, Bessie, said he had a brooding air about him that added a little mystery to him. She could be lying of course, he was someone to brood at all. He was always too busy; mending nets, mending the boats, gutting the days catch ready for the days market later on. His skin was weatherbeaten and leathery, and as Manyc approached, he has happily whistling a tune as his clever hands set about cleaning the afore mentioned fish guts out of a wooden bucket.

Nell du'Galle · November 23, 2006, 06:06 PM

“Serale, you there, serale, good man!” the sorcerer called out to his chosen victim, with a raised hand of greeting as he tramped over the ground towards the young man who was doing something with a bucket. Manyc’s nose wrinkled at the stench of the fish guts, but there was little he could do about that, just as there was little he could do about the hem of his robes as they came into contact with the muddy ground. All in a good cause though, he thought to himself, still rather tickled at the thought of bringing this particular specimen to the Regent.

“A moment of your time, sir?” he intoned in his deep and resonating voice, once he had the young fisherman’s attention. “If you’d indulge me, sir, for interrupting your hard work? ‘tis a matter of imperial importance.” Bowing his head briefly, the older man slipped out from the sleeve of his dark robes a scroll of parchment tied with a black ribbon and bearing the Imperial seal. If the young man was willing to accept the scroll, it would be offered to him to read.

Secrets :

“I am Manyc Úlairi, as named within the invitation,” he continued while allowing the young man to peruse the document if it had been accepted, and then fell silent so allowing the words to be absorbed. And then when a visible cue was given that such a reading was complete, the sorcerer looked with his dark and rather forbidding eyes at the chap. “If you are willing to accept this invitation, sir, may I have your name before we proceed?”

Of course, there may be questions. Questions were expected, if only from the experience of having to convince a previous invitee that she wasn’t about to be kidnapped and sold into slavery to foreign lands. Therefore he waited with a formal and somewhat awkward air for the human’s response.

Caerydd · November 30, 2006, 07:08 AM

The poor guy gawped like a goldfish, or a spackleback possibly, and stuttered harshly as he tried to reply. Plainly the young man was terrified by Manyc. He looked blankly at the parchment. He had gone to schola occasionally when he was a child, but more often than not had played truant to help his Pa and uncles with the fishing nets. He dropped the metal scraper into the bucket, and wiped his hands hurriedly on his home spun tunic before taking the scroll. His face had a definite blankness about it as he looked at the invitation.

"Serale, an' beggin' yer pardon, Mr Úlairi" He said, pronouncing the dignified mage's surname all wrong. "But me let'ers ain't so good, so they are. I be 'appy to oblige yer, Mr Úlairi, iffen ye tell me where I be going." A deep, gravelly voice, the smell of chewing tobacco heavy on his breath; he straightened up from his task to look his social superior in the eye. "Iffen this one o' those recruitment thingies, I ain't int'rested. Got the spring catch to do, see. Can't be away long, or my Bessie will starve."

Nell du'Galle · December 2, 2006, 05:29 AM

The sorcerer shook his head gravely. “Ah my good man, no recruitment drive, don’t worry. Here, let me tell you what the scroll says. It is an invitation, an invitation and therefore you are free to refuse it. However it is an invitation from His Most Imperial Excellency, Milo L’Evienne, Regent to Alleria. He wishes to speak with you. And if you accept this invitation, I shall take you to meet him this very instant!” He paused to let this information sink in, wondering faintly if it would but was happy to take the time to explain it again if needs be. “As for how long it would take, I can faithfully promise that it will not take beyond a candlemark of time, two at the most, but you will be free to leave before then if you wish. Your Bessie will not starve, good man.”

He paused once more and then attempted a smile – an unfortunate expression for Manyc because he wasn’t one for smiling. His deadpan expression however managed to creak itself into some resemblance of a polite smile. “Would you like to meet the Regent?”