Post by Deleted on Sept 28, 2016 17:29:14 GMT
Words: 702
Total: 702
Tags: Akira
Notes: Here goes. Feel free to use the three "NRPCs" as well if it seems to be a good idea. In the beginning, however, it might be better if I flesh them out first.
Ciriodhûl was full of confidence this morning. Now that he had been finally able to find a place where he at least somehow belonged to after a few years had passed, he went out to socialize and maybe find a party that could use a healer. And what would be a better place to do so than a good old stereotypical tavern? He was aware that his new approach at spending his time in this world did not exactly differ from what he had done before, but without the clunky chain armor of his, he should definitely look less of an idiot. While he walked through the streets of Londinium looking for the next best tavern, he took a look at his right hand which felt as if it were still burnt, although it was probably just his imagination. I wonder how he came up with such an initiation ritual. I can get why, but still…
The edge of his new, white-golden “Dumahim Holy Vestment”, a priest’s robe, waved around his legs as he finally entered a tavern he found in a side street. The pub was more crowded than he had previously expected as he realized, when he gently pushed the door open. He went to the bar ordering a beer and placed himself at an empty table near the back wall. From there he had a good view over the room. Time passed, a few left and a few came, until the door was opened in an instant and a rather tall man made his entrance. Judging from the two swords dangling from his belt, the cleric recognized him as a Swashbuckler. He was followed by a strong-built woman in heavy armor with a nodachi strapped to her back, most-likely a Samurai, and a muscular man in light armor, quite certainly a monk. Three tanks without a healer? I guess, that’s my chance. With a strange artificial smile on his face, the Swashbuckler led his companions to another empty table quite near Ciriodhûl’s one. That makes it a lot easier. The cleric stood up, adjusted his robe and approached the three.
“Hello, my name’s Ciriodhûl. Nice to meet you. I see that you are currently without a supporter. Being a cleric, may I be of assistance?”, he said one of his usual greetings to introduce himself, while he made a bow. The woman chuckled under her hand, but the cleric did not let her disturb him. He was used to such a reaction by now. The monk, whatsoever, did not seem to be too pleased with his introduction. “Do ya wanna say, I ain’t able to fight and need a useless healer?”, he asked and started up from his chair. “My, my, you don’t have to be so dramatic.”, the Swashbuckler said with a weird undertone withholding the muscleman and added, before he also stood up: “He might serve useful in some way.”
“So you want to be of assistance?”, he replied to the cleric and offered him his hand. “I am Ivan, nice to meet you as well.” Ciriodhûl took the offer and wrapped his hand around his to shake it. Ivan? Like Ivan the Terrible? Is this guy joking or is there another reason behind his name? Not letting him go yet and still faking his smile, he once again raised his voice. “So you believe a scum like you would be of use to us?” His smile intensified, deforming his face into a grimace. “Well then, could you lay down on the floor were you belong, so that I can wipe my boots at your fancy robe?” The pub suddenly became silent and Ciriodhûl felt the people staring at the event unfolding in front of their eyes. Surprised and confused the cleric needed some time to stutter his reply: “I-i am afraid, I can-no-not allow you to dirty my robe. And since you are s-still holding my hand, it’s hard for me to lay down, isn’t it?” But instead of letting him go, the Swashbuckler’s grip tightened just as much that it did not hurt. Meanwhile his companions had surrounded Ciriodhûl leaving him with almost no air to breathe. W-what is happening? Have I offended them somehow?
Total: 702
Tags: Akira
Notes: Here goes. Feel free to use the three "NRPCs" as well if it seems to be a good idea. In the beginning, however, it might be better if I flesh them out first.
Ciriodhûl was full of confidence this morning. Now that he had been finally able to find a place where he at least somehow belonged to after a few years had passed, he went out to socialize and maybe find a party that could use a healer. And what would be a better place to do so than a good old stereotypical tavern? He was aware that his new approach at spending his time in this world did not exactly differ from what he had done before, but without the clunky chain armor of his, he should definitely look less of an idiot. While he walked through the streets of Londinium looking for the next best tavern, he took a look at his right hand which felt as if it were still burnt, although it was probably just his imagination. I wonder how he came up with such an initiation ritual. I can get why, but still…
The edge of his new, white-golden “Dumahim Holy Vestment”, a priest’s robe, waved around his legs as he finally entered a tavern he found in a side street. The pub was more crowded than he had previously expected as he realized, when he gently pushed the door open. He went to the bar ordering a beer and placed himself at an empty table near the back wall. From there he had a good view over the room. Time passed, a few left and a few came, until the door was opened in an instant and a rather tall man made his entrance. Judging from the two swords dangling from his belt, the cleric recognized him as a Swashbuckler. He was followed by a strong-built woman in heavy armor with a nodachi strapped to her back, most-likely a Samurai, and a muscular man in light armor, quite certainly a monk. Three tanks without a healer? I guess, that’s my chance. With a strange artificial smile on his face, the Swashbuckler led his companions to another empty table quite near Ciriodhûl’s one. That makes it a lot easier. The cleric stood up, adjusted his robe and approached the three.
“Hello, my name’s Ciriodhûl. Nice to meet you. I see that you are currently without a supporter. Being a cleric, may I be of assistance?”, he said one of his usual greetings to introduce himself, while he made a bow. The woman chuckled under her hand, but the cleric did not let her disturb him. He was used to such a reaction by now. The monk, whatsoever, did not seem to be too pleased with his introduction. “Do ya wanna say, I ain’t able to fight and need a useless healer?”, he asked and started up from his chair. “My, my, you don’t have to be so dramatic.”, the Swashbuckler said with a weird undertone withholding the muscleman and added, before he also stood up: “He might serve useful in some way.”
“So you want to be of assistance?”, he replied to the cleric and offered him his hand. “I am Ivan, nice to meet you as well.” Ciriodhûl took the offer and wrapped his hand around his to shake it. Ivan? Like Ivan the Terrible? Is this guy joking or is there another reason behind his name? Not letting him go yet and still faking his smile, he once again raised his voice. “So you believe a scum like you would be of use to us?” His smile intensified, deforming his face into a grimace. “Well then, could you lay down on the floor were you belong, so that I can wipe my boots at your fancy robe?” The pub suddenly became silent and Ciriodhûl felt the people staring at the event unfolding in front of their eyes. Surprised and confused the cleric needed some time to stutter his reply: “I-i am afraid, I can-no-not allow you to dirty my robe. And since you are s-still holding my hand, it’s hard for me to lay down, isn’t it?” But instead of letting him go, the Swashbuckler’s grip tightened just as much that it did not hurt. Meanwhile his companions had surrounded Ciriodhûl leaving him with almost no air to breathe. W-what is happening? Have I offended them somehow?
