Recent content by Mortivore Urn

At the mention of Dreadlords, his eye lingered on Zinnia for a disturbing length of time. His face might as well be chiseled in stone, the only sign of affect on him the studious flattening of his clenched fist on his knee. With every breath taken in the Copper Cod, the goal of his arrival...

Despite snorting, rearing and stamping horses, clattering armour and shouting men, Mortivore stepped forward to retrieve the priestess, but drawn swords lowered his way. They might be pinned and separated, but the delegation still carried deadly arms, and perhaps just enough stamina to push past...

Silence and careful stillness reigned over his countenance. But then, finally, he extended a calloused and wrinkled hand, weathered as old leather, at the empty seat. "By all means. Sit." While his invitation sounded more like intimidation, the hand remained extended, and his flinty gaze...

He noted Reven's story as much as his tone and that hidden speech of the body, with all its little tics and quirks. Reven seemed a man who wore his rough-hewn humour and cavalier manners like a cloak, sheltering something beneath. The defiant grin against setback; a shield against misfortune -...

"Why are you here? You are not from these parts. That much is evident."

At last, a smile would claim some pyrrhic victory over the man's tombstone countenance. But it seemed hideously malformed below the beard; a slight, predatory curl, possibly even more unnerving and unnatural to look at than his permanent frown. "You are catching on. I am in the mind of a little...

He finished his swig, and the mug hammered down on the table, scattering a card or two. A brief shadow fell over his face. A memory flittered by his mind's eye, like a fragile butterfly, wounded and weakened. A dark-haired boy grinning wildly, teeth all askew, bright white and seeming to escape...

"Indeed." His voice thrummed deeply, unamused and about as sweet as salt. A single finger tapped pensively on the table, betraying what his stony face would not. "I like to put myself in the mind of those I hunt." A weighty pause. "One must think as the enemy, to predict them." The...

Mortivore approached Kirsten and placed a hand on her armoured shoulder to arrest her determined stride, leaning in to whisper: "No doubt they intended to burn us, should we refuse their terms. An opportunity to rid themselves of the last Dreadlords would be too valuable to miss." His neutral...

He stared at Reven in response to his jest. Not so much as a fish-bone of humor to be found in those dark, brooding eyes. His mouth puckered, twisting some of his long beard. "Fish make for poor bartering. However, I suspect you might hold something else of worth." He picked up one of the...

Another woman in fine clothes, such as might be found with a wealthy merchant or a guild artisan, approached the first one in conversation. He could barely make out the name. Zinnia. And in response, Livia. But then their conversing dug below the reach of his ears. A perfectly innocuous pair...

The old fisherman sat in a humble three-legged chair, in the corner of the Copper Cod, near a window weeping rainwater. His tall frame and long cloak all but smothered the modest chair, hood still pulled over teeming grey strands. A veined hand gripped a sizeable mug of dark ale, foam sprinkling...

Mortivore gripped his private symbol of Jura below his robe, a silver pendant which aided his concentration, his secret token of worship; an incongruence in the otherwise stalwart Dreadlord that Enkardo had rightly sniffed. . But instead of addressing Enkardo or his subtle challenges...

Mortivore didn't miss a beat. This was as good an opportunity as any to let out his bile when it came to Cortos, accummulated over almost half a century fighting them. "You must be lacking in either historical knowledge or common sense, Cortosi. Perhaps both. Your Radiant Church is a fine...

Mortivore met Encado's studying gaze with an appraising look of his own, sizing him and his horse up as one might with a slab of meat at a slaughterhouse, inspecting it for rot or wriggling maggots. The leader of this delegation held that loathsome vanity of Cortosi commanders, who decorated...