Recent content by Nicomo

Roul steps out in front of Nicomo. The armed men pause, but only for a moment. The drunkard slips past Roul and rests his hand on the man's shoulder. His eyes are set on all of the swords pointing at him. So many options! What a beautiful day. He'd have them all. "Settle down. A brilliant idea...

Nicomo is so absorbed in his drink that he doesn't realize the commotion outside of the run-down watering hole. He has an unrefined palate unlike his pale companion who savored his full-bodied, dry reds. Nico only sought out the quickest buzz. And by the time the two find him, he is properly...

Nicomo's face twists and contorts in deep thought as he wrestles with the jumbled chaos of his mind. What was the tune, exactly? It meant a great deal to him, but why? "It was a comfort shared with a dear friend of mine... I went by a name not of my choosing... I can't remember any more."...

No harm. How wonderful. All that pain is so tiring. Nicomo's body would always recover, but his mind is another matter. "Thus my scars," he says plainly. His tone carries neither spite nor malice. It was a simple fact that once he was passed from one master's hand to another. "A lifetime ago."...

Nicomo's absent gaze is trained on the floor in front of where he hung. He continues to hum, unaware of the young Warden's presence. It's a short tune, but he doesn't finish it. His attention returns when she speaks to him. "By ship," he answers simply. He starts to ramble, "The shattered Eye...

Ahhh, I’m thirsty. Nicomo was tossed around between that sadistic treasurer and the one with a princess attitude. Where did somebody get off on being the queen or king of a trash heap? They are just the petty rulers of a little island. Did they have any idea about how large the world was or...

The Warden Gwyddion’s dungeon, or playpen as it’s known on the streets of Cerak, is decorated with what one might expect. Jars filled with viscous suspensions containing various body parts and organs belonged to several different species lined the shelves. Tomes and scrolls are organized on a...

Nicomo is hunched over the bartop of some watering hole some ways away from the ongoing festivities. Still swordless, he finds some temporary distraction in drowning himself in strong drinks. Nico slurs a grumble as he sits up, pokes the counter with his finger, and raises the same one to order...

The swing-jawed Nicomo absently watches the auction proceed with the fascination of a curious child, but the brands on his skin and lengthy scars on his back scream that what he sees is a nasty affair. Be quiet, broken flesh. The guards have swords. He circles the crowd of degenerates...

There is a distant, echoing cry in the dungeons. "Sword? Sword? SWORD!"

If Nicomo could have ever managed at least a single prayer through chaos of his mind, perhaps whatever God or heathen's name he swore to would have taken mercy upon his tortured existence and allowed him a final rest. Alas, he isn't so fortunate. The color slowly returns to Nicomo's face, and...

A pale and waterlogged Nicomo, half-buried among the wreckage, does not stir.

Nicomo couldn't see a thing. He thinks he feels somebody over his shoulder and draws and swings his broken blade in a single motion, cleaving nothing but empty air. He holds the stance for a second, then blindly swings again to his right. He belches. "Fighting in the dark sure is hard!"...

"Your strongest spirit," Nicomo requested. Sharv joined them and Nicomo greeted the Bloodletter by lifting one of his hands an inch off the table in a casual, curt wave. The brim of Sharv's wide hat dropped in an equally curt nod in response. "Sharv knows~! Oh, he knows~! If not a drop of blood...

The swordsman was settled in when Iren found him. Nicomo smiled. "I have bested that devil Al-Khul once again," His expression darkens and he hunches forward with his balled fists pressed on the tabletop. His body shivers with anticipation, or seething. A contest against the influence of...