Private Tales Sharp blades and Sharper wills.

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
Feyrith

Feyrith

Sometimes Guard Sometimes Sellword
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They would be nearing the port soon. Tar could hear the thumping and shuffling of feet and cargo on the deck above. To buy himself passage aboard the long journey they had been working at each dock or port the ship had stopped at on its convoluted path to the far flung shores of Malakath.
They had hoped that Lilia a Tiefling adventurer would be his guide in Malakath. Unfortunately due to shaking off several attempts from the hounds he had ended up late to their pre-decided meeting spot. She had ended up boarding another ship a few days before with a much more direct charter.
She had left a note and a map with the Inn keeper. These two scraps of parchment were now Tar's only guide that and this uncanny sword.

Tar had been sitting in the hold with the sword resting against the wall beside him. They had spent much of the journey like this. At the very least being at sea had been a welcome reprieve. The hounds might be able to track him to the ends of Arethil but even they couldn't easily chase or board a boat like this.
He stood and took up the sword with it's makeshift scabbard to fasten it to his back.

He emerged blinking into the blinding sun and watched as the wild landscape of Malakath came into view.

Thronesplitter
 

This was not Alliria. The sword had gathered as much by now, even if it remained ignorant of the layout of Arethil's capitals in this age.

It had watched the drow for some time now. Kept its invisible tongue in check. And so far, it hadn't been left by the wayside. An improvement, to be sure.

But the dam of its patience was breaking, bulging before the river of words that craved release. It had tasted neither blood or wit for days. Weeks.

It had made the conclusion that this one sought to escape pursuers, first and foremost. Perhaps at the ultimate sacrifice of reaching the greatest city this world had to offer.

Waves crashed against the bow of the ship, sprays catching gold in the sunlight. Sailors milled to and fro, shouting in an ordered chaos of ropes, masts and bulging sails. It had not seen the seas for an untold time. Mighty waters, always impressive, but terrifying in their hidden depths. It dared not imagine plunging below the gluttenous ocean . . .

Perhaps to distract itself from this unnerving vision, the blade decided to speak. Its voice crept into the drow's mind, like hidden frostbite burning and making itself known to tortured skin.

"You surprise me, under-elf. I did not realise your kind might yearn for the high seas or the squalling of gulls." The cold fire and bite of its voice took on an added fervour, having grappled too long with silence. "But I see the teeth of foreign lands. Where have you taken us, oh wielder of mine?"

Feyrith
 
Tar faltered a moment, glancing about this way and that. Yet no matter where they looked they found no source for it. All of the sailors were rushing about the ship readying to dock.
Had their mind in lack of a physical enemy these long days of the voyage turned on itself? Or perhaps throwing their rations over board with seasickness one too many times had caused hallucinations. They didn't feel dehydrated enough for that. He was accustomed to the signs of extreme hunger of thirst.

Then the tail end of the words caught up with them. 'wielder'? They had almost forgotten the uncanny enchantment of their found blade.
His brow furrowed and he drew toward the railing so as not to be a nuisance blocking the flow of cargo.
They spoke just above a whisper into the sea.
"Have you always been able to talk?"
He grimaced thinking now of the number of conversations they had had talking to themself aloud now.
Every so often they'd had a thought that didn't quite feel like one of their own. It was luck such a thing hadn't derailed their travel or he would have been very cross with the bit of metal for deceiving him.

"I hadn't thought of the sea before.....Now I can say for certain it is....unpleasant." He had developed an immunity to a large number of poisons over the years. So little turned their stomach these days. Only find that the rolling wave tested their balance and their fortitude more than the harshest of venoms.
Tar turned slightly leaning on the rail to watch some of the barrels and crates be rolled down onto the dock.
"It's called Malakath...."
They weren't sure of the name of this little port. All they knew was that they needed to head roughly east and seek a church.


Thronesplitter
 
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"Malakath . . ."

It tasted the name. A name which seemed vaguely familiar to it . . . harsh, as no doubt its lands were as well. The drow's brief tension was cause for some amusement. Indeed, it had witnessed many a muttered soliloquy, as well as paid audience to the tracking and tracing of this contact.

"I have been able to speak," it whispered, finally attending his question. "Though I chose to observe, in silence. I find you a curious creature. Fleet of foot, yet haunted by relentless pursuers, who seem as undeterred by the miles you put between yourself and them as you are by the scorching sun. I wonder if this unpleasant voyage," it went on, seeming to emphasise a shared animosity to the sea, though not suffering the same physical ailment as him, "will lead you to safe harbour. Wordplay intended."

It luxuriated in its own stringing of words, at last free to dance to the music of conversation.

Feyrith
 
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