- Messages
- 36
- Character Biography
- Link
In the Inner City of Alliria, a lounge by the name of the Egret's Cove sits on stilts above the docks.True to its name, the white birds wade through the waters below the building, uncaring to the clamor inside. Therein, the city's most elite gather to discuss business and drink the night away in plush repose. Merchants, poets, favored actors and visiting dignitaries all mingled together.
"The walls held," one voice enunciated slow and loud from across the parlor. The voice belonged to a young gentleman, pushed forward by the slosh of drink in his hand, merchant's chain clinking against the gold slung across his chest, Velvet cloak crooked and slipping off one arm. "They're holding still, as the Guard cleans up that awful mess in the fields."
"But what if next time, it doesn't," his companion next to him urged. He was a slight man with finely embroidered cuffs in the style of the West bank of the city. They were only two of several in a richly furnished alcove, the long table sitting many personalities. "What if they get a bigger dragon, eh?"
"The walls will still hold, you clout. That's why we built them!" The first man spilled a bit of his drink at he pointed accusingly at the second. "You ought to be more worried about pirates, Clarence. I heard you lost another ship in the Strait."
Clarence leaned back in the plush sofa he was sprawled across. "Aye," he nodded forlornly. "Oban is feeling further and further away each season."
A table down the way, someone gasped, and a silver spoon clattered to the floor. Clarence and his companion looked up to see a great beast striding between tables on padded feet. It was more or less the shape of a dog, except bigger than anything, and with sleek black fur that smoothed over muscle. Two pale eyes pricked out from a square and drooling face. It snuffed at the edges of table cloths and lady's hems, and everywhere it went the conversation choked away into uneasy silence.
"What in the Reach is that thing," whispered Clarence, but he was promptly hushed by his companion.
Behind the beast strode a lanky elf with wiry black hair, clad in the leathers of a hunter. Boots and claws stopped in front of the two gentleman's end of the table. The elf did not bow his head, for in the city of Alliria, no men were noble.
"The Councilor Sinclayr has need of this space," the elf said. The beast at his side did not sit, but stretched its head forward, sniffing wide nostrils at the two men, eyeing them patiently with a demon's gaze. Clarence stared, round-mouthed and wide-eyed. The other man at the table grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him backwards. With a scraping of chairs and an abandonment of drinks, they both scurried away.
"Nerkiss, have you got a chair cleared for us?" The lady Eden Sinclayr appeared in the parlor's doorway, curtains rippling behind her as she stepped through. She was in the plain black adornments she always wore, to council meeting or the battlements or brunch. A gloved hand had one of those groaning nuisances by the throat, and she drug the bloated, oozing dead before her. More guests evacuated their seats at the sight of the vile thing, one woman leaving a silk slipper behind in her haste.
Wordlessly, the elf Nerkiss pulled out a now-empty chair, scooping up the wine glass full of drink that those established gentlment had previously been sipping on. He brushed flower vase and cultlery off the space in one swoop and took a sip of the drink in the same action. The lady Sinclayr hefted the prize she'd caught up and slammed it against the table. Muscles in her arm clenched as she held the undead there. Back curved and she threw her other hand up, knife gleaming in the candle light. Her blade came down upon the undead soldier, cracking its skull between sightless eyes.
Letting go of the knife, Eden sat down in the chair. Before her, the zombie gurgled and twitched. On the other end of the table, the merchant Gregory Parsefal set down his fork and cleared his throat. Other guests looked back and forth between him and the atrocity hesitantly. One man choked on a dry heave, covering his mouth discreetly with a napkin.
"What is the meaning of this, councilor?" The merchant Parsefal demanded.
"My plus one," Eden said smoothly. Behind her, Nerkiss stood at attention (minus the drink he had pilfered), and the great dog curled up at her feet. "Surely you will not protest to his presence here, since you so readily allowed the undead into your people's townships."
"The walls held," one voice enunciated slow and loud from across the parlor. The voice belonged to a young gentleman, pushed forward by the slosh of drink in his hand, merchant's chain clinking against the gold slung across his chest, Velvet cloak crooked and slipping off one arm. "They're holding still, as the Guard cleans up that awful mess in the fields."
"But what if next time, it doesn't," his companion next to him urged. He was a slight man with finely embroidered cuffs in the style of the West bank of the city. They were only two of several in a richly furnished alcove, the long table sitting many personalities. "What if they get a bigger dragon, eh?"
"The walls will still hold, you clout. That's why we built them!" The first man spilled a bit of his drink at he pointed accusingly at the second. "You ought to be more worried about pirates, Clarence. I heard you lost another ship in the Strait."
Clarence leaned back in the plush sofa he was sprawled across. "Aye," he nodded forlornly. "Oban is feeling further and further away each season."
A table down the way, someone gasped, and a silver spoon clattered to the floor. Clarence and his companion looked up to see a great beast striding between tables on padded feet. It was more or less the shape of a dog, except bigger than anything, and with sleek black fur that smoothed over muscle. Two pale eyes pricked out from a square and drooling face. It snuffed at the edges of table cloths and lady's hems, and everywhere it went the conversation choked away into uneasy silence.
"What in the Reach is that thing," whispered Clarence, but he was promptly hushed by his companion.
Behind the beast strode a lanky elf with wiry black hair, clad in the leathers of a hunter. Boots and claws stopped in front of the two gentleman's end of the table. The elf did not bow his head, for in the city of Alliria, no men were noble.
"The Councilor Sinclayr has need of this space," the elf said. The beast at his side did not sit, but stretched its head forward, sniffing wide nostrils at the two men, eyeing them patiently with a demon's gaze. Clarence stared, round-mouthed and wide-eyed. The other man at the table grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him backwards. With a scraping of chairs and an abandonment of drinks, they both scurried away.
"Nerkiss, have you got a chair cleared for us?" The lady Eden Sinclayr appeared in the parlor's doorway, curtains rippling behind her as she stepped through. She was in the plain black adornments she always wore, to council meeting or the battlements or brunch. A gloved hand had one of those groaning nuisances by the throat, and she drug the bloated, oozing dead before her. More guests evacuated their seats at the sight of the vile thing, one woman leaving a silk slipper behind in her haste.
Wordlessly, the elf Nerkiss pulled out a now-empty chair, scooping up the wine glass full of drink that those established gentlment had previously been sipping on. He brushed flower vase and cultlery off the space in one swoop and took a sip of the drink in the same action. The lady Sinclayr hefted the prize she'd caught up and slammed it against the table. Muscles in her arm clenched as she held the undead there. Back curved and she threw her other hand up, knife gleaming in the candle light. Her blade came down upon the undead soldier, cracking its skull between sightless eyes.
Letting go of the knife, Eden sat down in the chair. Before her, the zombie gurgled and twitched. On the other end of the table, the merchant Gregory Parsefal set down his fork and cleared his throat. Other guests looked back and forth between him and the atrocity hesitantly. One man choked on a dry heave, covering his mouth discreetly with a napkin.
"What is the meaning of this, councilor?" The merchant Parsefal demanded.
"My plus one," Eden said smoothly. Behind her, Nerkiss stood at attention (minus the drink he had pilfered), and the great dog curled up at her feet. "Surely you will not protest to his presence here, since you so readily allowed the undead into your people's townships."
