Quest Dispatching Kraits

Organization specific roleplay for governments, guilds, adventure groups, or anything similar
A round of requests for an illustration of the creatures in question, and Gilcrest, after turning and glancing over the contents of his desk, perhaps expecting one to be there, shouted for an orderly. An orderly arrived dutifully at the door, Gilcrest relayed the request, and the orderly briskly disappeared on his appointed task.

"I should take a moment to describe the loathsome beasts, perennial thorn in my side they've proven to be," Gilcrest said with some disdain. "You'll see in a moment that they are truly hideous things. Mage-hunters. They can eat flesh, but very much do they prefer to drain mages, or magic things, of their arcane substance. They accord themselves like wolves—or hyenas, if you have seen those rarer animals—but, whatever analogy suits best, they accord themselves as pack hunters. Trust in what arms and armor you carry, because I tell you that any magic will have scant effect—though I imagine it will be useful as bait."

Gilcrest glanced to Zael, and Zael spoke of his own personal experience. "They like to hit-and-run, so watch your back—your back and your buddy's back. It's easy to scare 'em, they only really got confidence in numbers, but they're some dogged little bastards—they'll scamper away and then come right back. Watch the magic though; too much and they might go frenzied."

He sucked his tongue against his teeth and then, after that small pause, said, "They usually run around on all fours but...sometimes they stand up and walk like a man, or some strange parody thereof. And uh...I heard some of them talkin."

"What?" said Reven, taken aback.

Zael waved his hand, tempering wild imaginations. "Na, not like people, but like...you ever see one of those real smart birds? The colorful ones? The ones that can copy a voice?"

"Parrots," said Gilcrest. "Crows and ravens also have a similar intellect, bestial though it may be, and said ability to copy."

"Yeah. Like all those birds. Those kraits can copy what you say—some of 'em, anyway. They don't understand, obviously, but they're damn clever. One of 'em learned my name. Walked up to me on two legs in the dark of night and said it to me, and ran away when I figured out it wasn't my buddy Alistair. That little shit had me tricked for a moment there."

The orderly returned, and he handed the illustration of a krait to Kaelan first—this at Captain Gilcrest's behest.

Kaelan Pomrick Bloomsfield
 
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Mimicry? Wonderful. A flash of another hunt sprang to Kaelan's mind, and he wasn't pleased about the prospect.
"Oh, Elements...just like those horrible swamp mimic creatures...'epigones,' I think it was," he muttered, suddenly feeling much less comfortable.

Then he saw the illustration. No, it was quite unlike an epigone, this creature. It had a carapace like a black ant, but spindly limbs like some sort of primate. The illustration matched the stories that Kaelan had heard quite well.

Ultimately though, the request had not been for him.

"Awful things, really," he said, handing the parchment to Pomrick.
 
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Pomrick took the parchment, at first blinking with befuddlement. Then, when he looked the image over, his eyes widened like saucers, mouth drooping open.

What--what were these horrible abominations? He hardly dared imagine what one would look like in the flesh. Or . . . carapace . . .

Suddenly, he began eyeing the door again. Reven had given him a chance to leave. Oh, by Astra, why hadn't he taken it? Then he could make some excuse to his master that they had deemed him unfit or sent him packing or something. But now he had to hunt these things? Imagining animated crates had been scary enough. But this seemed far worse.

With a shaking hand, Pomrick handed the parchment back to the orderly, leaving behind his clammy touch. A cold sweat was breaking out on him, feeling as trapped as in any cage.

Reven
Kaelan
 
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Reven made a not-so-subtle show of glancing Pomrick's way once the illustration was in his hands. He noted his face. Eyes. Mouth. Without a spoken word he looked to the orderly once the illustration was presented to him. He only spent a moment or two looking it over.

"Those are some ugly fuckers."

"A plague upon our fair Arethil. A better day will dawn when they're all eradicated—or, at least, driven back to the Ixchel Wilds. But that's neither here nor there." Captain Gilcrest straightened up some, inclining his chin just so. "Good luck, hunters. If nothing else, I won't turn down a few more krait heads. But if you do find something of note in your hunt, even if it's merely some sort of sign or clue, or something out of the ordinary you might not understand, bring it to me, or tell me of it. Dead kraits are all well and good, but to at last be rid of this scourge is best, and that is what the Chamber is aiming for."

Zael gestured to Kaelan, and said to Reven and Pomrick, "He knows the way. That bridge is as good a place as any to start."

Reven gave Zael a nod, and then the Captain. "We'll get it done, Cap."

A glance to Kaelan, a glance to Pomrick, and Reven made for the door. They'd a bit of walking to do before they'd get out onto streets of Elbion and could saddle up, and the three of them could make some small acquaintances. Well—what acquaintances ain't already been made, anyway.

Kaelan Pomrick Bloomsfield
 
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Ah, there it was. The boy's reaction to the illustration saw to it that he finally understood what the three of them would be hunting. Not wooden boxes, but real monsters. Good. Kaelan would not deny him the hunt, but leaving him unprepared was cruel.

The elf followed Reven out, and once their ragtag band was back on the streets, Kaelan would take a brief look around and exhale. The cities outside of the Falwood were never particularly comfortable places for him, being so stony and processed as they were. Elbion was no different, only more rife with arcane magics. Even so, Elbion was at least hospitable towards his kind, and Kaelan was no anarchist like some of his more extreme kin.

"Happy to meet you both, by the way. I'm Kaelan," he greeted his companions formally now, a gentle smile on his lips. "I track, I hunt, I dabble in some druidic techniques, and...well, I'm an elementalist."

Might as well get the basics out of the way, if they were to be hunting and, likely, fighting side by side.
 
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"Oh, um, good to meet you -- too. I'm P-pomrick, and I . . ."

Sleep, pretend to study, raid the pantry and carry my maester's items. No, that wouldn't do. He needed to make it sound more impressive than that. Kaelan sounded so capable with all the things he could do. He needed to at least be somewhat on par with that.

"I'm an apprentice to Maester Krellos Thunderbeer. Beard, sorry. Thunderbeard. And I dabble in . . . esote-- eh, exotic potioneering and flaccid transomancy." He frowned. Didn't sound quite right. Had he mixed up schools of magic again? Roll with it. "So that makes me a, um. A, um. A potion-guzzling transmomorphogrist with a speciality in prismatic excretion. Indeed," he added, thinking that people who used the term indeed instantly sounded like someone with credibility, though it felt foreign to his own tongue. "I carry an arsenal of spirits and poultices that taste REALLY bad, by the way, but that'll -- like -- heal wounds and stuff."

Cue awkward pause. He drew his machete in a sudden swipe, brandishing its runed steel -- and near cutting the feather off of a bypassing pedestrian's hat.

"And I got this!! The Blade of--" what had Krellos called it again? Oh, right. "The Blade of Nictation!"

Kaelan

Reven
 
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Reven liked this elf Kaelan. Simple and straight to the point. Pomrick, on the other hand...he just didn't fuckin' belong. He needed to be cooped up in some dusty old room, copying down books or something, menial work. And as Pomrick stuttered and stammered his way into an introduction, Reven started to think him to be just a plain fool; the sort of fool that was only good for water-fetching, or, failing that, doing what he and his old raider buddies did with useless captives: tying him up to a tree, putting an apple on his head, and throwing knives at him.

Reven trained a face of withering impatience on Pomrick as he spoke, talking about flaccid this and excretion that. But when Pomrick pulled his machete and swung it, Reven changed in an instant.

He immediately assaulted Pomrick, snatching the wrist of his sword-wielding hand, sweeping the back of his leg, and driving him hard down to the stone of the street. Reven had a knee pressing into Pomrick's chest, had his sword-wielding hand pinned to the street, and he glared down at him.

"You coulda killed that man," Reven said, flicking his eyes to the shocked pedestrian. Had he been walking a bit closer, or Pomrick's draw been a bit wilder, and there'd be blood on the street. That didn't bother Reven, but what did was that Pomrick would be at his other shoulder when they got into a fight. He trusted Kaelan. He didn't trust Pomrick at all.

Reven looked back to Pomrick.

"Yer gonna act right, or you ain't makin it back from this. You swing that thing anywhere near me and I'll kill you myself. Better yet, maybe you oughta earn that shit back. Kaelan? You wanna relieve this man of his weapon?"

Kaelan Pomrick Bloomsfield
 
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Kaelan listened with equal parts good humor and apprehension as the younger human, Pomrick, explained his own specialties. Some of it sounded like it could be legitimate, such as "exotic potioneering." "Alchemy" was probably a more apt term to describe such a thing, but Kaelan wouldn't judge differences in dialect.

Certain other parts though..."flaccid?" "Excretion?"

"Right, um..." Kaelan started to reply before that ornate-looking longknife came out of its sheath. The elf ducked aside with a "Woah!"

Before he even had a chance to understand what was happening, Reven had pinned the boy to the ground.

"Kaelan? You wanna relieve this man of his weapon?"

The actual answer was "not really, no," but he didn't want to be to cause even further division in their already ragtag band. He sighed and knelt next to the young mage and the merc on his back.
"How about we swap for now? I have a nice hunting knife you can hold on to," he said, pulling the sheathed tool from a belt and holding it so that Pomrick could see it.

"Also...are you sure about joining in on this hunt? You seem, um...a bit novice? Completely novice, if I'm being honest, and you stand a solid risk of dying on this trek," he intoned, glancing briefly up at Reven. "And not just by the hand of the man on your back. Why not start with hunting something more mundane?"
 
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Pinned and suddenly on the ground, Pomrick lost what little confidence he'd managed to summon by brandishing his blade. Horrified, wide eyes stared up at Reven. His back hurt as if a battering ram had slammed against it.

As much as Reven prompted him to control his speech, it only made matters worse. At least when it came to his communication. The turmoil of all his emotions and the need to explain himself released like a flood of barely coherent sentences, slurred by crying that sought release:

"I-I-I'm here b-b-because m--mm--my master sent me! I gotta -- otherwise he'll n-n-not give me my ah, my ah, my stipend! And I won't be able to afford my ma's birthday gift, and our pet pig will be slaughtered, and Krellos might kick me out of the college, and then I'll never get anywhere and then I'll let down everyone and then, and then--then--"

Finally, the bubble of weeping that had steadily snuck up on his voice burst free. Pomrick cried like a baby out of its crib. Big, manly tears streamed down from his cheeks, lamenting his poor fortune, his weakness and the fact that he could never ever do anything right. Everyone hated him. Everyone!

While he heaved for air in-between his sobs, something strange happened. Blue sparks flittered from his fingertips where they touched stone, like the occasional sparks that might come from a whetstone sharpening a blade. Something near electrified his hair, little quick eels of barely perceptible lightning shooting off, making the faint scruff of his beard and his hair stand on end.

The tears that went down from his cheeks changed. Some hissed and fissed like boiling water. Others froze as if dipped into a winter lake. It was as if the water itself streaming out from his pores couldn't decide whether it should boil or freeze.

Pomrick hardly seemed to notice any of these elements, his free hand reaching up to cover his face, his shame, tearing in his own tufts.

Kaelan
Reven
 
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Reven grimaced in disgust, and stood up and off of Pomrick once the crying began, as though to keep in contact with him might carry the cost of some debilitating affliction. "Ugh, for fuck's sake."

How in the hell was this man going to be salvageable for this mission? Reven hadn't the faintest clue. That damn master of his, Krellos or whatever his name was, had basically foisted this wreck of a student onto him and Kaelan.

But now he and Kaelan had a new problem. As Pomrick sobbed, little bits of lightning—or somethin' magic, hell if Reven knew the exact kind—started jumping off his person. Nothing outright dangerous yet, but, like his wild swing of the machete, it could be—a few of his sizzling tears attested to that. And goddamn it, Pomrick still had the machete in his hand; there hadn't been the chance to swap it out for Kaelan's hunting knife.

"Pomrick," said Reven sternly, "you listen to me, and you listen good. Cut that shit out right now. Get yer magic under control. You hurt somebody, I hurt you. That's a promise."

Kaelan Pomrick Bloomsfield
 
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Well now Kaelan genuinely felt bad for the young man. He had very little context for his woes, but seeing a seemingly innocent person weeping on the ground like that was a bit heart breaking.

"Hey, hey, it's alright..." the elf started to try to comfort Pomrick, but then emotion seemed to bleed into power. Sparks, even. That earned raised brows from Kaelan.

He knelt and helped the young man into at least a seated position, if not to his feet.

"Your master sounds like an awful man, but...you say you're going to the college here, yes? The college for wizardry? Are you having troubles with your studies?" Kaelan prodded, curious. "The reason I ask is because, well...the magic you're doing right now, fueled by your emotion, cast without words or rituals...that isn't wizardry. It's sorcery. I should know, I'm a sorcerer as well."

Kaelan explained with a smile. Those whose magic came from within often had trouble pulling it from without. There was a reason Kaelan never delved deeply into druidic practices, his soul's tie to the elemental realm forming the overwhelming source of his magic. Perhaps this Pomrick was similar?

"In any case...I still have no problem with our Elbionite acquaintance here participating, so long as you focus on staying safe and supporting Reven and I from the rear. And...we do need to be able to rely on you if things get rough."
 
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Pomrick's eyes seemed to be endless decanters of water. As Kaelan knelt down next to him, his voice soothing against Reven's violence, Pomrick gradually calmed down. The crackles of faint lightning vanished. The water resumed its regular state. All while Pomrick appeared completely oblivious to it.

When Kaelan mentioned his master, Pomrick nodded vigorously at the awful part. He certainly thought so himself! He peered up into Kaelan's eyes at the mention of magic without words or rituals. Wizardry and sorcery. Could it be? Was there really a difference? He hadn't the faintest idea.

Krellos certainly had never told him anything about that. He'd simply called Pomrick's manifestation of magic volatile. Unpredictable. In need of control. But why . . .

Sheepishly, he handed over the machete.

"Here, take it, then. I don't -- I don't know how to use it either. I promise I won't get in the way. I'll support Reven, with, um, stuff."

His voice squeaked with about the same strength and volume as a mouse. He swallowed, steadying himself, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, even though he felt terrible, torn apart from within. This was even worse than his weekly, merciless mockery at the hands of older students. This was like a nightmare. Maybe, hopefully, he was dreaming up all this? Probably not.

Kaelan
Reven
 
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Reven watched Kaelan with quite the mixed assembly of expressions: first an irritated impatience, then a festering confusion, on to a subtle sheen of reflection, and then back to impatience, though with far less of the irritation. In Kaelan he saw some of that Gildan priest, and in so thinking back on him, on his kindness and the words he had said, Reven calmed down—at least in some small but notable measure.

Still, with a heavily begrudging tone, he said, "We'll find some use for 'im." Bait, if nothing else. But hell if Reven was going to rely on him as a fighter.

Reven crouched and reached for the machete, more than happy to take it out of Pomrick's possession, but his hand just before his fingers could touch it stopped. He looked square at Pomrick. Then up at Kaelan. He spoke to both of them, as it happened, asking, "What's 'nictation' mean?"

He looked to the machete again.

"This thing ain't gonna 'nictate' my hand off, is it?"

Pomrick Bloomsfield Kaelan
 
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