Fable - Ask You Are Free to Move About Your Life

[Voph]

The darkness was blinding. An odd sentiment, perhaps, but true none the less. Light, in even the slightest degree, invoked a deep, scorching pain within Voph's eyes. It had grown stronger and stronger with each passing step. And now, he stood in the winds above. Wind. He'd only heard rumors of it from the spies that had returned from the surface. He did not dare open his eyes, lest the night sky blind him further. This much light...it was too much.

But he was free. The rest could wait. He'd acclimate to his new home soon enough. He hoped. He shivered in the cool air, falling to his knees. The journey had taken much out of him. The Underrealms were unforgiving. To an unprepared beast fleeing blindly...doubly so. Voph was alive, but he was beaten and bloodied. He had maybe a day to truly disappear. Before the agents of House Illmourne came looking for him. He drew a deep breath of the wild air, and pushed himself back to his feet, drawing the tattered hood down around his face. He dared to squint into the darkness, the headache strong and immediate. It wasn't much, but it was enough to stumble through the foothills.

He could see a massive plain before him, and the wide open space filled him with dread. It was nothing like the Underrealm. But it was too late to go back. Going back meant certain death. Going forward only suggested it. So forward he went. In the distance, he could see a great city. The name of it, he could not know, but most would call it Alliria. Perhaps a place where he could blend in. Find supplies to prepare himself, then flee to the wilds before someone came looking for him. There was a road nearby, the serpentine entity carving a path though the field towards the city. But it was too risky. He needed protection. Something to hide behind. For now, he would stick to the trees, and muster the courage to step into the sea of nothingness when their line ended at the base of the hills.

The hardest part was over. Now he just had to make it to the city. Once he was fit to travel, he could begin asking around. Where could someone like him be found? There had to be more like him up here. It was where he'd been taken from, after all. He had only a sigil and a prayer upon which to rely. But it was enough. For now, he had the freedom to find himself. Find his family. His true family. Slowly he pushed himself to his feet, his ragged armor hanging loose on his frame. First one step was taken, and then another. Moving was laborious, but he would make it, eventually.

He was free. He had the rest of his life to make it to safety.

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[Ishmael]

ALLIRIA - INN

The inn was the furthest thing from pristine.

But that was the thing about the gilded city known as Alliria. As one stepped deeper and deeper into its prominent streets, the quality of the establishments would only increase. Yet, as one approached from the fringes, seedy establishments could take root. The inn was cheaper than most of those found in the city proper and found a much rougher clientele as a result. This made the location perfect for meetings of the unsavory sort, as one did not have to worry as much about the City Guard poking their noses in.

It was here that Ishmael and his compatriots had gathered to finalize their business. Here that the sable-skinned man sat with a noticeable scowl upon his scarred face. The job that they had been provided went terribly. The intel they were provided was ancient, and thus they were caught unprepared at every turn. To make matters worse, his band lost two good men. Though Ishmael usually replenished his numbers by liberating slaves, doing so was not a free act. It cost gold to purchase them, essentials to convince them, and time to train them. All of which was pissed down the drain due to bad details on the contracter's part.

Seated at a booth near the bar, Ishmael watched as the portly bastard slithered his way in. The elf was a far cry from the "refined" stereotype held by his people. Multiple chins adorned his face and what appeared to be sweat or grease bled through his tunic. But, he was offering gold for the job and gold he was certainly going to pay. "You're late." the Scarred One seethed. The elf gave a nervous chuckle and slid into the seat opposing Ishmael. "Job's all wrapped? You're fast."

"Would have been much cleaner if the intel you provided was worth a damn."

The elf swallowed. He was in for a tough conversation.​

Voph​

 

[Voph]

They. Didn't. Care.

And that alone was the greatest boon Voph could have asked for. As he stumbled closer to the city he could feel eyes upon him, but eyes that would quickly look away disinterested. Voph wanted to get closer to the heart of the city, but he felt as if his lungs would burst if he had to take another step. He leaned against the wall he stood near, forcing himself to sway slightly. To a passerby, he was nothing more than another drunk.

He slowly lifted his head to look around him. The light was still blinding, but not as damning as it had been before. There was a sign above the doorway nearby. An inn. Voph sighed quietly, muttering thanks to a deity he hardly believed in anymore. He gathered the last of his strength, and pushed his way inside.

Within, the drunken act would only get him so far. He invited scrutiny, and it would soon become clear the man was injured. He stumbled to the bar, and slurred out in the common tongue "I nee' ah room...uh healer...an no quessuns ashked..." Feigned drunken hands slapped a coin purse on the bar, held firmly in place till someone from the establishment tried to collect it. The sum within was more than sufficient to cover the cost of the first two. Or so Voph hoped. It was also enough to buy their silence. Or so he hoped.

In a moment, Voph had scanned the room. Entrances, exits, hazards, hostiles. The four most important things to locate at any given time. He recognized a shakedown happening very near his person, but made no effort to stop it. It wasn't his concern. He kept a close eye on them, though. Mercenaries were always trouble. Only as good as the coin that bought them. His master's pockets were deep, while his had just emptied. The headache was starting to get to him. Voph needed a quiet room to gather his senses and rest. Quickly would be a blessing...

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Ishmael

 

[Penelope Sitas]

Ishmael | Voph​

Penelope had taken to wandering around aimlessly to fill in the listless days. From her little travels, she has noticed how the people wane from prosperity to disparity; she has lent a hand here and there, while at other times, she has slithered through the shadows to avoid trouble. It was thrilling - to say the least - to be out in the world with nothing holding you back except memories and wishes.

The half-dryad has traveled from the docks to the skirts of the city. Only a few passing times did she long for her quiet garden and quaint house. The memories of her father made her move forward toward an unknown future; as much as she missed the familiar, her heart yearned for a faraway place, a private home. From the moment she could remember, her father had never hidden her origins and did his very best to raise a half-dryad child. All his stories of her mother, his adventures, and his longings have spurned Penelope to find her other half - her mother.

Now, she's sure she won't find much in this dark little tavern, but it's another page to her adventures. Entering, she lowered the hood of her cloak and approached the bar with an easy smile on her painted lips. Knowing that it would do no good to hide from the world, Penelope confidently wore the flowers freckling her hair and was comfortable with the slight green hue mixed with the blonde curls. Her bright blue eyes twinkled with some kind of mischief only she knew about; her gaze went around the room before landing on the dark elf and then the bartender.

She heard the elf ask for a room and a healer. By the looks of it, this tavern probably doesn't have a healer on hand, or if they do, the asking price is likely exorbitant. Not knowing her place and not at all shy, she approached the elf with her smile still on her lips.

"I am an apothecary," she said, voice soft and light. "If it's healing you're looking for, I'd like to offer my assistance."

 

[Ishmael]

Straightaway, the Elf made excuses.

He blubbered, causing his multiple chins to shudder in the most unsightly of ways. "Now hang on, how was I possibly to know that the intel wasn't pristine? Besides, aren't you the professional?" Ishmael folded his arms. His frustration was evident upon his expression, but he kept his voice low. The last thing he needed was to be making a scene - even here on the ass end of town, he didn't want to draw any negative attention to his band. After all, a good reputation was vital for surviving in the mercenary world.

"I lost two good men because you did not keep up your end of the contract." came his answer, stern as ever. As the sable-skinned man spoke, he spotted a man stagger into the inn. A mere glance would say that the patron was drunk, but experience said otherwise. This man reeked of being injured. Ishmael did not know from who or from what, but it was a good thing he made it to the inn. At least here he could lick his wounds.

Ishmael spared a thought to when he was a young mercenary. He had plenty of days just like that - beaten and hanging on by a hair.

His attention, however, was soon dominated by the portly elf slapping his hand upon the table. Apparently, he was intent on making a scene. "I did my due diligence damn you. You're just trying to extort extra gold out of me."

The mercenary's eyes brimmed with power dangerously. Any with a remote sense of magick would be able to feel the might boiling just underneath the surface. He could fry the man alive. Broil his blood. Melt his bones. All sounded like attractive options. But instead, Ishmael placed his hands flat upon the table. "I have not made any demands of you." he began. "Not for additional gold, not for anything."

He then stood up and leaned closer to the elf. "So you will mark my words. If ever you contract our services again, you will meet the letter of our agreement. Any deviation whatsoever and I will have compensation in pounds of flesh. Are we clear?"

The elf nodded furiously, feeling the storm brewing within the mercenary.

"Good. Now where is our payment?"

Voph | Penelope Sitas​

 

[Voph]

Voph turned to squint at the woman that had approached him. An apothecary wasn't any kind of healer he'd ever heard of before. But offering to tend his wounds was something he wouldn't pass up. He swayed for a moment, then with drew a few gold pieces from the pouch upon the counter, and offered it towards the woman. "Cahn' say no too tha..." His eyes flicked towards the bartender as he prepared to lead them to a room. Then back to Penelope.

For as drunk as he might have acted, there was an alertness in his eyes. Listless and unfocused, they were not. No, the elf was perfectly aware of his surroundings. Why he felt the need to put on such a ruse was unclear. It would be easy to assume an origin of malice, were it not for the clear and very real injuries. His off-hand was clutched tight to his chest under the coat. It wouldn't even need a healer to see it was broken.

He looked pale, even for a Drow. But that was also the strangest part about him. He stood with the stature of a pureblood elf, but held the complexion of a drow. Hybrid or mutant, one could not say at a glance. But gods willing, it would be of little consequence. Voph turned wordlessly to follow, clutching his arm and walking close to the nearest vertical surface to lean against when he needed to stop and catch his balance. He paused once more to cast a glance towards the dark skinned mercenary, then turned to walk up the stairs.

Once they were out of earshot, Voph's voice lowered, and he whispered to Penelope, "I need to get to Fal'Addas. And I need to get there quietly." All pretense of drunkeness only assumed when the bartender looked over his shoulder. "I'll double your coin if you can help me get there."

Ishmael | Penelope Sitas

 

[Penelope Sitas]

Voph | Ishmael​

Her first act of understanding was removing the cloak from her person and draping it around the injured elf. Whatever troubles follow the gentleman, she will not judge him; what matters now is getting him settled and healed in a timely matter.

As for her second act, she helped him into the room with no hesitance. Knowing that she is but a sprite compared to her patient, Penelope does her best to not disturb his wounds more than what is necessary as she helps him to a nearby chair. With nimble fingers and quick hands, she worked to remove his armor, coat, and cloak, placing his personal items in his range, so he didn't feel disconnected by not seeing his possessions. To ensure that he gets the best out of her skills, she has to work quickly and without a drop of shyness.

Two strangers in a room, one more dangerous than the other for sure, there is ample opportunity for something to go wrong. Penelope has kindness written all over her person, but she knows that kindness is not enough to build immediate trust. She will do her best to assure him she means to help, from healing his injuries to taking him to his destination.

Unbeknownst to him, he's helping her as well.

"My name is Penelope," she said while pouring water into a bowl. "After you've rested some, we will make our way to Fal'Addas. I promise."

She fluttered around the room. Withdrawing random items from the various pouches hanging from the belts wound around her waist and placing them on the table. Moving to the bed, she removed the sheets and tore them into long strips before putting them into neat piles next to the water bowl on the table. An apothecary had to know more than mixing wild herbs and berries. Penelope's father was a clinician who taught his daughter how to care for the injured and sick; from broken bones to sad hearts, the woman has a cure for many things.

Ready for her patient, Penelope plucked one of the many flowers from her hair and handed it over to him. "Chew on this; it'll help with your stress." No was not going to be taken for an answer, and she has no plans on moving forward with her care if he chooses to be complicated.

 

[Ishmael]

The sable-skinned man did not have to ask twice.

It only took the portly elf a few seconds to shakily drop the coin purse on the table. Ishmael moved to take it, but was then greeted by the sight of a second. "I told you, I was not making any demands of you for additional coin." he said flatly, releasing the magicks which burned within his eyes. To this, the portly elf simply raised his hands. "Consider it a tip for excellent service."

Ishmael grunted. The elf excused himself and scurried away like the vermin he was. The sellsword then handed the first sum to his compatriots. "Take this back, divvy it up, and get supplies for the journey home." He then took the second coin purse and looked to the direction from which the "drunk" man came. He had procured for himself a room, but was still in bad shape.

He'd need a hand. And Ishmael was down two bodies.

"I'll see where this tip of ours leads."

The sable-skinned man then headed towards the counter. A few gold pieces got him the nod to follow the wounded soul and the apothecary to their quarters. Quietly, he approached and then stood in the doorway. His knuckles tapped upon the frame in greeting. "Pardon the intrusion." he began, before raising his hands to show he was not a threat. "I know drunk men and I know the walk of a man that's beaten. And this -" he motioned towards the Drow, "doesn't look to be the work of any swill I know."

He smiled. "Know that I come in peace. Perhaps we can help each other out, hmm? I'm in need of capable souls who value coin. Would that happen to be you?"

Penelope Sitas | Voph​

 

[Voph]

Rest.

Voph could not afford to rest. Not here. Not now. It was too close. He was too exposed here. In what Penelope could never understand as the ultimate sign of trust, Voph did his best to slither out of his armor and jacket as she tried to dress him down. His injuries were soon revealed to their fullest extent. Many cuts and gashes that could easily be identified as bite marks. Some blunt injuries like his broken arm. Bruising around his leg. The man wasn't critical, but he was certainly roughed up.

As for WHAT caused the bite marks...that was for the dwellers of the underdark to know, and the top dwellers to wonder. Voph's eyes roamed around the room, noting the window, and the door back to the hallway as the only two exits. He took the flower he was offered hesitantly, then said, "They call me Voph." Not that it was his name. It was what...they, whoever they were, called him.

Voph sat forward in the chair, hand reaching for a blade that was no longer at his side when Ishmael knocked upon the door. The man said he came in peace. He offered help in exchange for help. Not something Voph could afford right now. Each person who knew of his presence could report him. Could help them find him. Voph was about to decline, but there was something about the man.

A feeling. Like the two had been allies, even brothers, in a past life. Voph could not explain it, but something told him he could trust this man. "Perhaps. I need to get to Fal'Addas. And I'd prefer it be...quiet. If my mas--my pursuers find me, it will not end well." Masters. A slave on the run. Though why a slave would be armed and armored so, a different question all together. The man was slowly losing his grip on reality, fight it though he may. "If you can get me there, my blades will be at your service. For a time..."

Ishmael | Penelope Sitas​

 

[Penelope Sitas]

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Voph," was her kind reply.

He had reached for his blade, and Penelope had gone for a pouch hanging from her hip. Intruders are always unwelcome company, no matter how kind they introduce themselves. Even with the man's hands raised to show he comes in peace, she did not drop her hand until Voph spoke his piece.

"Well then, I guess you can help me while you two speak." She gestured for Ishmael to close the door and come forward. With her entire station finally in place and Voph situated in the best way possible, she can finally get to work. "Have a seat first; we will set his arm in place once I'm ready." Penelope was emboldened to boss the man around simply because he was bold enough to come into a stranger's room and ask for help.

Shifting her attention back to Voph, she poured the contents from a single pouch into the water, plucked a few flowers from her hair, and mixed everything together. She was a capable healer, but often times a patient required a little more quickness. That's where the apothacary part came in; a mixture of this and that here and there, and she's set to provide a faster service.

"I'm going to clean you up a bit, and then we'll get the worst parts closed up. Your arm won't hurt as much once you eat the flower," she said while dipping a clean cloth in the water mixture and starting work on cleaning up the worst parts of his injuries.

This moment would allow the men to talk. She considered that there was much to speak about, and most of it was none of her business. It didn't dawn on her that she would also have to travel with the stranger, considering she was the first to offer Voph help to Fal'Addas. The half-dryad was capable in many ways, yet she was clearly a little green around the ears compared to the stranger. Whatever she could have offered Voph in help, it's crumbs to the capabilities of an obvious adventurer.