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Post by Lady Freya Mercades on Jul 3, 2014 1:03:38 GMT
Anyone within a mile can hear it.
The sharp, warbling blast of a zurna. The sound that reminds most of far away spices, snake charmers, and harem girls when they hear it.
A young boy appearing the age of ten shuffles his way into the middle of the town square. He looks around at the faces and scenery with quick, darting eyes before he shuffles his way back out of sight.
Again you hear it.
As the echo of the horn waves out with the wind, a group of six heavily armored men enter the square. All of them mildly taller than the average human. Their faces and hair are covered by headwraps, only exposing six identical pairs of violet eyes. They stand at attention, swords still sheathed.
They are followed by a tall figure wearing a black silk robes trimmed in red embroidery. Her face is covered except for her eyes, stark yellow. She carries a flag: a feild of navy blue with a proud, golden basalisk.
The armored men part as she walks forward, removing her face wrappings. Her features are sharp as knives and skin as copper as a penny. As her niqab falls into her hands, two large protruding ears, taller than her own head unfold to the sky, covered in golden jewelry.
She looks around. Smiles coyly. And waits patiently for him.
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Post by Lord Ainvar Hrothgarsson on Jul 3, 2014 15:14:18 GMT
A column of eight horse slowly made it's way through the city, from the western gate, some clad in chain, others in heavy leather. The color guard hold standards, the banner of the Locks, and the standard of the Cimbri fly high in the morning Sun. Behind the column, a group of peasants wheel carts with various dead animals stacked on one another. It was a hunting party. At the head of the column, a tall, fair skinned, shirtless man slowly maneuvers his horse through the streets. On his left breast, a large blue spiral lay painted on his flesh, a heavy iron neck torque rests at the base of his neck. Upon hearing the sound of foreign horns in the Square, Ainvar calmly grabs his war horn, breathes deep, and bellows a resonating response as the host reaches his guest. He raises his hand, signaling for those behind to stop, as his own horse comes to a halt. Ainvar and an armored warror on his right flank both lept from their animals, he handed his cousin, and personal guard, Raghnall, his spear, and muttered words in a tongue foreign to those not from the area. Almost immediately, Raghnall barked orders in that same tongue, and the rest of the party followed his lead to the White Keep, a young boy scurried up to the Chieftains horse, grabbing the reigns. With a smile, and soft pat on the back, the boy led the horse to the Keep's stables.
Ainvar rested his shield hand on the pommel of his short sword, as he walked up to the Elven nobility, stopping with enough distance between him, and her guards. 'Lady Freya, I welcome you to the Locks, and salute you as a free person. What pleasure do we have, seeing you here?'.
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Post by Lady Freya Mercades on Jul 3, 2014 19:56:29 GMT
Freya snaps her fingers as the young boy from before scampers to her side. She hands him the banner of House Myrthmor'ar, basalisk waving proudly in the breeze.
"I was hoping to find you here. Was not sure how possible that was as you norsemen are more often off on the hunt than any other people I've met. Can never sit still, you lot."
She moves betwixt her guards in long fluid steps, closer towards Ainvar until within less than an arms reach.
"But I am glad to see your face, and that you are well after our last meet in the western camps. It would be a shame if you weren't. We have much to discuss."
Her eyes fix onto Ainvars. A look of pointed deviousness buried deep in her pupils. Her voice lowers to a profound whisper.
"There are foxes on the horizon. The underdwellers. The seafolk."
She reaches beneath the folds of her silk robes and reveals a leathered, sun-stained scroll tied with twine. There is a smear along the length of the scroll. The color, red. And fresh.
"Perhaps its time for the serpent and the wolf to align..."
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Post by Lord Ainvar Hrothgarsson on Jul 3, 2014 23:01:29 GMT
The warrior gazed upon the woman as she approached him. Nobility, eleven or not, Cimbrians bowed to no one, they were a free people, and proud of it. The strange scents of foreign perfumes and spices, mixed with the familiar sounds of faint pipes, flutes, and drums from the people flirted with Ainvar's senses. Breaking eye contact only for a moment, to glance at the scroll, he brushed a stray lock of thick hair from his face, revealing a thin scar that began at the bottom corner of his right eye, and got lost into his beard. "What need does the Serpent have of the Wolf?.."
'
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Post by Lady Freya Mercades on Jul 4, 2014 0:57:47 GMT
Freya notes his movements. Empathizing. Reading his face like an old book.
"There is time for that talk. But perhaps you might figure it out on your own..."
Her eye contact is unwavering. Golden eyes showing resilience, weariness, and concern as her slender calloused fingers clutch the scroll tighter.
"One of my men procured this from a scout found slithering through the forests on our path here. Sneaky little filth. Was surprised to see him in the daylight..."
Her voice trails off as two tan-skinned elves wheel in a wooden cart carrying the body of a drow; a gold-feathered arrow protruding from his chest.
"Im apologize for bringing this to your keep. We would have burned the body, but did not want anymore...unexpected visitors."
She snaps her fingers once more as the men wheel the cart back through the gates, presumably to build a pyre to burn the body outside of the eyes of the people of the city.
Finally breaking eye contact, Freya unfurls the tattered leather scroll and hands it to Ainvar.
It is a map. In the middle, The Locks.
From one side, crude etchings of foxes scrambling from the West, blood dripping from their mouths. [Helstroms Hollow]
From the east, a horde of dark blotches trailed by magic. [Harbour of Rhye]
From the south, a small cluster of men with no distinct markings wielding shields as tall as themselves [Gargoyles Gate]
All of them, clearly charging towards the intricate scrawling of The Locks city.
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Post by Lord Ainvar Hrothgarsson on Jul 4, 2014 2:04:08 GMT
Ainvar listens to the woman, his blue eyes lock onto the black skinned figure in the cart, until it was wheeled out of his sight. He then locks his eyes back upon the Elf, reaching for the map, his hand brushes hers. Visions flash past his eyes, what seemed like thousands in less than a second. Fragmented images of the Elf's past, her future, flames, screams. Wincing at the pain, Ainvar unknowingly snatches the map from her hands, stumbling back a couple feet. Cracking his neck, Ainvar regained composure, and began to scan the map as he made up the distance between himself, and Freya. "Romans... Drow..", Ainvar peered at the map, "But what comes from the west?" He said out loud to himself "If this discussion is to continue, I feel it should be in a more secluded place. You and your men must be weary, shelter your animals in the stables, help yourself to food and mead, the servants at the White Keep will make every accommodation for you, and your own. When the moon is at it's highest in the night sky, meet me under the Great Oak, in the Grove". Ainvar handed Freya the map, soaked her image in once more, and gave a slight nod before turning towards one of the streets leading to the Keep.
*Continued in the Sacred Grove*
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