The Stray Dog

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Bones Mist and Moons
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The Stray Dog

Post by Bones Mist and Moons » Thu Mar 09, 2017 2:12 am

Image
Image
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Theme Song
Theme Song 2
The Rabid Dog
Struggling with Alignment
Palemaster
Of the Arcane Tower
Anti-Hero
Hunter of Evil
Experience


.



Jingle. Jingle. The sound seemed thunderous to him and he cringed with every step. His boots felt like drum beats on the cobblestone streets of Cordor as he made his way towards the coliseum. Why did he do that? It didn't make any sense. What kind of man puts spurs on his boots when he hates being looked at or being noticed in a crowd? He hated the attention and the feeling of being out of place everywhere he went.

The half-elf reached up with his right hand and grabbed the brim of his aged, black wide-brim hat and tugged it down a little. For that brief moment the world seemed to be pushed away from him. That tiny gesture was his only feeble defense against being uncomfortable, which he always was. The wind caught the underside of his coat and made the tail flap upwards into the air behind him and he couldn't help, but feel like the world was suddenly pushing back at him. What a cruel world.

The Silver Star shop was just ahead. As he reached it he frowned to himself. He shouldn't be buying things. His personal spending account wasn't as flush as it once was and he had to pay rent in Greyhammer. It didn't matter though. His gonne was falling apart and he needed replacement parts. The store had three gonnes in stock and he cringed a little as he realized he'd be paying over half what he had left in his account. None the less, he leaned to the side to tumble into his own little lazy turn away from the shop and towards the bank. Jingle jingle.



------------------------------------------



The small purse felt heavier than it actually was. Those thirty platinum coins represented a risk to his financial future, and he knew it was probably a waste. The basin just kept breaking the gonnes instead of lightening them like he wanted. As he took another step towards the shop he heard footsteps rushing across the cobblestone street. A breath. It was a sharp inhale and it was getting closer. Much closer. Faster.

Poe spun on his heel just in time to see a handaxe coming straight for his head. He leaned backwards to avoid it and peeked out from under the brim of his hat to spot a human. The man was scantily clad and had a crazed look on his face. Desperation and savage hunger came spewing from the man's mouth in raspy breaths as he swung that rusty handaxe again, then again. Each swing Poe stepped back to easily avoid being struck. This lunatic wasn't going to stop. A grim haze filled Poe's mind. Like a switch being flipped he glared back at the man and somewhere in Poe's head he could hear the rattling of chains; the dog was off it's leash.

Another swing of the handaxe was interrupted as Poe's left hand snapped out and grabbed the lunatic's hand.

Disgust.

The emotion was instant and a series of arcane symbols flashed inside Poe's mind. The lunatic was enveloped in a sickly, green glow and noxious fumes of rotten meat rolled off of him in a putrid cloud of smoke. Poe took a step forward to close the distance between them and moved his left hand from the lunatic's hand to his face. Poe spread his fingers across the man's face and squeezed.

Jealousy.

Another emotion swelled in him and more symbols flashed in his mind. There was nothing else. No hand gestures, no incantations. The mere thought was enough and Poe gasped with hushed excitement as he drained the life from the man. The man groaned unable to move or scream. Slowly, but surely, Poe repeated the emotion and remembered the symbols. The spell was cast repeatedly in flashes and as the color drained out of the man his paralyzed body seemed to slump in it's binding. Poe felt the life enter his body and he surged with the extra vitality. The green glow flickered out and faded as the life essence was drained away and the lunatic's pale white, lifeless corpse fell to the ground. Brittle bones cracked and dry skin croaked as the lump of dead flesh thudded on the cobblestones.

A sharp pain struck Poe's chest. An arrow was there, barely penetrating his bone-hard skin. He grimaced in annoyance and cast his glare out from under his hat and down the road to spot the man responsible. Another human, but this one wore leather armor and a hood. A sewer rat bandit. Two more lunatics stood at his side and timidly looked towards Poe, waiting to be cut loose on him like the rabid pets of their bandit leader. There was a whistle and they sprang forward. They flailed their arms in the air and screamed like goofy children as they ran to their ... Deaths.

Travel.

Poe felt the slight burst of speed surge through him as he remembered the feeling of exploring new places and seeing new things. Freshly hastened he raised his left hand over his right shoulder, then swung it outwards...

Hatred.

A torrent of negative energy roared through the air and slithered around and through the two charging lunatics. They screamed in pain and suddenly fell to the ground. Bits of them burst black and red as their skin decayed instantly and blood sprayed out of the open gashes. They fell to the ground with a wet, sloppy thud and blood filled the cracks between the cobblestones. Another arrow came whistling through the air. Poe could hear it coming. He side stepped to avoid it and reached down to his right leg. The soothing sound of leather rubbing up against the gonne as it came sliding out of it's holster.

He let the weight of the gonne fall towards the ground, then squeezed the handle tighter and snapped it upwards, releasing it again to let it spin around his fingers and fall back into place after one go around. A flourish. A fancy draw. It didn't do anything, but it sure scared people and he liked how that felt. The gonne's handle met his hand right as his arm came up to form a neat line, parallel to the ground and pointing straight at the bandit.

Determination.

He could see it. The bandit wasn't going to run or hide. His only movement was drawing another arrow. Poe aimed carefully just under the bandit's right shoulder. That shoulder wasn't going to move. This shot would be a True Strike.

**BANG!**

The gunshot echoed throughout the cities stone walls and made his ears ring. By the time he could hear again, the bandit was already on the ground screaming in pain. He wasn't dead!? Poe started walking towards him. He stepped right over the lunatics in his path and took his time. The bandit was bleeding heavily, his right arm was useless, and he couldn't breath. A lung must have been hit. It must have. He couldn't run. He couldn't fight back. He had him now.

Jingle jingle.

Fear. It was clear as day all over the bandit's face. He stared up at Poe in absolute horror and held his left hand up. It was a futile gesture. That hand couldn't reach him. It couldn't make him stop walking. That blood-covered desperate hand was powerless.

Jingle jingle.

The boot spurs rattled. That was why he had them. Poe remembered now. With every step they knew you were coming. With every step they heard their doom approaching. Whether they see you or not, they can hear it. Poe slowly reloaded the gonne. The expended slug hit the street with a tiny, insignificant ringing sound. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered, except finishing the job.

They tried to kill me.
They would kill someone else if I let them live.
They deserve it.
They're evil...
Right?


**BANG!**



-------------------------------------------------------------



He peeked out from under his hat and looked back at Cordor from the top of the hill. He wondered if the guards would find the bodies and wonder who did it. Would they care who killed some violent, insane men and their criminal master? He didn't care. That wasn't what really worried him.

Was that right? They were bad men, but did they deserve to die like that? The moment had passed and he could think clearly now. The Stray Dog that he considered himself to be was back on it's leash. He could have let the bandit live and serve time in jail. Why didn't he?

Poe fought his own thoughts for a long moment before exhaling a cloud of tobacco smoke into the air with a heavy sigh. Reaching up he tugged on the brim of his hat, then turned away from Cordor and resumed his walk back to Greyhammer.
Last edited by Bones Mist and Moons on Fri Apr 14, 2017 1:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Don't use cross-area parties and -dispel while idle. Every bit of lag less is a penny in my therapy jar.

Bones - Necromancy, Life, Death, Creation, Time.
Mist - Mystery, Secrecy, Mysticism, Beauty.
Moons - Light, Dark, Space, Magic, Travel.

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Bones Mist and Moons
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Re: The Stray Dog

Post by Bones Mist and Moons » Fri Mar 10, 2017 6:48 pm

The night dragged on and on. His mind offered him no salvation from the toil of consciousness and he stared at the ceiling with utter defeat. He closed his eyes only to see monsters and magical formulas playing out as he continuously struggled to unravel their secrets in his mind. Turning to his right side in his bed he felt the empty space beside him and silently despaired his own loneliness. The room and his bed were empty, he was alone with no one and nothing to comfort him. In the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach he felt the urge to call the dead to him.

No. He growled the word defiantly in his head. He knew it was wrong. It was disgusting and evil, and yet the urge felt like his skin was about to peel itself away from him. He tensed up and hated himself for feeling it.

With an aggravated sigh he threw the blanket off and rolled out of bed. His left shoulder tugged on the muscles in his chest and he rubbed at it with little relief. Finding his boots he tugged them on then pulled his hat onto his head from the bed post. Rising to leave he passed the numerous bookshelves filled with necromantic lore and spells that covered the walls of his room. He sighed to himself. All the time and work he put into writing them and it was likely no one would ever read them. Keeping that information locked up was the safest thing to do, but the scholar in him regretted it.

Leaving the room behind he went down the stairs and hid under the brim of his hat as his eyes adjusted to the dim lights of the first floor. The small house was overflowing with bookshelves and writings, most of them he had scribed himself. In the opposite corner of the room he peeked out from under his hat at an empty kitchen. His imagination filled the chairs around the table there with the ghosts of those who regularly visited.

There were five chairs. The chair on the north end was were he usually sat. To the right of it on the west side he remembered the anxious hin girl. A wild mage with fluffy red hair barely contained under a pointy wide brim hat. He wondered if her hat was inspired by his own, and if so, if it was a good thing. He didn't consider himself an appropriate role model for anyone to follow.

The second chair on the west side was usually where the energetic weavemaster sat. Her cliche gothic looks and bubbly personality were often annoying; but he secretly admitted to himself that it brought color and excitement to his otherwise reclusive and pale existence. He let his anger go and yelled at the girl on more than one occasion and he felt bad about it. He told himself he had a right to be angry for the things she did, but it didn't change his guilt.

The fourth chair was on the east side. The ghost of that chair was violet and smelled sweetly of night blooming jasmine. He remembered the smell vividly. It was the only thing in the house that valiantly fought away the stench of his tobacco smoke. The woman who sat there always felt so untouchable to him. Like a treasure of beauty and happiness there to taunt him and remind him of something he felt he didn't deserve and couldn't have. He stared at that chair for a long moment in thought.

Another sigh, he turned his attention to the front door. There were no letters on the floor. He stared as the closed entrance and wondered if it would open. Who would come through it? The hin, the energetic calamity, or the woman who challenged his solemn existence? No one. They all had lives outside the walls of this quiet house. Obligations and interests beyond the pouting, self loathing mage who lived here alone with his books.

Perhaps there would be a knock on the door? Maybe the mayor of Burrowhome asking about the cemetary he warded. Maybe the new archdruid of the Grove coming to finally talk to him? Perhaps some random passerby would read the sign outside and ask to look around the shelves. Still no one. The house was silent and empty.

Resigning himself to another sleepless night alone he shuffled over to the kitchen and opened the cupboard. Reaching back with his right hand he felt around for a bottle of whiskey, but found none.

Great! We're out.

Yet another sigh of despair he turned away from the cupboard and slipped hopelessly into his usual chair. He yanked a small wooden box free from his shirt pocket and opened it to retrieve one of his cigarettes. Setting it to his lips he focused on the end and inhaled.

Convenience.

The thought flashed in his mind as he quickly incited the spell with his will. Prestidigitation conjured a tiny flame and his lungs filled with smoke. He held his breath for a second then tilted his head back and leaned against the back of the chair exhaling. The smoke escaped from his lips and billowed into the air as a small and quick fading cloud. He repeated the process and just stared at the smoke in the air.

His mind raced with thoughts of spellcraft. Advanced necromancy rituals and metamagics drawn in the air with illusionary lights. All the spells he knew and the emotional triggers that were used to cast them. All these thoughts danced in his head as a myriad of possible new spells that he thought he might design a tenth tier ritual circle for. He frowned at his own thoughts and imagination as the horrific and devastating possibilities of such powerful necromancy concepts plagued the bored sorcerer. In a futile attempt to sate his over thinking brain he looked towards the alchemy lab and writing desk in the corner.

Perhaps he could go experiment with the bottle of breathing he had been given and learn the recipe. Or try developing the light gems he thought might interest fashion seekers. He still wanted to break down the ioun stones he found and use them to develop new skleen recipes. Despite the potential of each he felt it was unlikely to produce any useful results on his own.

He briefly considered writing some more and filling more of the bookshelves, but he felt unmotivated and at a loss for what to write about. More necromancy he would fear being used irresponsibly? Another page on basic arcane magic practices? It felt like he had already covered enough... On his own, again.

He turned his attention to his cigarette and exhaled another cloud of smoke. The silence felt like it would crush him and the dim lights only faintly fought back the darkness that seemed to threateningly hover around him. His eyes flickered from a single shadowy corner to another in desperation. Something to focus on. Something to occupy his mind and distract him from the gnawing feelings of misery and brooding. He once again formed the ghostly outlines of the people in the chairs with his mind and realized he had forgotten someone.

Himself. He imagined a chain wrapped around his neck and tethered to the floor. This house was his cage and his hideout. The world didn't need a stray dog like him. The last time he hunted and fought for them, they hated him for it. They judged him and feared him and they didn't even know him. He considered for a moment that a normal person would wish they'd get to know him, but that wouldn't help. In his gut he knew that if they truly glimpsed the depth of his potential; they'd fear him even more. He had no place in the world, even before the monstrosity he'd made of himself. Was he just thinking the worst? Was he being arrogant and thinking too highly of his skill, or too lowly of his morals? He pondered the possibility that he was wrong and that everything he was thinking was foolish. Whether it was true or not there was always something that kept nagging him...

That the night dragged on and on.
Don't use cross-area parties and -dispel while idle. Every bit of lag less is a penny in my therapy jar.

Bones - Necromancy, Life, Death, Creation, Time.
Mist - Mystery, Secrecy, Mysticism, Beauty.
Moons - Light, Dark, Space, Magic, Travel.

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