City Scape

[extinct]

The air was crisp in Vertalin'thral as the early morning settled and the soft bustling traffic of a blissful day ensued.  Crate carrying workers were the first to rise in the streets, hard faced and sullen as they traversed the brazenly starch cobblestone of the city.  Small puddles created distractions as the men stumbled and cursed their shabby boots, and possibly their rotted socks.   Following them, perhaps twenty-five minutes later the merchants rose from their mildly comfortable bed rolls and trudged sheepishly to their most clean linens, which all seemed vacant of textile; they were dull hues of blue, red, or--on rare occasion--a sorrowful hue of yellow.  Some carried netted hampers full of the newest vegetable, trinket, or gold selection.  Following them, were the widows of men--could they have been the forgotten loves of battlefield tragedy--that went out to begin their whoring ways.  Finally, the aristocrats left their plush abodes with their brightly colored, ornate, and linens sporting tremendously intricate hand-woven textiles.  They made way to the dark alleys, after a warmed breakfast and--depending on their wealth--a spiced tea, where the widowed women of men that were, perhaps, the forgotten loves of battlefield tragedy.  How quaint.  

All of this Demosthenes' brain churned over whilst he stood atop a vast structure for which he had no name for.  It stretched high between two spired towers; their radiating brightness hurt the barbarian's eyes, so he avoided looking to them; the stretch of marble the man basked upon was some sort of walkway that connected the two horrid structures.  Having seen the sun rise over top the far horizon, clasped between the loving hands of two mountains, Demosthenes watched the entirety of the morning unfold from behind his own two eyes: pools of azure that glimmered innocence and power--irrefutable power who's hand stretched gently to stroke the spine of any keen enough to focus upon it; gently of course, as it caressed and expressed itself intimately to the listener's mind.  

The barbarian scaled the side of two buildings to find his way to the roof of the walkway: He used a ladder and managed to jump from one ledge to catch the top of the walkway.  Demosthenes arrived in Vertalin'thral only the night before, but it was such a gentle rain that befell his face, he could but only listen to its adoring call and sleep beneath its touch.

Today, he thought to himself as the last of the early morning fog was chased away by the settling heat, today I will find a hotel... And a job!  With a subtle grunt and the reverberating clanging of mithril armor, Demosthenes lifted himself from the cross legged sitting position to hoist his feet beneath himself; the heavily mithril-plated joints of his boots shifted, and the extended greaves shifted back into position over his ankles and boots.  The barbarian readjusted the straps on his feet, waist, chest, and shoulders.  The armor was incredibly easy to maneuver in: The light construction and intricately fabricated joints of the armor created a symbiotic relationship between man and metal.  He tightened down the horned vambraces that donned his shoulders and upper arms and then looked down to the street, sighing lightly to none but himself.  Demosthenes bent down to his halberd and carefully lifted the halberd to hand.  It came easily to hand and the barbarian tossed it onto his shoulders.  His other hand met the shaft merely six inches from the ferocious blade that was alchemically adhered to the pole arm.

He stepped off the long side of the short drop without hesitation.  Forty feet, no matter how short in reality, becomes infinitely slower and drawn out, unless, of course,  the one falling from forty feet has done it numerous times before.  To Demosthenes, he stepped and landed.  Nothing more simple than that.  The man's body adopted to the stress he placed against it, and in return, he was rewarded with his stolid complexion and physically sturdy composure.  Of course, to those that he nearly landed on--two crate carrying laborers: it was such a pity to the barbarian--it was not such a pleasure.  They stumbled and dropped their boxes, but as they turned to enflame Demosthenes' character, they stopped short at his stature, who's visage cast out an apologetic glance.  They, honestly, were not the class of citizen that he wished to squash between the seams of his boots.  Without heeding the soft expression of the  looming figure, the men took off in the opposite direction; they had forgotten their quarrel with the mammoth barbarian.  

Sighing, the barbarian ran his thick, but nimble fingers through the fair locks that graced his scalp in a disorganized struggle for obedience, and turned to go his opposite way.  With his hand reattached to the bladed end of his halberd, Demosthenes traversed the streets in search of a well-looking inn with an equally well-affordable price.  By chance or destiny, he found it on his first attempt: A hearty little establishment nestled into the street corner of an intersection.  A small red lamp burnt even during the day, and its color drew the man to enter in to see its offerings.  It was named the Vixen's Elysium.  He approached a squat man who stood behind a counter that came to the barbarian's mid-thigh.  "Bed for a week with five meals a day," the barbarian spoke kindly to the innkeeper, "how much?"

The inn keeper took a single glance at the man before him before questioning, "How bigga meals?"  He attempted a smile, but really was not joking all that much.  

"Honest meals, sir.  No more than a pound a piece, honest."
  The innkeeper asked for a specific form of currency; it was something foreign that the barbarian did not understand.  Instinctively, as always when the man was faced with some foreign form of trade, he reached for the universal dialect.  Demosthenes brought from a pouch three quarter inch thick pieces of circular gold and set them softly on the keep's counter.  "I don't know what you are asking me for, but you do take gold as payment, right?"

"Today we do,"  And without another word, the keep took from a shelf beneath the counter a key to one of the rooms and pointed up the stairs at the far end of the barroom.  The steps creaked beneath the barbarian's feet as he went up to his room and entered it.  He set his halberd to the wall and began dismantling the massive armor, that even as it was two inches thick, it barely weighed three hundred pounds.  He sat naked, after removing the soft hides of slain and tanned deer, and settled his head on the pillow.

Her eyes strained as she closed them, when the mind moves too fast for even the thoughts, when there’s too much restrain on what to do and what not to do, when there’s too much going on for the necessities in life, when there’s not enough to suffice for dreams, and too much for real life. Ah, yes, she would be caught in a severe struggle for what seemed like a sense of normalcy, and she knew her struggle would be in vain. What was the purpose of this loss if she already knew she was in a losing battle? The covers were just like her on the bed, disorganized, lazy, and most of all unable to do their job. The shadows of the moonlight danced along the folds in the fabric, illuminating the silk that sheltered the mattress with a undertake of good deeds, though anyone would know that the opposite of any promise has gone on between the sheets which the moon would radiate so sweetly. She couldn’t sleep, she needed somewhere to go, something to do, being a night owl can be your friend and also your curse, sometimes it’s mysterious, othertimes, you can be faced with the question of am I going insane, or am I just this way? She needed sleep, but she didn’t want to fight for something she couldn’t have.

The pipe was long and elegant, it was a symbol of the night, or so she thought. Her pointer and thumb fingers gripped some tobacco from her bag, it was flavored, it was scented, vanilla. She smashed it into her pipe with her thumb, it was clean, clear that she had just been washed; her skin was shining as much as the silk bedding, now with the red lights illuminating her more than the moonlight and stars could ever wish. She held the candle in her hand, the warm wax in only hitting her skin momentarily, it was kind of warming, inviting. The flame was used to ignite the tobacco, she inhaled, the embers hot, her mouth, pouring out smoke like escaping words from her lungs, words that could only be burnt. The smoke looked mesmerizing in the light, captivating even the most complex of minds, even those that were restless tonight. The smoke could be smelt all through the tavern now, though she didn’t care. The tavern owner seemed to be in good graces with all who came to this establishment, and many men were sucking on their own pipes downstairs during the waking hours. She sat up, her skirt falling upward, her thighs in full view, they were well taken care of, her body, petite but toned, her skin luscious in the natural night light the earth so kindly provided. Her face, lighted in an artistic sense, half red, the other half cool blues of night, as if looking passion and sadness in the face, her button nose red from her open window, though the night breeze was unusually cold tonight, she did not mind, as she felt a sense of belonging outdoors, though she wanted a warm bed to get what she really needed.

Was it a question of comfort, or lack thereof? Was it a question of what was in her mind? She brought the pipe to her bright pink lips, shaking from the night breeze, yet comfortable, and inhaled the tobacco, it dove into her body like an expert swimmer in a marathon, only to jump out in a way that would put Olympic champions to shame. It danced out of the cracks in the floor and through her door; she wanted company, someone who felt her same restlessness tonight, though such a person would be non existent.

She knew that she was indeed alone, her pipe one of her only acquaintances, once again tonight. Other than the drunken men and women who had been downstairs earlier, who had forgotten her deep in their slumber by now, either forgotten her or chose not to remember, either way, she was fighting what she needed again. “Damn.” in the long amount of time she had to think all of tonight, very little words would be said, talking to yourself in your head is different than talking to yourself out loud. She was disappointed that she could not find a comrade in sleep, and amazed that she did not find one dispite her efforts.

In her indulgence of sinful vanilla tobacco, she thought of the noise she had heard earlier, what seemed to be something very large entering their inn, though she knew of their fair prices, she also knew of their rather large meals. This thought raced across her mind as she looked at the plates set up in what seemed to be a buffet, the cook fancied her, and she did not fancy the food they served. “I wonder..” Her voice carried like the smoke into the hallways and in the hearts of all that could not count sheep tonight, but rather, count the black sheep hidden betwixt the stars, eyes on the sky as it pulled her in. She looked over her shoulder to her door, perhaps mischief was in order, perhaps she should find out who or what said massive entrance was, her hair fell over her shoulders in a elegant dance of feminine tendencies, she took her hand that was free of the pipe, and brushed it back, showing her full features and her eyes, oh so empty eyes, just plain whites of her eyes, somewhat frightening, somewhat captivating. “Just maybe something might actually happen.” Locked in the gaze at her door, the handle glistened as she took one last hit of her pipe, the smoke curling out the window, down the halls, and the scent of vanilla creeping its way through the halls of this place.

I'll have a new profile for this character soon, they just have to aprove it and such, for now I will be posting under this account, if that's allright.

[extinct]

(From this time forward any use of Demos in substitution of Demosthenes is simply me being... lazy.)

The early morning bustle had progressed into a city day while the barbarian slept; markets opened to the people fully, and the sleep had been wiped from the merchants' eyes.  The aristocrats left the darkness of the alleys to go to brunch or return to their exquisite estates to lounge the day away smoking pipe after pipe of spiced herbs; or, to retreat to only another adjacent alleyway to employ the services of another widowed wife left wanting love.  But, the day waited for no one and faded into the afternoon where the firry sun burnt tans into flesh and left the fair skinned reddened to the sight.  And even those scenes faded into memories lost because of tired eyes and fatigued minds.  And where, one might ask, did these patron workers of the day retire to in the cool evening moon?  They followed the scent of alcohol and cheap tail to the Vixen's Elysium where they squandered the sorrows in ale and filled their bellies with mediocre food.  They did not, however, bring home their coins to their wives in the hopes of building a future for her rounded belly.  Through this, and into the waning night, Demosthenes slept calmly in the hay-filled bedroll.  He did not stir once, and his naked form did not fidget during its rejuvenating sleep.

The barbarian had travelled far to come to the city of Vertalin'thral.  Fifteen suns and moons had drifted in the sky during his expedition to the heartland of Calgoa; and through them all, the barbarian had trudged forth with determined footsteps.  Never once did food or bed find themselves in his companionship; so, now the the beast within Demosthenes' abdomen screamed for attention in the form of pain and a roaring growl.  

Unsettled, the man's eyes fluttered to light like the first beats of a butterfly as it climbed free of its cocoon; he awoke from the darkness that was a tapestry for memories and construed representations of a lost face.  With an audible 'hmph', the man extended himself to a sitting position and wiped his eyes free of the crystallized liquid that pooled at the corner next to the base of his nose.  

Darkness settled outside the window when Demosthenes looked to judge the time; he was amused at his laziness.  Had he really been so tired that he let the night stars rise above him without giving audience to their magnificence? The man's chiseled chest heaved as he breathed in the stale smell of the inn and his own sweat, which he did profusely during each night; his mere mass conducted so much heat that the confines of a closed space caused his homeostatic state much stress. Clad in his birthday suit, the man stood and crossed the room with as quiet of footsteps he could muster; the man's rippled butt cheeks were thrust back and forth, but snapped tight at the end of each step; the congress of the movements caused his lower back and mid-back tighten, which bulged to either side of his spinal chord, forming a long trench that stretched clear up to the man's shoulder blades.  

He dressed as quickly a man still wrapped in the warm embrace of the night could; it sucked, of course, considering Demosthenes had less militaristic attire he could don for only the evening.  And to expect a simple tavern to keep wares to fit himself was to speak of insanity as it were a gift.  Attempting consideration for those that slept to his right and left, the man tightened his armor meticulously, as to make sure no piece would chime out in song as he walked the planked floor and descended down the noisy staircase.  

And so it was as it were, and the barbarian left his room with his halberd in hand.  Something learned early by the barbarian was that one could never go far without weapon in hand; it was too dangerous to do such.  The fair-haired man lifted his 'lightning bolt' to hand and thatched it with his hand to his shoulders. Demosthenes left his room of the week, and stepped into the hallway.  The man took careful steps when adjusting his mass to noisy floor.  Beyond the whispered thumping of each step the barbarian took, there was little sound.  

Now that his senses were emerging from their slumber, a sweetness sorted itself through the mundane and dank smells of the inn, and presented itself as vanilla.  Small plumes of smoke, hazy and sparse as they exited the room two doors down from his own, emerged continuously.     It was a nice smell, one might be left thinking, because it did not overpower one's senses while it aided to a wonderful mix of aromas.  The barbarian past the door, and as he did he glanced to its innards.  

Within was a gal, exposed and smoking her pipe.  It was uncommon--in the barbarian horde--to see a woman smoking from a pipe.  That, as it was, belonged solely to the men; however, the women of his clan were permitted vastly more equalizing allowances.  She was scantily covered and her face beamed in two different contrasts of light; Demosthenes could still decipher the attractiveness of her slightly curled button nose and gentle complexion.  He averted his eyes from the woman's bodice, and nodded slightly to the left of her form, "Evening ma'am," and then he carried on from his current post.  The red of his cheeks did not fade till he was downstairs and free from the luring legs and enigma he'd just witnessed.

Downstairs, the keep was still awake, but groggy in his drunken state.  As Demosthenes approached, though, the man came upright in his chair and looked up to the man. "What can I getcha sir?"

"My three meals of today, if you would good sir.  I am famished and require food immediately."  It was not customary of the innkeepers guests to order three full meals at once.  Perhaps it was not best to suggest this to the barbarian though; because, one could simply stand back and listen to the thunderclaps that stirred in the man's stomach.  

"Have a seat and it'll be up in a li'l bit," the keep replied while his right hand's index finger pressed out to give the barbarian direction toward a corner table with sturdy looking chairs.  Demosthenes smiled and nodded, and took refuge on one of the four-legged seats, and found that no matter how harshly they groaned, the legs held his weight.  

Moments turned to minutes and the sizzling sound and pungent scent of food being prepared caused saliva to be produced in the back of the barbarian's mouth...

[Divine Dimise]

The vanilla smoke was intoxicating, soothing to the soul and harming to those around her, though she did not seem to care. The pipe was a reliable wood, and had been carved with the movements of the tree, each eye, each rut, each design that the age in the wood made, was in her pipe, the tobacco was sweet, enchanting, the smoke that curled from it created it’s own abstract patterns, it kept her amusement and her imagination going. The sun was close to replacing the moon and the stars, breaking the darkness and starting anew with new hues of blue and white that would cover the sky in a long blanket, like a mother covering her child in a coat for warmth. The day would have a start, and she would not feel an ounce of grogginess, just a bit of soreness in her legs. The loose piece of cloth that hung lazily around her breasts was obviously for only sleeping in, her skirt however would remain ‘pon her body, hugging her curves tightly enough to show they were there.

She then looked to her doorway out of curiosity; the floor was creaking, telling her stories of who is to come. The massive man gave her as much courteousness as he could, offering more manners to her in a simple glance than more are willing to give in a whole night. His voice shook her like thunder, and surged a scare through her like lightening, she jumped at it, as if to show he had startled her, the voice was a whole new experience, as if it were the sea hitting the ocean, a beauty in the chaos, and yet, a calmness. She touched her heart, and fell forward, her feet on the ground, and her fair in front of her face, and allowed herself to release a small chuckle. Her hair fell in front of her face, though the smile could be seen through it, she closed her eyes and kept the image of him in her head.

“Oh, damnit.” She thought to herself in a hurry, she just realized she did not say anything back, her stomach was not about to warn her of hunger, she did not eat at the right time, she did not have a schedule. She did everything imperfect, which she thought, gave her perfections. She did not want to be rude, she had to get dressed, she had to do so fast. She didn’t know when said person was leaving, or if they were just here for a moment, if they were, they would be a person with potential to dole out money to her. She was a dancer, mayhaps he would drop more money in her hat. Mayhaps he would offer more than money, she might find a comrade, a friend, he looked like a person who would travel quite a bit, and she has been looking to go somewhere where her magics wouldn’t be the laughing stock of the town. She stood up from her bed, and gently closed her door, allowing herself privacy.

A belt was placed around her waist, colors of brown, golds and greens complimented her skin, as she tied the knot in the front, the two bells hanging from the bottom of it, her hips appearing much larger now, the bangles jingled and jangled as she walked to her table to finish getting dressed. The halter that was a hunter green she wore before came off with an easy tug, effortless, so that if someone were to intrude at this point, they would focus more on the fabric falling to the ground, rather than her figure. It was a perfect hourglass; it was obvious her ribcage was accustomed to a corset or two in her lifetime. She placed her bra on, with tassels from what seemed to be the Middle East hanging down all over the edges, adding more sight to what she was wearing. It was rather heavy, the coins and the bells all gained weight around her. Though, it was peculiar, a pendent lay betwixt her breasts, falling towards her belly, it was a panda, focusing on the nature of the animal, the grace of it, the beauty in its natural color scheme.

Round her head went a wrap, that covered only the top of her head, a color to match the trees and make their greens jealous. Her skin was glowing in all of it’s glory, as her pinstraight hair cascaded ‘round her shoulders, just at the middle of her back is where the length would reach it’s maximum, braids falling every which way in the very clean, very desireable vanilla scented hair, it was clear that she was a healer of sorts her hands were gentle, always clean, never touched by anything that would be considered dirty, unsanitary. Though some would call her weak for this, her magic never suffered for this reason.  She tucked her pipe into her belt, the long end of it could be seen, interrupting the natural folds of her skirt, the tobacco in a brown bag. Her smile was still white as ever, her teeth uninterrupted by her habits. The last piece of clothing she placed on her was a brown cloak, covering her back, but leaving her front able to be seen by whomever took the time to look.  

She made her way to the bottom of the stairs, her steps light, airy, almost untraceable. They were the epitome of like a feather. Though, her steps could have been quiet, her attire was not. It was rather loud, and could be heard even in her room. Though she did not mind, it was indeed another characteristic of her. The strong scent of vanilla followed her like a lost puppy looking for a home, though she wanted it to mingle, it was part of her now, it became part of her temperament. She noticed him as soon as she hit the last step, somewhat shocked by his size, from her door he did not seem nigh as large as he was closer to her vision. She put her hood up, the dust falling off and giving movement to what little beams of light there were in this establishment.

One foot in front of the other, she walked, gently, gracefully, her hips taking over the majority of her movements. He bangles and the bells falling all over her body, running along her figure with ease, only accentuating her beauty. His figure only came closer as she walked forward, and she extended her hand as if to place it ‘pon his shoulder, her thoughts racing, still a little afraid of his size, his promising voice assured her that no harm would come, but her guard was still up.

She made contact, her hand was cold, ice cold, from the pipe smoking, she knew already. She bent down, her profile now taking over his as she talked next to him, invading what seemed to be his personal space. “Evening, sir.” Her voice was soft and sweet like feathers and honey, her words were like her, dancing around the man like a manifesto of thoughts, like a melody that sticks with you, like passionate words and poetry shared between whispering lips. Though her worry could not be pinpointed, was he going to think of her any different from her lack of response from before? She stood upright now, her cloak gently brushing his massive shoulder as she walked to the other side of the table, revealing her scantily clad body to him, revealing her profession as a dancer to him. She moved one piece of hair behind her ear, as the panda pendant glimmered from the glorious shadows and highlights of the moonlight.