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originally posted in:The New Dojo
1/31/2018 1:32:30 AM
1
[i]Golden lions...purple...perhaps some sort of empire had made its ground here. The Man merely nodded back due to politeness, not saying anything due to his parched throat. The scepter tapped on the ground with every other step as he used it to keep himself straight up. His cloak billowed in the mountainous winds, using his free hand to keep the hood on. The wind had blown the smell to his direction, a bonfire perhaps?
It was bizarrely nostalgic watching the vehicles and mere foot soldiers of a time before the automobile was even made work together in harmony. He was reminded of his home, before he awoke here. Tightening his grip on the staff he made his way over to the plume of smoke rising, perhaps he could find someone to talk to.[/i]
English
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[i]The plume of smoke lead to a stage. The stage was only revealed to have four poles, three burnt bodies, and one individual looking up at it.[/i] [i]The remnants of flame left the bodies of the charred, smoke bellowing from the remains of the poles. The previous beings were literally indistinguishable, in their burnt, smoldered state. They were but shells, blackened entirely by the touch of flame.[/i] [i]The individual that looked upon the looming stage appeared to be bound to the rusty wheelchair that she sat within, her head looking up with an expression of evident distress. She was redheaded and thin, previously bearing a certain athleticism, now transformed into a skinny form. Light orange eyes stared at the bodies, ignorant of the man nearby.[/i]
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[i]The man was almost appalled by this act of barbarism upon the stage. His expression hidden by the cloak's fabric covering his face, hazel eyes were barely made out if anyone had bothered to look. He speed walked over to the young lady confined in the wheelchair, gaining some sort of strength in his legs that allowed him to walk with the staff every few steps now, stopping only beside her. The man took off his hood and facemask, revealing a young man with skin fit for a desert. His eyes had bags underneath, crows feet at the edges. He had no hair on his head save for the full beard, the man's mouth slightly agape as if to say something.[/i] "Excuse me, Miss? May I know what is happening upon that stage?" [i]He asked her in a polite but hoarse, turning his head to look at her. The voice had hints of something richer, like molasses. A handsome voice, if it were not for the hoarseness.[/i]
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"An act of Trayven justice.. Forgive me, sir. I've been.. out of the loop, I could say. Injuries being inflicted upon my being and all." [i]The redheaded woman shifted in her rusty old seat then, looking up at the individual whom had come to greet her and questioned the three bodies upon the smoldering pyres.[/i] "Each of them committed crimes against this unlawful city. One took two lives after a drug deal gone wrong. One rаped a noblewoman and beat her and her husband to near death before robbing their home. And one was a traitor and threatened the safety of the people. Forgive me if I sound biased, I.. am a Trayven myself. Freya Trayven, at your service."
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Edited by Obi-Emp Kenobi: 2/1/2018 10:30:13 AM[i]The Hoarse Man watched the flames on stage, their reflection visible in his eyes. He listened intently and turned on his heel to face her, the boot scraping on the ground as he did so. A name had floated into his thoughts, his own name.[/i] "Iberhim, 'Flame of the Desert' in your tongue. A humble name, it carries not much unlike yours." [i]Iberhim had told the Trayven with crossed legs, his right hand sticking out and his left over his heart as he bowed.[/i] "I too suffer from being 'out of the loop' as you call it. Being buried alive and arising in an unfamiliar locale does that to one." [i]He spoke with honesty, caring not to hide much. The man gripped his scepter as he turned once more to face the charred criminals.[/i] "I do not pity those people, the punishment is just. Tell me Madam, why do you carry a name of what I can presume to be great power here, yet you are stuck in a wheelchair not fit for one such as yourself? I believe you deserve to get something more comfortable at the very least."
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"My name carries nothing, only my actions carry weight. And.. this has been the first day that I've been awake. My eyes fluttered open to greet my sister, seizing power.. my lover, returned from journeys abroad, and death by fire." [i]The Trayven woman would brush her thin hands together as she would then turn her gaze to the man who stood taller than her, no surprise there. She would bow her head still. Something of a polite courtesy, or act.[/i] "Perhaps we are both alike. Out of the loop and all. Though my comfort is.. sustained, I suppose. Thank you for showing care for one such as I, however. Though.. buried alive? Forgive me for my naivety, sir.. but I would hope that those individuals are long gone?"
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Edited by Obi-Emp Kenobi: 2/3/2018 1:01:58 PM"If you say you are comfortable, then I believe you. You are welcome." [i]He said with a turn to face the crippled lady with a slight smile, though it most likely went unnoticed due to the beard.[/i] "No apology is necessary Miss Freya. For I too wonder if they have gotten what they needed... though it is odd in a way. This scepter was made with ivory from an elephant tusk, pure rubies mark this tool. I am quite surprised they did not take it for themselves and sold it." [i]He cаressed the scepter with his free hand, feeling each groove purely out of boredom. The scepter had many practical uses and had served Iberhim over the years, he was quite fond of it.[/i] "Perhaps it is for the best they did not take it, otherwise I would have not made it through those chilling woods with it acting as a crutch. I hope you and your beloved have reconnected since then, you must have been out for quite some time for a sibling to assume leadership. Granted I know very little about Trayven so I cannot comment on that, forgive me if I am wrong about that."
