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+---- Thread: [P] They Were Right About You (/showthread.php?tid=4780)
They Were Right About You - Emersyn - 04-01-2020
TW: Some disturbing imagery. (I think)
The lounge pools with different waves of converging smoke; wood, tobacco, incense and rosin, even the occasional wash of poppy tar and herbs. Prismatic baubles hang from the ceiling and hypnotize on the breeze as they swirl in smoke and dash the room with a thousand faces of firelight. Airy lute music drifts in and out of focus, the player is distracted and his laughter fills the silence. It almost seems to be a part of the atmosphere, no one notices that the music has stopped.
The hearth roars like a lion both bright and sunny, molten hot stews and brews boil and sizzle on its brick tile. Breads bask in the alpenglow of flames on fireside shelves and the walls glow with light filled amber glass. With every exhale of hot breath from the belching fire pit, the tavern windows inhale the cold stormy air from outside. It is dusk-into-night, everything seems infused in stardust, even the air is positively charged.. It filters in through the door jams and open windows keeping the atmosphere silky and smooth - comfortable. It almost makes the Den seem Holy.
The lounge pools with different waves of converging smoke; wood, tobacco, incense and rosin, even the occasional wash of poppy tar and herbs. Prismatic baubles hang from the ceiling and hypnotize on the breeze as they swirl in smoke and dash the room with a thousand faces of firelight. Airy lute music drifts in and out of focus, the player is distracted and his laughter fills the silence. It almost seems to be a part of the atmosphere, no one notices that the music has stopped.
The hearth roars like a lion both bright and sunny, molten hot stews and brews boil and sizzle on its brick tile. Breads bask in the alpenglow of flames on fireside shelves and the walls glow with light filled amber glass. With every exhale of hot breath from the belching fire pit, the tavern windows inhale the cold stormy air from outside. It is dusk-into-night, everything seems infused in stardust, even the air is positively charged.. It filters in through the door jams and open windows keeping the atmosphere silky and smooth - comfortable. It almost makes the Den seem Holy.
Emersyn considers the Den to be a hideout in neutral territory. Nestled between the suburbs and the swamps, it cannot be more perfectly placed, in the shadows of jurisdiction or concern in the quiet country. If the name Devil’s Den is not suggestive enough, then maybe it is the clientele who make it so; cultists, chemists, sorcerers, and even some modest (and mad) men too. It is a secretive society that lives here, thrives here, and if Emersyn belongs anywhere, it is here. And, primarily, to exploit her skills so she can buy the things money cannot buy: Time. Defenses. Counter measures.
Until then,
A large order of precious ivory harvested from the Elderdeer remains protected in a carefully covered caravan down the road. She watches silently from her window when her resource brings the disguised load around. No one turns to look when the exchange is made, money for illegal magic. Amusement gently plucks at the woman's edges, a smile fights to try and make its way out.
A large order of precious ivory harvested from the Elderdeer remains protected in a carefully covered caravan down the road. She watches silently from her window when her resource brings the disguised load around. No one turns to look when the exchange is made, money for illegal magic. Amusement gently plucks at the woman's edges, a smile fights to try and make its way out.
It never comes.
The Collector remembers all eight of those deer, that is why she does not smile. Everything about piecing them out carefully, bit-by-bit, and she can match the horns to the pelts she took from the same bodies. It all seems vaguely reminiscent of her violent history, but she is unphased by such disturbing thoughts or behaviours. To her, it is all business. To her, it is all a reputation - and the morbid glory that comes with it.
When the lightning strikes, it reminds her of how the light shot out of their eyes when their souls escaped them. If only she could jar it - she wonders then - What could she do with such a thing? What could she sell it for: Promises? Favors?
The sort of men that seek her services are the kind that need something that they can not get for themselves. Illegal parts; organic and unconventional, the types of things so few are willing to risk collecting -- they pay any price. Any price at all. As the disgrace for her in the city grows, she finds - that now - more than ever, she will need more than just a few favors, and that her reach must travel farther than the borders of her own home.
@Lyr I hate this character. She feels NOTHING. I suppose the 'associate' is our NPC. She is just lounging and fishing for another job, I guess.