Closed [Scholar's Demise] Disturbance at Demise

[Sigfrid]

oocThis is the calendar event where the Jagged Edge, a band of mercs from Nyka, start a large brawl at Scholar's Demise. If you're looking for some brawling xp or just want to be a part of the event, you're welcome to join! Note: The audience member that Sigfrid is looking at can be anyone, so long as they fit the vague description. Edit: After Gawain, I'll wait maybe a day or two for one more PC, max. Don't want it to get too big. Changed the status from Open to PM to join now, so there will be less confusion on who the 4th PC will be. Edit: Changed the tag to closed! 60th of Summer, 513 AV Sparse, obligatory applause signalled her entry, dismissing the unloved storyteller that preceded. After a bell of farfetched interpretations of hackneyed tales, the audience was grateful any subsequent act, so long as it did not involve another chosen hero or damsel in distress. Tensed, the Ethaefal step into place, silver eyes sweeping the crowd, occasionally pausing until one patron caught her attention. Comforted by their welcoming expression, a smile formed. "I am Sigfrid." She spoke to all, but her gaze remained anchored to one. "I hope that tonight, the fires of Yahebah will burn together in our hearts." Allowing a pause, she then withdrew, taking the lone seat with an easy grace. The Lethaefal brushed her dark hair from one shoulder to bundle the silky material loosely on the other. After unpacking the harp, she placed the instrument between her thighs and allowed it to rest on her shoulder. Briefly, Sigfrid looked for that same face in the crowd, before striking the first note with a gentle tug. As she entered the joyous rhythm, her eyes fell downward toward the strings, heart swelling with nostalgia. In her mind's eye, the drums and tambourines accompanied the flowing language of the harp as those of Yahal celebrated in dance. This was a festive song, but was one of the few that did not honoured the patron god of the Benshira for it transcended religion. It was a natural sound that did not require the musical athleticism nor technicality of more complex pieces, for its simplicity drew attention to expression behind every note. The organic feel could be attributed to the short, improvised sections so common to the Benshira, for they were familiar modal scales and chords. At her skill level, she lacked the knowledge in assembling the chords, at times hitting a sour note. However, when she did succeed, her innate creativity shone. Absorbed in performance, the Ethaefal was unaware of the band of mercenaries that entered and seated themselves to one side. Many patrons were noticeably anxious, with the most restless leaving immediately. However, like Sigfrid, there were few who were oblivious to the trouble that the Jagged Edge had already caused. As usual, many looked to the Ethaefal for leadership, but with Roric in the kitchens, the diminutive Aleah was the sole authority of the Demise. However, in seeing her eye trained on the largest of the men but her hands busy drying an empty glass, they realized that the imposing group was here to stay, if for now. It was not until the slamming of a table that Sigfrid joined the conversation, startling her hands from the strings. Before she could even locate the sound of the disturbance, a gruff voice addressed her. "Hey!" She froze, sensing rather than seeing an unwanted gaze. With as much normalcy as she could manage, the Ethaefal turned to her left to face the speaker. Despite the menacing tone, he appeared youthful and was actually rather attractive with his deep blue eyes and lush lips. He knew this of course, and smirked once he recognized the look in her eyes, which immediately jolted Sigfrid from the brief delusion. "If your hands aren't on that harp, they'll be on my…" He grabbed at his crotch, winking, inciting catcalls and howling laughter from his comrades. She paled, but remained silent as she turned away, her fingers rigid as they attempted to mimic the graceful motions of before. Her only comfort was in remembering that she were not in her mortal seeming and so, help would come. It had to. She understood men like him, easily irritated creatures that seek constant entertainment, for she observed many examples during her long journey. Delay she could, but eventually, he would tire and make due on his threat.

[Zeran]

The Sea of Grass looked wonderful, even through the bars of his cage. Being a slave wasn't all bad. You just had to be willing to look for the positives in it. Something to take your mind away from the upset of day-to-day life. Misery was like quicksand. If you dwell in it for too long, then the situation is only ever going to get worse. Find a way out yourself, or hope there is someone else around to lend a hand. You're in a lot of trouble otherwise. Where was this going? A rumbling came, but the ground didn't move. No one else seemed to notice the disturbance, let alone react to it. The plains grew less detailed, all mixing into one colour, staining itself with too many, mixing into black. Still, no one seemed to care as the blackness only expanded and everything faded from existence. Zeran sat and watched as it disappeared, growing closer as the rumbling began to fade. It was the end and he did not care one way or the other. He was happy with how he had spent his last few chimes. Zeran opened his eyes. Thank the gods the fairy tales are over. If I wanted a clichéd plot, I'd ask for it from the children they are meant to amuse. Not from the adults of years far beyond my own. "Tanroa, you can be cruel sometimes, but you're very resilient. I chime is still a chime regardless of how much people beg for it to be shorter." Zeran chuckled at himself, leaning against a wall at the back of the room, watching the storyteller leave the spotlight. He was either oblivious to his tales, in which case the idiot needed to pull his head out the ground, or he was very brave and jumping into the profession of storytelling disregarding what everyone thought of him. "All credit where credit is due. Take what you earn." The muscles in his face were still relaxed from his nap, making it difficult to manage anything beyond a small smile. Zeran would have to be content with looking like a gentleman, rather than a madman. "That's why it takes you so long to get up. Stop picking on me. I'm not, just pointing out a fact. No, you're picking on me. She looked at you. Who did? The good looking lady on stage. She said her name is Sigrid. I know, I heard. Well stop asking me if you already knew. Leave me alone, I want to here this. Truce? Truce. Great, now quiet. You too!" A few patrons had already moved further away from him by now. Others were giving him concerned looks. It never bothered him. He understood completely. Zeran was concerned for his own safety at the best of times, with the poor company he kept around. Zeran would start an argument for no reason, and Zeran would have to put up with Zeran. Still, he was a good laugh to have around. Acknowledging one more look for Sigfrid, she let her fingers dance across the strings. The notes from the harp in her lap where as clear as the skyglass atop the buildings of Lhavit. Simple, yet elegant. Zeran felt a wave wash over him, as if the notes were palpable. There was a skill in those hands that would only get better with time. The sudden banging of a table followed by an authoritative call made Zeran trip over himself. "I was enjoying that!" He called up from the floor as he laid there on his back. None of them were paying attention to his complaining. He rolled over just in time to here one of the men call out to the musician. He thought there was skill in those hands as well. "Worst! Pick-up! Ever!" He shouted between the thuds of his head banging against the floor. He did not need Auristics to know what this man had on his mind. He pushed his djed down to his right shoulder, feeling the pressure build as he began the lengthy process of detaching his astral body from his arm. He had the strangest feeling it was going to be needed soon. "Take it as a compliment Lady Sigfrid!" Zeran bowed in her direction as he addressed her. "He is obviously so tired of his own that he requests the grace of yours!" The few sniggers he heard from some of the audience members didn't amuse him as much as the confused expressions on some of the gangs faces. Whether they didn't get it, or didn't know if they could laugh didn't matter. Their faces were priceless. Zeran's smile widened back to its full reach as he looked over at the man he had just insulted. "Your turn, my good Sir."

[Gawain]

Through half-shut eyes, Gawain surveyed the activities in the establishment that surrounded him. A rather posh place for a mercenary like him, but the ale was good and the entertainment was free. He could deal with the fluffy scholarly types around him for that, if they didn't raise a fuss about his obvious scruffiness. Gawain preferred to think of it as rugged charm.

And then a bell chimed.

Raising an eyebrow, Gawain smiled and applauded for the next performer. The last one had told a story of some knightly figure slaying a mighty monster to save a damsel in distress. That was the kind of story Gawain was all too accustomed to hearing, and it was the kind of story that got greenhorns killed out in the field. Made them think they were invincible, when they were all too prone to getting eviscerated by steel and claw alike.

With any luck the next performer, a lovely Ethaefel (as most were), would bring some different fare to the table. And if the harp she carried was any indication, it would certainly be a different story indeed.

Gawain let his eyes drift shut as the melody swept into the air around him. To him, the music spoke of distant lands that he had yet to see. Lands of sand and dunes, where life was vibrant and hardy. Even the twangs of mistakes added to the portrait that Gawain was painting in his mind: they added depth, showing the slight troubles that plagued even the simplest of living creatures and the lands they lived in.

The clatter of iron-shod boots broke Gawain from his reverie.

Alert, he rested his hands on the sheath that laid across his lap, scanning the room for the source of the disturbance. He didn't have to look far to see it, either. The Jagged Edge. Gawain's lips curled in disgust as he saw the mercenary cohort troop in. They'd taken several lucrative contracts from the band he occasionally worked freelance for, and on a purely professional level, Gawain held their work to be subpar to his own.

And then the catcalls and obscene gestures started, reminding Gawain of the other source of his distaste for the mercenary company. They were extremely crass, even by sellsword standards. Standing as some of the other, braver, patrons hurled a few witty insults at the mercenaries - though Gawain doubted the Edge would catch the more "sophisticated" jokes - he tightened his belt and slung his shield over his cloak, and started to walk towards the lad who'd decided he'd harass the harp player.

Gawain doubted the boy was more than eighteen years of age, at most, giving Gawain a couple more good years of experience under his belt. With that, and his more than formidable size, Gawain imagined he could get the boy to stand down. And if that didn't work, well, he had time for a good, old-fashioned brawl.

Stepping up to the boy from behind, and tossing a good-natured wink at the human man who was goading the hired blade, Gawain clasped his hand over the boy's shoulder, squeezing it in a vice grip as he slightly turned the merc to face him.

"I'd suggest you take your remarks elsewhere, sirrah. I don't believe the lady appreciates them. Savvy?"

[Sigfrid]

oocFeel free to NPC the Jagged Edge members as you fight. I've basically paired Zeran with the pretty boy and Gawain with a bulky mercenary, though you can add as many enemies as you please.

Despite the initial fright, Sigfrid was quick to recover, entering a simple rhythm as fingers danced across strings. Pity surrounded her, coagulating with anxiety and interest as the patrons watched on. Though her demeanour remained composed, internally the Ethaefal steamed with anger. How dare they, these revolting men, disturb her performance! The comment itself paled in comparison to the disrespect shown toward Rhaus, an offense that even Sigfrid found difficult to forgive. Irritated, the Ethaefal continued filing insults away when suddenly, a remark tickled a genuine smile from her lips. Any residual fear dissipated as curiosity carried her gaze through the crowd, eventually landing on a familiar face. To the stranger's address, Sigfrid was tempted to answer with an insult of her own, but held her tongue in the end. Despite enjoying a good debate, this was hardly the time nor place, and though she silently applauded the man for his humorous jab, she scolded him for provoking the mercenaries. A brawl here could result in unnecessary injury and damage to the property, and was hardly the sort of memory she wished for in a first performance. Don't get too excited now... The Ethaefal thought cautiously, attempting to capture his attention with mental communication as though it were possible. However, upon seeing the growing grin plastered on his face, she knew it to be too late. Meanwhile, the initially surprised Nykans now chuckled along with the others, albeit with a slimy undertone that clung to the throats of surrounding patrons, cutting their laughter short. They were relaxed, leaning into their seats and some even taking a casual sip of ale. Even the young man wore a smirk as anticipation lit his eyes, roaring life into the dull blue irises. Finally, some entertainment in this stale, complacent city. Looking over his opponent, the mercenary paused over the dark tattoo that marked the other's hand. "I've heard.." He began, closing the distance with dragging steps. "..that they sometimes cut the dick off a slave so he won't go and rape his mistresses." At less than an arm's length away, he easily reached the other man's neck as a strong grip attempted to pull him in, bringing with it the rank odor of many an unwashed night. "Balls too." He added, emphasizing the last word as he exerted force in lifting his knee, aiming between the man's legs. Should the hit be successful, the gang would merely grin in vicarious satisfaction with one or two mocking with an exaggerated "Oh!" Sigfrid would simply wince reflexively, eyes squinting in sympathy before rising from her seat. Swiftly, she would reach the side of the fallen, a gentle hand on his cloak. "Are you alright?" The Ethaefal would ask, a silver gaze lined with worry as she searched his features through a mess of hair. If he motioned for aid, she would gladly offer a shoulder to help him up, guiding the man a safe distance away should he comply. Of course, Sigfrid would not have rush in blindly, though she did entertain and quickly reject the thought of settling the dispute with diplomacy. Having noticed another making his way toward the group, this one with a hardy appearance and the air of a combatant, she had deemed it safe to enter the scene. Noting the vice grip on the young man's shoulder, it proved to be a correct assumption. Under the hold of the larger man, the mercenary lightly scowled, partly from the pain and partly in shame of his lacking strength. The rest of the group seemed wary but unworried, recognizing the newcomer as a possible threat but was comforted in knowing they had numbers of their side. Being the shorter of the two, the man lifted his chin, his gaze insolent as he spat, aiming for the center of the other's face. "Petch you." He snapped, no longer wearing the familiar grin as his comrades approached. Before the other man could get a word in, a hulking Jagged Edge member sent a punch toward his jaw with enough strength to encourage the release of the younger man. It would seem they were finished with pleasantries.

[Zeran]

The patrons' laughter slowly died, drowned by the rising laughter that came from the simple-minded mercs. A laughter that piqued Zeran's interest in them. That had been confused a moment ago, from either stupidity or indecision. Now, without a word being said by any of them, they were laughing. It wasn't a joke they had all simultaneously remembered. They were expecting something from the handsome, young man that approached him. Too bad the things coming out of his mouth smell worse than him. It was funny though. Zeran couldn't help but snigger at the little man as he drew closer. He was too transparent. To be talking about such a topic, as he skulked towards him, his intentions were so obvious Zeran almost didn't believe he had encountered somebody so stupid. But here he was, stench and all, going for the lowest possible shot that anyone could hope to attempt. It was almost a shame that the limp arm hanging by his side, under his cloak, wasn't as obvious as the mercenary. It looked to be an almost one-sided fight. His knee came up and Zeran's projected arm knocked it down again. Zeran reached behind the merc's head with his left arm. Grabbing a handful of hair, he pulled him in so their foreheads and noses were pressed tightly together, staring at him straight in the eyes. "You mean like this?" Zeran had painted the image in his head as the mercenary described it, adding as much detail as he could. Blood, pain, the feeling of dread and loss, anything that could make the image seem more realistic as it flashed across the pretty boy's sense in a split-second hallucination. It wasn't his style to be so obvious with his moves, but it didn't seem like the cogs were going to turn in the sell-sword's head enough to realised he'd been hypnotised. From the shock on his face, the flash had the desired effect, causing him to stumble backwards into the grip of another. A knight no less. Zeran had looked over in time to catch the wink that had been thrown his way. He was either flirting, a bad time to choose to do so, or he was saying that he was on Zeran's side. Zeran preferred to think it was the latter, but did have to admit he was better looking than the ex-pretty boy now. His words backed up Zeran's hopes. The clattering of armour reached his ears. The silence that had fallen over the patrons made it easy to hear. No wonder they were mercenaries. The only way they could get their money was by their muscles, because they sure didn't have any brains for tactics, strategy, or the simple concept that armour made noise when you moved. Sure enough, a Jamora-sized bruiser approached them from the side. He held his projected arm up ready. Zeran turned back to see Ex aiming spit at Sir Knight's face. "Now why would you do that to my knight in shining armour?" His projected arm shot outwards, deflecting the bruiser's punch to Sir Knight's jaw. Stepping into the punch, Zeran moved behind the knight. "If I didn't dislike you, I would applaud your sense to take the initiative of attacking your opponent whilst he is distracted. Unfortunately, I do dislike you and shall instead hypocritically insult you for a dirty, underhanded move." The gears and cogs were moving again. Zeran took the time to look over his shoulder and back at the knight. "I'm Zeran. Feel like teaming up?" He waited long enough for an answer, before taking a breath and bellowing across the room, "Anyone who does not want to get hurt, please leave the tavern in whatever manner you feel is appropriate for the situation!" Zeran laughed to himself. "And please get help."

[Gawain]

The poor boy in Gawain's grasp looked like he'd seen a ghost, what with how his face had rapidly gone pale. He seemed a bit shaken. Briefly, Gawain felt an odd desire to offer some words of consolation. Magic, if that was what he had experienced, as Gawain suspected, was nothing to be trifled with. Especially not when you had no proper defenses against it, like most "mundanes." Not to say that the boy didn't deserve it, though. The bleeder had looked like he was about to attempt to desecrate somebody's manhood. And that was simply not done.

Any remaining sympathy that Gawain held for the boy, however, evaporated when the rotter spat in his face.

"Bastard." Gawain muttered, releasing the boy. Unfortunately for the sellsword, though, he wouldn't be getting a chance to beat a hasty retreat. As soon as he'd sufficiently cleared his face, Gawain brought his hands up and slammed his gauntlet-clad palms into the mercenary's temples, dropping him. The fall coincided nicely with the smack of a hitherto undetected blow being deflected, and Gawain turned around. A rather large chap had snuck up behind him, but he seemed more interested in a phantom arm than Gawain, at the moment.

Well, that wouldn't stand.

Rapidly stepping up, Gawain ducked under a mistimed blow and slammed his forehead into the taller man's nose, relishing in the satisfying crunch as bone met cartilage. As the sellsword stepped back, howling in pain and attempting to staunch the bleeding coming from the freshly ripened tomato on his nose, Gawain followed up on his previous blow by planting a boot into the hulk's stomach and pushing, sending the man stumbling away. Not out of the fight, certainly, but decommissioned for a short bit. Which gave Gawain time to plan.

Then, finally having a moment to glance at his "saviour," a strange-looking man in a cloak, Gawain nodded cheerily, and said "Well, I hadn't hoped to take on an entire mercenary band by myself, y'know. Better you than the scholars that're quaking in their boots."

Standing straight up, Gawain unclasped his cloak and set it on a table. No use for restricting clothing in a bar fight. He also took the time to peer around, trying to take stock of the situation. The blue-eyed boy was still crumpled on the ground, but the man who's nose Gawain'd broken was rejoining his fellows, and there was a murderous gleam in his eye.

Clasping his hands, Gawain coolly addressed the mercenaries. "Right then, gents. Let's keep the swords in their sheathes, and settle this like men."

He certainly hoped no one would draw steel tonight. He'd already lost his temper twice, and Gawain certainly didn't relish the idea of spending a night, or more, in Lhavit's dungeons for killing a man, no matter how much the bugger deserved it.

[Zeran]

Zeran watched as the bruiser retreated towards his comrades. He laughed at the mentality. Safety in numbers reigned supreme, except in the case of muscle-headed arrogance where an idiot is so strong he believes he can take on fifty men at once. A weapon was unbiased in that aspect. A knife through the heart would bring down man, woman and child the same as any other. It would sooner dull from overuse before breaking against one man's muscles. A fight was thought with skill, dirty or clean, though numbers did help. Zeran made a mental note that pretty boy was still on the floor behind them. He wasn't dead, just sleeping. He shouldn't be counted out of the fight just yet, he could still wake up and take them by surprise. And Zeran was more susceptible to a stab in the back than Sir Knight. He seemed prepared for this type of conflict an more. He could take the hit then if either of them were to, though it was preferable he avoided injury. Zeran would be on his own otherwise. The mercs looked to be weighing them both up as much as they were weighing up them. Some moved further away from the bruiser, looking to surround the two, cutting off any escape and to allow for deadly, surprise attacks. Others bunched together with the bruiser, thinking they stood a better chance reinforcing one of their stronger members as he drew most attention. Who would've guessed travelling with slavers would yield useful information in a brawl? "Bruiser's taking a tumble," he announced, mostly to Sir Knight, though the thought of confusing the mercs wasn't far from his mind. "I'm guessing four will go down with him." Zeran didn't give any time for anyone to think about his statements. His astral arm weaved its way behind Bruiser's feet, unnoticed by all. The move would need to be quick, not giving any time to steady footing as Bruiser's feet jumped into the space before him. Zeran grasped one ankle for good measure as the mercenary fell backwards onto the others. Unless he was an acrobat, and Zeran could sooner imagine himself sprouting wings and breathing water before that, Bruiser was going down with as much grace as his bloodied face. Not a lot. "Three," Zeran counted the bodies beneath the groaning mass of muscles, "One out." He laughed again, as he watched the others still moving behind them. "Who else fancies their chances?" Fear, uncertainty, lack of confidence. Emotional responses were simple things to do by this point, but they didn't carry much immediate weight to them. They were seeds, used to set up a situation that would be beneficial, and Zeran had just planted them in the minds and thoughts of a number of the Jagged Edge members. They could brush those feelings aside if they were strong enough, but the influence was still there. Pretty boy had been dropped very quickly, and Bruiser had just taken a fall from unknown causes and taken three other members with him. Those responses were going to cause hesitation later, providing the upper hand when needed. The stronger-willed mercs had done enough waiting around. Their numbers were already taking a hit and they hadn't yet done anything to Zeran and Sir Knight. They lunged forward, and the others would soon follow.

[Elysium]

Zeran

XP:
Projection +4
Brawling +2
Hypnotism +1
Rhetoric +3

Lore:
How to Argue With Oneself
Brawling: Go For the Ankles!
Hypnotism as Intimidation
Gawain, the Knight With Curious Timing

Notes: Well! If either Gawain or Sigrid desire a grade on this, upon their return they can PM me. Otherwise, it's all you! And you were doing so well, too. Shucks. If you have any issues with the grade, PM me!

and so, the journey continues...

[Neologism]

Sigfrid
Skills:

Musical Instrument: Harp +2
Observation +2

Lores:

Dealing with misogynistic men
Knowing when to hold your tongue

Notes: Don't forget to edit your post in the request thread as 'Graded'

Gawain
Notes: Please pay your seasonal expenses for Summer 513AV, PM when you have done so for your grade.