forum An Ancient Kingdom Dies (Small group, 2/2 ⎮ Mature, 15+)

Started May 12, 2023 by @lord-of-the-carnival group

tune

The ocean air near the docks was a delight to Nimue's skin, and smelled much better than whatever foul stench was coming from where she was.

And where would that be?

The capital of Tÿr, Irnhal. Quite possibly the foulest city in the entire kingdom, the looks of it alone were enough to keep even the most hardened of adventurers away. The thick smog that hung over the city obscured light with a hunger, so that what little light was visible was wan and a slightly sickly green color.

Not only that, but there were stories. Stories of the Mad King Halik, who was once one of the world's brightest and most dangerous scientists, back when he was only interested in learning in his homeland of Feh'xe, all the way in the south.

They say he was revenant possessed, or possibly demon possessed, but both scenarios were highly contested by everyone, so it was mainly conjecture.

Nimue knew of both the smell and the looks of the city, and of the Mad King.

But never did she think things would be this bad, as she watched cartloads of bodies get dumped into the harbor every few minutes, each one claimed by the poisons of existance that come with inhabiting the fetid pit that was Irnhal.

She grabs her mask and tosses it on, her clothes - each of which she'd had custom made by a master seamstress and reinforced by both a blacksmith and a mage - protecting her from weather and sickness alike, keeping her form obscured while allowing some ammount of breathability.

She strides towards one of the bars at the edge of the city, confidently - albeit a bit wobbly.

Looking at it - the bar - the sign would be weathered by the rain and wind that came off of the sea, and the words barely visible as "the Grey Hound's Rest."

She pushes past the doors and makes her way to the counter, her aura that of a person who was unused to anything more than a handful of people and the ocean, and whatever resided there. The usual hubbub that crowded her head was dull and distant, and she was greatful for it. She didn't think she could handle the voices of the sea creatures slowly being poisoned in the harbor's water.

"Gallician white rum." she orders. Her voice was rough and craggy, like a series of spiked ocean rocks near the base of a cliff. She looks around, her eyes devoid of most color besides a slight brownish blue color, reflecting the distant ocean. She knew once she was further into the city, her eyes would be basically purely white and her hair, which was already pretty dark, would only grow darker.

She looks around, and, to her surprise, recognizes a creature, though it wasn't quite what she was used to.

It appeared to be a Saremar, but with less of the race's defining features. She decides to wait until it either a) smelled the ocean's stench coming off of her or b) noticed her scrutinization.

The bartender slams the mug of rum on the bar and Nimue pulls down her mask, reaching a calloused and dark hand out for it and taking a large quaff of the rough, bitter liquid inside, the leathery skin of her face and neck now visible and clearly as weathered as her hands.

For the past few hours, Renier had been in the Grey Hound's Rest, hiding. The air outside is putrid and leaves a burning feeling in his gills, which he keeps concealed in cloth as protection. It doesn't work as well as intended, but it's better than exposing himself to the smog and getting sick. Renier hopes to get out of Irnhal at the first chance he gets- but, it being the capital, is well-guarded and armed. Just walking in front of a patrol would guarantee his arrest.

Instead, Verlice lingers in the bar, his inhibition slipping slowly. The Saremar is not by any means a lightweight, but alcohol is among the only clean thing to put down the throat. Alcohol poisoning is better than whatever is outside, and the bar is better than prison.

It was as Renier watched the sun sink that he felt himself watched. He glances around, looking over the area; the place is a melting pot, to say the least. There are not many men or women of the sea. A few elves, and what Renier believes to be… a human? Strange.
But there is a familiar, salty smell that most landfolk do not possess. It was as if pure water had walked through the door, he thought.

The pale-eyed woman is a few vacant seats over. Renier looks right back at her, nails clicking against his shotglass. A small smile creeps across his face as he turns to the stranger, legs crossed with his chin rested on his wrist. He glanced at her daggers- and, for a moment, considered how he might get his hands on them. But he shakes the thought from his mind, then speaks up, clearing his throat.

"Evening," Renier says to the Nereid, hoping to gain her attention. After all, it's been days since he's spoken to another human- or non-human, for that matter.

Nimue looks over and chuckles.

"No need fer pleas'ntries. Jus' no'iced yeh look a li'le off fer a normal human. Saremar, righ'?" she inquires, taking another swig of her rum. "I qui' like your kind. Efficien' sailors, the lo' o' ye. Good swimmers, too."

She turns to face the man fully and crosses her legs, pulling off her tricorn cap and revealing her close buzzed hair, as well as her pointed ears.

"Name's Nimue. Nimue Morwenna Zephyrine. From Bellephar." she introduces herself, holding her hand our for the man across from her to shake.