 |
WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised. |
<style>#sieLoc td {vertical-align:top; text-align:center; padding:3px; font-size:11px; }
#sieLoc td.header { font-size:15px; }
#sieLoc #location{background-image:url('http://www.soulsrpg.com/images/BSMapPixels_subterr.jpg'); width:100px;height:100px;border:1px solid #000000;background-position:62% 22% ;}
#sieLoc #pushpin{position:relative;left:45px;top:45px;}</style>
| Setting | Location | Form | NPCs |
|
Location: Colchester Quarter Date: 18 July* (Forward-dated) Weather: Humid, warm, windy -- threatening storms Time: Late afternoon |
 |
 |
-- |
(--) Marking mature as a precaution. ;D
Machidael is by me!
Machidael had determined his favorite part of this strange continent thus far -- the cities reminded him the most of home. While architecture and building techniques varied from place to place, the feel of such spaces did not. While this small encampment of human life was hardly worthy of the word "city" it was the only English word he knew applicable to a space where humans lived. There was a faint, faded scent of canine lingering around, but Machidael could not identify anything about it, it was so old. The outside wilds lacked this smell; it was only as he poked through houses and enclosures he occasionally caught the old scent of canid. The rusty-hued hybrid wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, but he looked all the same, picking a trinket or two from amongst the artifacts of humanity.
Seraht had carried him over the mountain, and for now, she was secured in a ramshackle garage some blocks over. Machidael realized the risks he took, of course, leaving things here and there, but all he truly valued was strapped to his back, either within his pack or slung across his back, as in the case of his long spear. The horse made little difference, in the end: she was a steady enough mount, but Machidael might have had another, if he'd so chosen. The dead woman in the warehouse had owned a horse, and he'd left it to its own devices once he'd left the vicinity of the bigger city. All in all, his horse meant little enough to him: neither this Seraht nor the warehouse woman equaled Zahi, his mourned friend.
When he'd had his fill of the house, the rusty-hued jackal slunk toward the curb and removed his pack. He sat down, dropping the things he'd carted off before him so he might better inspect them. His pack, leaned against his leg, served as the depository for that which he wished to keep. What he did not want, he tossed into the street. There was the tinkling of metal as he chucked a few coins away, followed by the thunk of a statuette. The rust-furred coyote inspected a jar, unscrewing its lid. He sniffed the blackened contents and made a face, chucking the jar away. It smashed against the concrete of the far curb and broke into a thousand glittering pieces, but Machidael had already moved onto the next item.
@import url('http://sleepyglow.net/rp/post.css');
</style>[/html]