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Post by Drustan on May 19, 2014 22:56:05 GMT -5
Location: Hollow Suites in the neighborhood of Xoperbia. Apt. #894; 72nd floorSundays were days for rest. When the rest of the week—Monday through Saturday—filled with work, goals, and obstacles had finally ended, Sunday was left to leisure. Tristam Dradghurst, Lieutenant to Prince Caden Dra’sin of the Celesin Empire, relaxed into the wooden chair beneath him. His arms folded over his broad chest, and he slouched in his seat. Blue eyes, flecked with ruby shards, sat transfixed on the wall of the 420 square foot apartment. It contained only the essentials. The orange filter of the afternoon sun shed light on everything inside; the single, steel square box contained a bed, a sink, a small stove, a cramped bathroom with a shower and a toilet, and a radio to save him from going crazy. The single window that opened to reveal the cityscape was the saving grace. The view, Tristam had discovered, was breathtaking, and perfect for quieting his turbulent mind.
On a Sunday, his mind was free to be quiet. Calm. Still. But, Tristam wasn’t the type who could relax easily. He was neurotic; obsessive, and often went days without sleep. His resting cycle was sporadic, and even now he studied the wall with only 5 hours of sleep within the last 74 hours. Were it not for his more divine half, his health would surely come under question. With the growing disquiet of his thoughts—thoughts of violence, and self-doubt—he was beginning to wonder if his sanity was the thing in danger. He was on a mission in Vascxious Sigma—an altogether new place—tracking down three dangerous individuals. He didn’t have time for those thoughts. Just as well, he didn’t have time to relax on Sunday. He cleared his mind only to focus on the wall bathed in saffron light. Pictures of Fureya, Dragos Dra’sin, and a question mark sat posted to the wall by thin metal pins. Various lines of colored string connected to places on maps and pictures, creating a web of associations between the three individuals and the world around them. It was difficult getting into their minds, lack of sleep aside. Dragos, and the female with him, were both under mental duress. He sympathized with them. It was the only connection he could make to them. He worked to make more.
Monday, he arrived into the city, passing through arcs and gateways, and weaved his way through hundreds of people to enter the city, where he began setting up a life for himself to prepare for an extended stay in the city. He found residence in the 8th District. It was easily accessible, and his fondness for the sound of machinery—the veins of industry as they pumped through the city with their work—put him at ease, and reminded him of home. His apartment was sparsely furnished, but otherwise empty and dependent on his additions, which he doubted would ever come. After finding a place to live he did an exploration of the city, and began the difficult footwork that came with investigating. He spotted locals to keep an eye on, and began building his information network. In a day he hit 3 districts including District 8, lining the pockets of one or two derelicts, and more importantly understanding the layout of the city.
Tuesday he did more ground work, searching the city, asking around, and generally making it evident to any that would listen that he was looking for Fureya. He made the decision not to search for Dragos—a missing prince would surely draw unwanted attention. The woman, however, may draw the right kind of attention; the attention of someone who might know her, or better yet might know how to find her. The most he could ask for was the woman herself, but he doubted he’d be so lucky. He settled for making it evident he was the one looking for her, and even offering a way for them to contact him should they know something.
The questioning and footwork continued into Wednesday with the added bonus that he got a job in District 1 working in a scrap yard, melting down metals and other alloys into one of several monolithic furnaces. The molten cores connected to the volcanic bed sleeping beneath the city, utilizing its tremendous heat to fuel the plants operations. Yet another perfect place for Tristam. The work, for an average person was grueling and tough; for Tristam it was an appropriate daily workout that would keep him in shape when he couldn’t be bothered to actually train.
Thursday he did nothing but train. He left the city and went into the mountains.
He returned Friday and went back to work at the plant. He visited a tavern, and had a drink after work. The night was otherwise uneventful, and without even a whisper of his marks. He realized at the tavern with an ale in hand that he would be coming back. He would come back frequently, and he would likely become a regular. His mission wouldn’t be as fast as he wished, and the longer it took the more familiar he would become with the Double Barrel, and its owner/bartender Hal. Saturday he ventured into the Art District, and allowed himself to get distracted in the theater. He ended up back at the tavern, and then home. He slept into the afternoon and felt unrested; only five hours of it would do that.
The things that woke him and kept him awake were the people that he hunted for and looked at on the wall. It was only a few strings; a few measly, likely irrelevant strings. It was only the beginning, and after a week he had nothing to show for his work. He would have to steel himself against boredom and focus on his objective. He would grow to love simply thinking. He was playing a thinking man’s game; detective work. The Hunt.
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Post by Drænník Foravían on Jul 27, 2014 13:56:30 GMT -5
Eyes of light charcoal watched the signal markers for each floor wink into life for a brief moment before darkening as the next in the series stole that light for itself. Certainly there was a metaphor just waiting to be explored─ at least commentary on social structures and cultural norms, no? The wide set mouth and beautifully crafted lips those grey eyes belonged to stretched into a lazy grin as the marker for the 72nd floor was set ablaze, remaining that way as the lift paused in its ascent to grant its passenger leave to step into the dingy hallway.
And it was a dingy hallway by the standards of Grey Eyes.
Drænník paused, the worn, dented silvered doors of the elevator closing behind him creating an interesting contrast to the dark fabric of his well-tailored suit. Jet lashes lowered as both hands rose, allowing him to adjust the wrists of the pristine, white gloves that covered either hand. Once satisfied, one of those gloved hands very carefully, very deliberately raked through longish hair that was only a slightly darker shade of coal than his eyes. The piece-y texture of those locks stayed pushed back for about three seconds before sliding attractively forward, re-framing his face and skimming the high bones of his cheeks.
The corners of his mouth curled into the relaxed smirk of someone who is absolutely assured of himself. Content that he'd lingered long enough Drænník smoothly slid into motion again, his long, self-possessed strides steadily bringing him to a very specific door. Number 894.
The grey-eyed Visitor eyed the door dubiously, perhaps calculating the odds the white of his gloves would be gifted with residue, before the back of his knuckles offered sharp greeting― certainly loud enough to be heard from within. Drænník took a small step backward so as not to crowd the door should the lone occupant of the room see who'd come to call. Those gloved hands clasped together in something that resembled a “parade rest” position to those with more formal training. . .
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Post by Drustan on Sept 8, 2014 23:51:30 GMT -5
After all the evidence was meticulously scrutinized, and every lead had been followed till even dead ends were carved into with an inquisitive shovel, even the most calculating minds would eventually succumb to sleep. The tools of the detective trade had been exhausted, and now there was nothing to do but wait. Waiting itself had the effect of lulling people into slumber, taking them away from their frustrated place in reality, and dropping them into even more bizarre circumstances in the dream world where the unbound subconscious synthesized information and unseen clues. Still, the way in which Tristam’s mind chose to assist him was aggressive.
He was tormented. His dream was more of a guilt ridden voyage than helpful lead. Where he hoped resting his eyes might afford his mind some much needed energy, he was instead began to perspire with a psychosomatic cold-sweat. His fingers twitched, and his head swiveled back and forth on his thick neck as he battled against his inner demons. Their faces took the form of Fureya, whose presence within the prison had been an unforeseen complication in the detainment of Dragos. It was through her that the unknown, formless blood creature took shape, and with her set in motion the circumstances that would lead to the crown prince once again away from his home, and the escape of two wanted criminals. It was an embarrassment on the security of the country as it was a blow to the Emperor’s (provided he had the emotional capacity to feel anything about his son’s flight). Joining the mocking precise effigies of the escapees was something else; something old and angry. It waged a war against something unknown, and died as a result with nothing of its sacrifice remembered, creating a rage unlike anything Tristam had experienced firsthand. And yet, the deeply seated anger felt like his anger; the ire felt like his ire; the flames that burned that persona down to cinders felt like flames that would eventually consume him as well. What was he to do? If he was not destroyed by the criminals he chased, would he be killed by whatever lived inside of him? What was inside of him? As fingers slowly lifted and inched deeper into darkness—a conclusion—a knock came at the door.
Eyelids erupted open, and light poured into the black portal of Tristam’s pupil, forcing the sea of carnelian embers surrounding it crashing in as it constricted. Beads of sweat rolled off frozen, bronze skin, and a shiver ran through the soldier’s body while his broad chest heaved, lungs eager to drink heartily of the oxygen supply in the room. Slowly, the shaken warrior lifted himself upright on his bed, tucked in farther corner of the room, on the wall opposite the door. The magma pools in Tristam’s eye sockets settled onto the door, and narrowed into glowing slits as he scrutinized the door and attempted to visualize who stood outside of it. He first threw his legs from the bed, and then in a smooth bid for the door rose to his feet to glide towards it. In the process, his hand reached out for a shirt, and in several other swift motions pulled it over his head. It clung tightly to his muscled body and began to collect moisture at his sternum and spine where his sweating body hadn’t yet dried. An additional, precious few seconds were sacrificed to lift an arm, and extend a hand towards the large metal slab that rested against the wall at the foot of his bed. A section of its corner morphed like a malleable liquid, broke off from the main body, and zigzagged its way through the air to Tristam’s hand where it spiraled onto his arm, and hardened into a fashionable piece of jewelry. Finally at the door, he stepped aside and placed his back against the wall beside it. He waited patiently beside it, waiting for another knock on the door. He didn’t turn on any lights, or make any audible indication he’d moved to the door on his end. He waited for another knock. It was important; how patient was this person? How willing to knock more than once? How upset and off-put if forced to knock more than twice? How quickly would additional knocks follow? The latter didn’t need to be answered, and Tristam was willing to wait for just one more series of raps against the metal surface of the door. Once it came, he would answer back. “Who is it?” His metal door-augmented tone of voice was cautious, but radiated authority somewhat beside the age of the holder.
Again, an answer would be waited for, and then another response would be initiated. “What do you want?” Similarly commanding in force, a shred of curiosity was given towards what was said next. Was it someone who knew something about why he was there? Could this have been the break he was looking for? None of his anticipation was translated through the door and its metallic voice transforming.
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Post by Drænník Foravían on Sept 26, 2014 9:10:10 GMT -5
The seconds ticked by, and the grey-eyed Visitor tipped his chin, angling so that he might listen for signs of life inside that room. There was no indication of irritation or impatience on that finely-sculpted mouth though one gloved hand did adjust the other so that the face of a well-crafted watch would be visible. To anyone watching it might seem that he was timing himself─ perhaps offering enough space between knocks so as not to be perceived as rude.
Drænník inspected the knuckles of his gloves, his eyes narrowing as he assured himself of their pristine condition before dropping the hand with the watch and raising the other to offer another rap of greeting that was precisely the same as the first.
The quick response from inside made the corners of the Visitor's mouth twitch in amusement.
The tall, lean form stepped back once more so as not to stifle the frame when the occupant finally chose to open the door.
”Someone you will want to open the door for. . .” Drænník's voice wasn't forceful, but it certainly projected well enough to be heard. The smooth quality of the tones would translate even through the heft of the door.
The second question incited a muted smirk.
There was a pause as the Visitor leaned into the frame, ensuring the room's occupant would sense the more intimate posture from the way his voice would sound through the door.
”I'm not here to discuss what I want. . .” His voice trailed off distinctly, leaving room for all manner of suggestion before he continued, ”I'm much more interested in, perhaps, being of service to you.”
The Occupant wouldn't be able to miss the grin in his Visitor's voice unless he was truly unperceptive. Drænník would wait. . .
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Post by Fureya on Jan 23, 2015 10:19:06 GMT -5
Admin's Note: This thread is currently suspended in fluid time due to the wonders of freeform roleplay and has no direct bearing on any other thread until further notice.
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Post by Drænník Foravían on Apr 27, 2015 21:09:46 GMT -5
Drænník stiffened, his lean form claiming a smooth, backward step as his focus turned from the apartment door he'd been accosting. A remarkably familiar scent had come to his attention just then and the Fiend couldn't stop the grin that spread across his features, darkening them in the most sinister of ways.
A certain Other had entered the scene, and suddenly the mage's little visit to the Celesin Operative had become a lesser priority. . .
The edges of those snowy white gloves were carefully tugged before the Fiend turned to face the direction he knew his new target to reside in. Less than two strides later and the Visitor simply melted into nothingness. . .
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