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May 20, 2003
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The Worlds' End Bar
Scordus appears to be your standard
human, a bit above the average height at six foot three. His eyes are
a bright ice-blue, and his blonde hair is cut short in quasi-military
style. He appears to be strongly built, with broad shoulders and a
thick chest. Some of this apparent strength, however, may be due to
his clothing. He wears a set up urban warfare fatigues, thick and
bulky and mottled in grey. The numerous pockets of the fatigues bulge
in places, hinting at mysterious contents. He wears a jacket over his
clothing, its flat, bulky appearance that of modern body armor. A
pack is hung from his shoulders, likewise in an urban camoflage
motif. At odds with his modern garb is the heavy-bladed sword that
hangs at his waist. Made of a blueish steel, the thick blade must
weigh at least twenty pounds, and looks as useful for clubbing as for
cutting.
Joachim peers around the room through
slitted eyes, brushing dust off his leathers with a lean hand. His
expression looks a bit weathered and worn...too many nights of too
little sleep, or too many sun-blasted days bearing down on skin
clearly not designed to resist it. After a moment he sweeps off an
equally dust-laden wide-brimmed hat, tucking it into a grasp that
hangs by his side, holding an oddly-shaped wrapped bundle.
Scordus is seated at the bar, sipping a
drink. He turns, glancing at you and saying, "Howdy pardner. Long day
on the trail punchin' them doggies?"
Joachim coughs, once, in the small cloud
of dust he's managed to raise. "'Fraid not," he say in an easy slang,
slipping into a rhythm that, were it overheard by anyone outside the
two would seem eerily identical to the first man's speech pattern. "I
ain't had the pleasure of anything but...well..." He glances around
the bar almost sheepishly before shrugging it off. "Running my
lily-white ass outta Dodge, ya might say."
Scordus grins, glancing around, "Being
followed? Haven't shot anyone in a while. I could use the
practice."
Joachim shakes his head with a sad
expression as he walks though the room towards you, long wispy hair
falling in his eyes a moment before he brushes it back with a
distracted gesture. "Not anymore I'm not. Not too handy with shooters
myself but..." He grins then and it's a wicked, almost skeletal thing
as he suggestively pats the bundle he's carrying. "There's other ways
to skin a calf."
Scordus eyes the bundle and then says,
hand trailing towards his sword, "And what's that there?"
Joachim's grin never fades, flickering
through the thin curtain of colorless hair as a white tiger might
pass silently through the late-summer grasslands. He reaches the bar
next to you and lays both hat and package onto its well-used surface;
the formers brim reaching out over both side in formidable width; the
latter settling onto the bar top with an odd collection of clanks and
semi-metallic slithers." The pale man looks you over assessingly.
"Now, you look like the type that might just be interested in what I
have. You do indeed."
Scordus moves to unsheathe his blade,
meaning to tap it on the package, no rush in his
movements.
If the albino man is alarmed by the
half-drawn blade he hides it well, raising a long-fingered hand in
gentle warding gesture. "No need of that friend. If fact, I might
just have something here you'll like better." He deftly pulls a
buckle free, one end of the wrapping slumping half open to reveal a
glint of metal and what looks like...bone? He reaches for the other
fastening, pausing momentarily to offer you a questioning look. His
gesturing hand moves outward and to the side of him, palm up in a
motion clearly indicating his lack of anything resembling a weapon or
if hidden, his inability to reach one before you could pull your own
blade free.
Scordus moves his blade in a motion that
will lead it to your throat, "Let's see what you got there,
'pardner'. Open it."
Joachim's grin fades, slipping into a
frown as his eyes narrow, watching the blade move with measured skill
to a point beneath his chin. "Now, now…no need to get hasty, we're
all civilized gentlemen here." He undoes the clasp without looking
and moves, slowly, to part the thick wrappings, spreading them over
an expanse of the bar. Afterwards he lays his hand, again carefully,
palm down on the countertop well away from his treasures.
Treasures. An odd word for the dusty
collection of paraphernalia that lies there. Jaggedly toothed metal
arcs; whip-like hooked rods in ivory; a rust-coated (at least it
looks like rust) set of long claws set onto a complex framework of
metal and leather; small dart-like feathered spikes, their ends
glistening with a sickly, slick yellow gleam; a plain looking
tarnished chain, possibly bronze, onto which is hung a pendent of
deepest blood red, glimmering hypnotically at its heart with a dull
light that seems to pulse with a life of it's own....
Scordus keeps the sword at your throat as
his attention is drawn towards the stone. He eyes it and then you. A
brief grin flickers on his face as he mouths the word 'Thanks'. He
then grabs the gem before you can react, clutching it tightly as his
head tilts back, mouth gaping with a silent scream as the gem bursts
into brilliant red beams between his fingers.
Joachim waits for the inevitable with a
casual air, brushing the hair out his eyes with an absent gesture as
the leering grin return to alight on his oddly skull-like features.
"Tsk tsk," he hisses, his tone no longer resembling the banter of a
moment ago but cold and venomous as winter storm winds. "No one likes
a thief you know...pardner." With a brief gesture of annoyance he
bats the blade from his throat, slapping it on the flat with a palm
but not watching its limp descent ground ward.
Scordus tumbles to the floor along with
his blade, the War spirit easily sliding into its new home as the
body that once housed it continues to twitch as it hits the
ground.
Joachim holds out a hand crooked in a
grasping gesture as the other's body slumps. The now brightly glowing
amulet pushes open the fingers that clench around it and drifts
upwards to settle into the pale man's grasp, the inner light of the
stone already fading. The broad-rimmed hat is swept off the bar and
secured on his pale head, long fingers adjusting the rim as the man
turns and makes his way towards the door unhurriedly with a brief
farewell gesture...apparently to the man still twitching on the
floor. As he passes from the room the odd assortment of 'treasures'
shimmers; hooks, blades, darts all fading into a collection of bent
twigs, sticks and small stones arrayed on a ragged piece of old
cloth...a child's treasure chest of precious nothings.