[Ransom]

OOC: I'm here! No RP yet, but I'm here! Hope this is ok. [img]smilies/biggrin.gif[/img]

BIC:
Ransom Deviolana was shivered as he pulled his cloak tighter around his body. This was only natural, considering both the dreary weather and the fact that the man had a cold. His long black hair was damp with resperation, despite the fact that Ransom had removed his healm. Both dark black eyes peered into the wind, seeking any sign of his destination. As he approached the inn, he let loose an enormous sneeze that would have sent any ambushing orc running back to their mothers in Mordor. His mount, a black warhorse named Sandor, shifted expectedly. They’d traveled for many a lonely league, and the horse was looking forward to a long hiatus from his responsibilities.

Eschewing the assistance of the stable boy, Ransom fed and watered his horse by himself. She was worth a nice chunk of money, and her master didn’t want to see the horse dying from some accursed illness because of an accidental slip up. Three sneezes, two coughs, and half a dozen sniffles later, Sandor happily munched hay within her stall while Ransom paid the stable attendant to keep watch over the horse, slipping the boy a steady tip to ensure the animal’s good care as well as his baggage’s safety.

The man made his way through the weather to the inn, only the dull and silent clink of metal under his cloak giving his position away. He glanced up at the signpost and smiled. If half the rumors were true, this place was the best place for a world-weary traveler. Even one with a bad cold. Ransom pushed gently against the door, slipping in to the common room. One of the staff made his way toward the man before speaking in . “Greetings, good traveler. I’ll take your cloak, if you don’t mind. May I remind you that arms are not permitted upon your body under the roof of Master Rimbaud.”

Ransom coughed, a bit taken back by the server. They seemed like automations, and somewhat less than alive. However, their requests didn’t faze the soldier. Ransom’s employers often made much stranger demand upon their guards. He removed the cloak, revealing a dark black suit of chain mail with several blue plates of steel forming the breast plate, shoulder plates, greaves, and even the gauntlets upon the hands now moving to unclip the webbing that secured his shield to his back. Ransom smiled at the server before suggesting, “Well now, you’d best lead me to your armory, sir. I’ve got quite a bit more than you can carry at one time.”

It took but a moment for the gray figure to point the man toward a series of heavy iron chests in a small room to the right of the common room. Here, Ransom unstrapped his various webbings and laid the large shield on the bottom of the chest. A ornate scabbard containing an even more ornate long sword found itself on top of the shield, rapidly followed by half a dozen throwing knives. Ransom pause for a moment before reaching underneath various places in his armors, adding another six hidden blades and a multitude of needles into the chest. Seeing that the man had surrendered his arms, the servant locked the iron chest with a key and handed it to Ransom. “I trust that you’ll be wanting to ensure your property’s safety. Rest assured that not even us touch your gear.”

With that, the servant seemed to leave, melding into the woodwork. Ransom seemed somewhat taken back, but quickly got over the shock. After all, if the owner of said fine establishment saw fit to keep a barrow wight around to tell tales, he could deal with unusually stealthy servants. The soldier walked back into the common room and found a nice seat in front of the roaring fire. The room seemed almost too clean and too sparse for the man who was used to guarding the plush quarters of the rich and standing watch over the stone cold but truly beautiful White Tower. He noted with some interest the plaque above the fireplace, though he preferred to warm himself in front of the fire before satiating his curiosity.

Presently, his cold receded for a bit, allowing him the freedom to seek a bowl of warm soup and perhaps a little bit of bread. Ransom doubted that his stomach was ready for the trials of a full meal of meat, though he didn’t doubt that he’d enjoy it. He stood and stretched, listening happily to the clink of his metal cocoon. Master Rimbaud of the Seventh Star was not hard to find, mainly because of the little blue sash that he wore and the fact that he didn’t disappear into the woodwork like the rest of his staff. Ransom approached him found a seat at the nearest table, waiting for the Master of the inn to have some time to spare for a patron. The sneezes and the coughs did help in this respect, though Ransom didn't intend to be rude. It was all the fault of that accursed storm outside....

[ November 20, 2002: Message edited by: Ransom ]

[ November 20, 2002: Message edited by: Ransom ]

[ November 20, 2002: Message edited by: Ransom ]