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Szethe L'tanshié


My Content
Jul 22 2016, 08:38 PM
It was a damp moonless night, the skies were overcast and this god forsaken place required some tender love and care. However that wasn't Szethe's job and though he rarely left his home, every once in a while he found it necessary as it meant he wouldn't drift too far from humanity. Not that he was ever human, it was just a saying. Now with the age of magic in full bloom, sword and sorcery left much to be desired. Yet he used this to do what he willed, superstition and the divine very much real. Licking his smooth lips under a shadowed dull green hood, his eyes peered around him at the half dilapidated grave stones and thick foliage. The damp just ushered in a light mist that made the place a little more eerie and yet it only allowed him to let his smile run wider.

Letting his legs vanish into the long grass and weeds, his rear covered by an overly ornate cross with the etching that Ulfric Iriksson who died gloriously in battle. The living always had a way of embellishing the truth, as Szethe doubted the man actually died gloriously. Glory was for the living, no matter what would-be believers sung. Settling down, covered in a wide cloak, his upper body covered lack leather that hid pieces of plate. The only visible weapons he had were numerous daggers strapped to his bracers and belts, a large pouch hidden upon his lower back to pay the messenger if all went well. From where he sat, it made him seem a little above average height. His sharp blue eyes staring at the most discrete entrances to the graveyard. Given how boring it was just to wait, he began to murmur to himself, almost in song as his voice drifted into an eloquent harmony.

"Hope for the wanting, Life for the needy..."
Feb 18 2015, 09:05 PM
It had been a while, though he had visited England a few times every once in a while, he had never returned to actually open his Shop. Perhaps the first time in decades, the place was watched over and taken care of, but the silent helpers never switched on the mechanical sign. Still made from clockwork and hydraulics from centuries past, so when he arrived in the dead of night in his modified wheelchair the day before, he entered and went about preparing the first time in a long time for the debut of the nameless chronicle store.

The building looked like an old decrepit warehouse without windows, a sign cranking out from behind a hidden compartment above heavy double doors, though they were wooden. What lay behind them were rungs of metal and bindings that entered the very walls. Dark masonry lay beyond lined with tapestries depicting acts of alchemy and medicine along with other arts long dead. Waiting at the end of the first corridor lay a set of double doors made from wrought iron, fashioned to have the appearance of a grand gate to a royal garden though solidified and opaque in form.

Beyond those doors lay a large darkened room. At the halfway point a large ebon wood counter top spanned the entire length of the room. Below the counter lay bottles, vials that remained unmarked as well as tomes, books and scrolls. Other devices held fancy as well, trinkets of gold, brass and clockwork, strange effigies of power as well as the unknown lay side by side other works of art. Then, behind the counter, was utter darkness and a single lantern that gave off barely enough light to mark the length of the counter. Two discrete, yet solid looking doors lead from the boxed trading area in the corners of the room.

Though the night was the next, he knew that the local populace would hear of his arrival in the city. Some watched his London home very intently indeed, as it was one of the many ways to find him outside of his shelter in the deserts of America. Everything was set and there he stood, his arachnid legs clinging to the wall behind the counter, a sheer drop that was hidden by darkness. The corners and the room, entirely covered in cobwebs unseen and untouched by the light. Wearing a royal purple vest with deep satin trim, white shirt and styled hair that hid his pointed ears, he lay in wait for his first customer in years at this little hidden store of wonders.
Jan 4 2015, 09:45 PM
It had been far too long since he had come out of his nest, his impenetrable hive in the middle of the desert. So where was he now, well, the only place where he could be himself, air dropped from a refurbished Concorde. True, the machines were interesting and had the off chance of exploding due to the nitrous-oxide used to propel it's speeds faster than most aircraft's. The risk was worth it, not that he would die if it were to explode, though even he would be highly perturbed and would require a while to recuperate. The things were officially taken out of service for a reason, but he was the type of take something old and make it something new.

The place he was being dropped was the Congo, deep toward the north west jungle. Though it was only a few dozen miles away from civilization as it were. Through such dense canopy, wooded area and foliage, it might as well have been the trek of a lifetime. Under the cover of night, the crack of the engine droning, as Szethe pressed the button that would pull the ground beneath his feet, all he had was a tac-vest and a couple of survival tools, nothing else. They say that monsters lurked in the jungles here, though there were tribal's that he needed to meet, because those same people bred soldiers for his cause.

To survive in a place like this, one had to be as hard as the monsters about or have enough bullets to survive the nights, where both men and women disappear, and are never heard from again. Szethe barreled downward, flipping, his rear spreading web about his legs, as he began to tie his armored carapace to dozens of trees on his descent. Slowing his fall to the point where it was almost comical to step onto the luscious foliage beneath him. He could hear the creatures, insects and even the wild make a double take when he arrived. Taking a deep breath, his white teeth against the darkness created by the canopy he had crashed through, wishing to say that he was home, but home was a lot worse than this.

Szethe set out northbound to find a stream, if he followed that, he would find the village that he sought. True that in recent years more and more people had arrived to film or take note of such tribes that he worked with. Sooner or later, they would also realize that they were armed with weapons that couldn't possibly be bought nearby, though if they had listened to Szethe, it would all be fine. If his organization had done it's job, it would only be an urban legend and nothing more, so he relaxed a little, his large pointed legs trampling and crushing anything in his path as he began to march forward. Not jumping the distance, as to alert anyone watching after that aircraft had passed over occupied airspace.
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