#brynn.eterna

[rykardthebarbarian]

For: @hiddenbrynn Where: Eterna back alleys near Tiber Bay When: Post Neptunalia

When he noticed the scarab charm that hung around the mercenary's throat, Rykard knew that man had to die. A Sandstorm Raider, far from his homeland, still hanging around Lysara after the conclusion of the festival. The hardest part was not immediately smashing the man's skull into the wooden counter of the dingy dive bar they were in, the Barbarian's hands shook with anticipation. He glared daggers at the man from his dimly lit table at the back of the bar, silently hoping that he would choke on the cheap ale he was guzzling. After what seemed like an eternity, the Sandstorm Raider paid his tab and exited the establishment. Rykard waited a bit before following him out to not make what he was about to do so obvious. Besides, he now had his scent. The Beast would hunt his quarry to the ends of the Earth if need be.

They collided in an alleyway, no words exchanged other than the startled yelp the Raider let out when Rykard slammed him into the wall. Rykard then began punching him in the face, rapid blows that hit with enough force to bounce his head back against the wall and back to Rykard's fist like a fucking punching bag. He did not stop hitting him until long after the man's heart stopped beating.

The hulking form of the berserker stood over the mangled corpse of the fallen mercenary, fresh blood dripping down Rykard's fingertips. The Raider's face was unrecognizable—a caved in, hemic pulp. He ripped the charm off of the body, able to study it more carefully now that it's owner was dead. The scarab was a tarnished green color, signifying the man's low rank within the faction. A deep dissatisfied growl rumbled in his chest as his fingers squeezed around the soft metal, crumbling the beetle into a ball in his fist. It did not matter that the man he just murdered was just some grunt, he would kill every Sandstorm Raider one by one if he had to. Yet he knew that even if he were to stack these bodies high enough to climb to the heavens themselves, it would never be enough. His friends weren't coming back.

The distinct scent of magic filled his nose and he looked up from his latest trophy, but did not see anyone there. Yet he felt the presence of another, hairs on the back of his neck rising as he lingered within someone's gaze. The werewolf had been acclimatizing to the grimy underbelly of Eterna for the past few weeks, it was highly likely that whoever was there with him would not turn their nose up to a bribe. It was worth a shot. "Help me make this guy disappear and you can have whatever's in his pockets," He callously kicked the corpse, hard enough to rustle together the sack of coins hiding in his pocket.

[alrikhart]

@hiddenbrynn location: Brewed Awakening notes: m said this was meant to be a coffee place and I made it a mead place so love me despite my many flaws

Homesickness had plagued him since they'd landed in Lysara. Eterna, in so many ways, reminded him of Yggdrasildal. Shit still landed in the sewers wherever you went. Alrik's view of the nation as a whole was biased from the start - a boy obsessed with stories had heard countless tales of the violence of the Olympians and the cruelty of the Game that Lysarans played.

He'd been given a coin when he arrived here, now a man was dead, and Alrik had taken some measure of comfort in looking down at the noble's swollen throat, and the blood as it seeped from the corners of his eyes.

"Rare to see Iskaran anything around here." Alrik pointed out as he looked at the bottles of mead that lined the walls, mouth practically salivating at the thought of drowning himself with them. "Except for the refugees," accent thick, he appraised the other and tried to ascertain what he could from their body language. Their candor, their tone - a fellow refugee? Maybe? He hadn't seen them on the road... so maybe from before?