Hang Me Oh Hang Me
Attraes Le Deux
Bard

Age: 47 | Height: 6' 0 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship:
Level: 0 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 10 - Endr: 10 - Luck: 5 - Int:
Played by: Andy Offline
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Posts: 13 | Total: 1,197
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#1
Attraes
Evil is powerless if the good are unafraid

It had been nearly a week since Attraes had arrived in this strange world. While there was still so much alien to him, there were other comforts that reminded him of home.

The first and most important being, music. Music transcended all barriers and portals and offered a universal connection. It was this knowledge that allowed The Bard to accustome himself to his new neighbors rather seamlessly.

On this particularly sunny afternoon, sitting on a stool in the active streets of the residential district, Attraes perched himself. Guitar cradled in his arms as he strummed gently, expertly weaving his fingers through the strings.

Hang me, oh hand me
I'll be dead and gone
Hang me, oh hang me
I'll be dead and gone
Wouldn't mind the hanging
But the layin' in a grave so long, poor boy

I been all around this world

I been all 'round cape Gigardeau
Parts of Misthalyn
All around cape Giradeau
Parts of Misthalyn
Got so gods damn hungry
I could hide behind a straw, poor boy

I been all around this world

Went up on a mountain
There i made my stand
Went up on a mountain
There i made my stand
Crossbow on my shoulder
And a dagger in my hand, poor boy

I been all around this world

So hang me, oh hang me
I'll be dead and gone
Hang me, oh hang me
And i'll be dead and gone
I wouldn't mind the hanging
But the layin' in a grave so long, poor boy

I been all around this world

Put the rope around my neck
And hung me up so high
Put the rope around my neck
Hung me up so high
Last words i heard 'em say
Won't be long now for you die, poor boy

I been all around this world

So hang me, oh hang men
I'll be dead and gone
Hang me, oh hang me
I'll be dead and gone
I wouldn't mind the hanging
But the layin' in a grave, poor boy
I been all around this world


The somber tune flowed effortlessly through the smooth tones of his voice. Eyes closed as he felt his way through every note.

Melita
Melita Najya
the Honeybee


Age: 26 | Height: 5'6" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Torchline
Level: 10 - Strg: 57 - Dext: 58 - Endr: 58 - Luck: 57 - Int: 1
FANGORN - Mythical - Vampire Gourd SILA - Mythical - Dragon (Fire Breath)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 2,913 | Total: 10,648
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#2
 
M E L I T A


Melita was drawn from the embers and coals, pluck, might, and spirit sketched in her veins, outlined in her steps. She was a flare of phoenix fire, a piece of the wilderness lost and left behind, emboldened and broadening out of pure resolve and determination, vigor and refinement in the savagery of survival. The girl should’ve been a broken bird, wings cracked and frayed, feathers lost in the flare of life – but she was mightier, tougher, persistent, sculpted and carved from perseverance and valor. Her heart set upon moments and matters, and she stuck to them, inch by inch, nerve by nerve, cut her teeth on tenacity, wore her armor in ruin and redemption. Perhaps it was too much boldness amidst the melancholy, twisting and turning her misery into some potent dauntlessness, where she dared, where she howled, where she roared back into heavens and hell, grasping and clenching at the last few elements that would have her. They fizzled and tore, and she promised, pledged, vowed, and assured, and each movement, each motion, held those frenetic strands, ardent and passionate, barbarian grace in fledgling upheaval, born in the desert sands and sent to devastation. Sometimes she wondered if she’d deserved it – beatific blessings ripped from her hands, failure after failure, because she failed to yield when the world said to bow, because she rarely fell to her knees and prayed for forgiveness, because she carved and forged her own path, and rarely listened to the greater omens, the harsher truths. Melita could paint the world in the echo of her losses, in the spells of her tirades, in the unrelenting force of her ferocity, desperate to claim everything as hers, struggling to hold onto the pieces and portions she’d always had. You lost the realms, the kingdoms, the sovereigns seemed to bellow, screeched, and screamed, but she’d glance their way and spit some audacious splendor, some emboldened discord – and here she remained.

Her gilded gaze caught sight of settlements and sanctuaries, and her heart leapt at the notion. Perhaps there were more of her friends, her family, lurking amidst the fallen columns and newly-formed buildings; the hope blossomed in her chest, in her soul, and her senses bounded in earnest. The youth thought about flowers, about petal-soft scents, about gardens drifting in amongst overwhelming gardens, beatific, golden, intangible in the morning’s radiant light – Clementine stopping everything to sit amidst the butterflies and bumblebees. So she traced those foundations, anticipation pulsing along her motions, aware that she looked half-wild, half-feral, in leaping bounds and cherished dreams; pondering if her sister, if her twin, would’ve fallen here too, and they could be reunited, finally amongst the same sun, the same stars, the same moon. While the honeybee girl had always drifted in amongst the shadows and doom, insurrection on her tongue, sedition on her smile, Clementine had been the gentle breeze, the easygoing wind, the peaceful, blissful tide. She would’ve gone to sanctums and havens, sought out a refuge to weather the storm – Melita bent and broke and hissed before wandering into the villa, poised to strike, to melee, to brawl, to survive.

It was not to be. The longing perished on the stretch of alleyways, on the enigmatic incline of cold streets, on the dusky, hollowed contortions of houses and lots. Her stare settled on broken windows and fallen glass, on the haphazard discord brimming below the surface. Clem wouldn’t have been here: she would’ve stretched her wings along the fields at the first sign of discontent, tender and wholesome, flying on the ether, on the whims, fairy qualities and ethereal bounties. Melita sighed, brushed some of her curls aside, and tucked her long shawl back up over her shoulders. Maybe she should’ve checked the fields beforehand; but even they had their drawbacks, and it gave her a sense of apprehension. What if her sister wasn’t here? What if she had been taken, snatched, and stolen into some violent terrain? What if she never got out of the Rift? What if they never saw each other again?

She swallowed down the choking, suffocating nuances, pushed them down, down, down, into her ribs, into her lungs, and set along further down the street, jaw clenched, chin stuck out, determination set neatly back into place. She wouldn’t fall apart here, not now, not after everything they’d gone through. Everything would be all right; she would make sure of it. It was a vow. It was a promise.

But the elements had an intriguing way of distracting her; catching her along the canals and roads, ensuring she drifted closer and closer across the cobblestones. It was music – a little melancholy, enriched by mournful, solemn edges, and her ears were still entranced by it, inching along the borders of walls, between corners and hostels, before she found the bard settled amidst the courtyard. Tunes and melodies had been a part of her life in the early days; her mother’s hums and hymns had always been beautiful, songs of intrepid Amazons or doomed sirens, gods inhabiting the earth, hallelujahs sprung from nature and enchantment. This one didn’t have the same harmony – it was bleak rather than blissful, but soulful all the same; and despite having no singular talent in the same regard, she’d been blessed by the musing, by the talent, of the man echoing upon the boulevard. Melita should’ve been a bit uncertain in her approach, but the girl had never let fear rattle her bones, chill her spine, or fill her core, weaving her way through crowds and stones, smiling, despite the somber refrains. “You have too much talent to be gone,” she uttered, all radiant sunshine and appreciation, head tilted in quiet perusal, careful study, eyes ghosting on the guitar and its strings. Had she any coin to her name she would’ve tossed him one for capability, flair, and art alone. “Where did you learn to play?”





Attraes Le Deux
Bard

Age: 47 | Height: 6' 0 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship:
Level: 0 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 10 - Endr: 10 - Luck: 5 - Int:
Played by: Andy Offline
Change author:
Posts: 13 | Total: 1,197
MP: 0
#3
Attraes
Evil is powerless if the good are unafraid

Broken from the comforts of the song by a petite voice, Attraes opened his eyes and glanced at the young lady addressing him.

He strummed aimlessly, just a tune for the sake of tune as a dimpled smile pierced the corner of his lips.

"Far too kind..."

He replied, leaning back against the wall behind him, legs crossing as he held the guitar loosely in his hands.

"As a child I found socializing with others to be...laborious. I was deathly shy, barely uttered a word."

He reflected with a soft chuckle.

"Music gave me an outlet. Allowed me to disregard my social anxieties and focus on the notes and chords before me. So...so I practiced, tirelessly. The more I became comfortable with my talent, the more comfortable I became with myself."

Attraes continued to strum as he looked over Melita .

"Attraes Le Deux, charmed, Miss..."
Melita Najya
the Honeybee


Age: 26 | Height: 5'6" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Torchline
Level: 10 - Strg: 57 - Dext: 58 - Endr: 58 - Luck: 57 - Int: 1
FANGORN - Mythical - Vampire Gourd SILA - Mythical - Dragon (Fire Breath)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 2,913 | Total: 10,648
MP: 9824
#4
 
M E L I T A


The honeybee child had always appreciated stories of triumph, methods of fortitude, and measures of the tenacious finding their way home; her attention was riveted, stare held as she envisioned pathways of before and after. She crouched down, outer folds of her dress slipping down to the street floor, already tattered, already stained, already touched and maimed by the power of the elements. The girl didn’t bother to care, as wild as the rest of the fiendish world, and continued smiling, listening to the ways the man had encompassed and embodied music into his being. It was intriguing – for she had always been the earnest type, exuberant, bold, capable of striving towards any endeavor, adventure, or crusade the kingdoms, both lost and brutal, had thrust upon her. She’d growled and howled, but also laughed, loved, cherished without any hesitation or apprehension. Strangers steadily became allies, allies became friends, and friends became irreplaceable, beatific beacons. Perhaps this was why she’d never truly become adept to any one thing – too embroiled in a thousand other venues and ventures, everything was roughly-hewn and patched together by determination; she could probably be fully capable at a great many talents, had she any patience left in those impulsive, fey whims. “And look at you now!” She proclaimed, wide smile continuing to captivate her features, tilting her head ever so slightly to stare more at the guitar, at the strings, furrowing her brow only slightly in musing, bewitching nuances, thoughts, and scales. “Music is a wonderful thing to express. My mother and sister could both sing.”

The melodies had always been rich and gentle, serene and tranquil, a lullaby on the wind, or a legend coated in awe and enigmas. Her mother’s had been especially beautiful, rhapsody on the skyline, in the depths of dragon calls, in the swirl of myths, in the siren squalls, in the illustrious thunder against mottled tombs. Clementine’s had been joy in the fields, enchanting butterflies and the morning dew, radiating sunshine and lace, petals and honeysuckle, the warm breeze, and the pitter-patter of a spring shower. Melita’s had been a bark of laughter, a roar, a howl, a seething lament tearing through ash, soot, and ruin. She could never quite compare.

“I’m Melita. Pleased to meet you and your talents, Attraes Le Deux.” The tones were gentle, light, as ethereal as the girl could possibly be (eternally a cross between ferocity and credence), and she offered her hand, cuts, bruises, scars, and all.






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