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Post by Malice MacArran on Feb 11, 2012 15:27:26 GMT -6
 Malice, the heartless, cold ex-gypsy, sat attentively behind a tree, her figure concealed by its great size. This wasn't a particularly difficult skill to master, seeing without being seen, and one that Malice had taken to quickly once she'd started her new... trade. It was that of avenging her virginity, by (somewhat ironically) taking up the trade that had ruined her. She was going after men, no exceptions, and there were no rules that bound her to abiding. It wasn't honestly a difficult trade. The trick came in timing and concealment, and not getting caught.
After all, this was a criminal offense. Likely it would lead to a hanging, if she were to be found by, say, a nobleman. Her task was easy: steal what she could, and never let a man know her name, or her face- if she could help it.
With abated breath, she stared around the tree trunk into the way of the path. She was just upon the edge of the forest, not submerged well, and in just the right place to lurch out in front of any manner of man and rob him of the very things that made him noble. Of course, this wasn't always the way. Sometimes, she preferred to wander out, appearing a lost damsel, and seduce the man before stealing everything he'd with him.
It didn't matter to Malice what men she stole from. She was a highwayman, and a unique one at that, for most were men who killed many victims and raped any women they came across. Malice knew that all too well. It was ironic, for it was the very trade that she hated that she'd come to take up herself, because it was the only way she knew to avenge what had happened. And as she watched and waited, Malice hummed a song to herself, one that her mother had sung when she was younger and still a gypsy. Sometimes, Malice thought she missed them- and then she remembered the rituals and the outright abominating things that men did to women. As for Malice, she would never be used again. She had vowed it.
For the slightest of moments, Malice remembered just a year ago, when she'd still been with the band. Something in her chest ached at the rememberance and she coughed slightly to displace it. One thing Malice didn't like was love, and she refused to believe it existed, even if that meant lying to herself about the people she'd once considered family. It wasn't love, just trust, she would think. Love was a material thing. It was the same as lust. And clearly, she'd have no more of that.
Her eyes moved suddenly back into the present. Someone was coming down the road. Shiv in her boots and pistol under her dress, Malice made herself ready to move, careful to stay behind the tree.
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Post by Drustan mac Tiernan on Feb 29, 2012 22:31:15 GMT -6
Drustan mac Tiernan rode in the saddle with confidence; in fact, so much so that he liked to think that no one would ever dare threaten him. Even if that somehow happened, then Drustan knew that he was more than capable of defending himself as well. You see, there was no such thing as . . . well, being over confident in his eyes. Drustan had years of experience under his belt, and more than a dozen notches in that same belt. He was a highwayman. He robbed people blind, with a smile, a quick shake of the hand, and with his sweet, charming demeanor. He knew how to play people to the point that he liked to call himself an artist when it came to it, for it did require skill; after all, no one could just wake up one day and decide they would start robbing people . . . right?
The funny thing about that was that he had done that. He had awakened one morning and thought to himself that he would get back at the world. That he would start to rob men, women, caravans, and thensome, upon the road for their valuables. He thought that he could support himself, his mother, and the other unfortunates he had grown up with and banded together with - his boys. They were all the same in a way albeit none could claim noble blood as he could, although he wouldn't go about saying he was proud of it, at least at times; after all, his father was nothing to be excited over.
He had been full of hope when he had made the venture to meet his father. He had thought that he would be welcomed with open arms, taken in, and taught. What he had received was the cold, harsh reality of life. His father had dismissed him, denied him any semblance of his birthright, and sent him on his way with the threat that he'd be flayed if he showed his face on his land again. Since then, Drustan had robbed several men upon that land, and he had claimed the mac Tiernan surname, venturing from one city to the other without shame or care about what his father would think.
It had it's perks, at least somewhat. People were more willing to trust a man who could claim noble blood, although he didn't know why. It didn't mean his blood was any richer than the next man, but if it would make them more trusting . . . well, then, that made his work far more easier to say the very least. Then there were those amusing moments when he did meet with other nobility, and sometimes even caroused with them. More often than not they were surprised by his charisma, and especially moreso by the way he dressed, because he dressed like someone above his station.
He wore a thick cloak that shielded him from the dust that was kicked up by his mount, and his clothing was of rich, deep earthy tones. He wore two rings, both of a solid, attractive gold that would have caught anyone's eye. One was embedded with an amber stone, while the other held a sapphire that echoed the shade of his eyes. The panniers upon his saddle were laden, and the noise they made with each motion would have been enticing to any highwayman. All the while he rode without a care in the world, and he took a thoughtful bite out of an apple whilst he kept one hand tangled in the reins as he ventured along the bend in the road, and close to a tree . . .
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Post by Malice MacArran on Mar 1, 2012 21:57:32 GMT -6
Blood. Sweat. Tears.
These were the reasons Malice hadn't already hung or poisoned or shot herself. She'd reason enough to end her life, and she had for quite some time now, seeing as she'd lived through the horrors of living in a society where her morals didn't belong, and seeing the sex rituals of unclean people. There might have been good things in that life, but those were outweighed by the scars that her former gypsy band had left on her. Still, she carried the air of the culture with her, for it was a part of her that she could never erase.
Blood. Her heritage. The blood of the MacArran, of whom she was the daughter, even if he did not acknowledge it. One day, perhaps she'd claim her kinship. If she ever needed to belong again.
Sweat. Her quest. She would avenge her celibacy if it killed her, and that was the reason she was now a highwayman. She'd find that man one day. And she'd know him by the scar she'd given him.
Tears. Her secret. That damned secret. She never emotionally recovered from the man. He'd done something to her inside, and she didn't know what it was. But when he left, her heart had burned and her eyes swelled.
A man was approaching fast. By the pale cast of the moonlight, Malice caught a glimpse of a man bearing jewels. Many jewels. He ambled along, seemingly uncaring, and Malice was almost suspicious of this. Perhaps, instead of an outright attack on this brute, she should use seduction. This method of hers had labelled her a siren, a faerie, a nymph-- the people who'd experienced it, at least, the ones who survived, had spread legends of the one that dwelled in the woods, as though she were a magical creature. She smiled at the thought, priding herself in her ways.
Or she could come right out and go through the usual Stand-and-Deliver tactics. But for a man on such a horse, that might not be so simple. This man seemed more noble than most that passed through, and his steed was strong, as was his wealth. Perhaps slower methods would win this one. Coaches, maybe not, but this was different.
Malice stood up smoothly and made a choice. She was going to seduce this time.
She emerged from a tree with speed and stealth, as though running from something. Malice stopped herself before the man and (falsely) panted, "Sorry, sir! So sorry! I was..." she slowed her speech and stopped her gaze as it fell upon his face. "Oh, good sir forgive me. I do not recall what 'tis I was running from." She smiled at him naughtily, shifting slightly to check that her pistol was still within her quick reach.
 STATUS complete TAG Drustan ATTIRE Gypsy Stealth
LYRICS False, False; Cara Dillon NOTES is that alright, the scar? I thought it might make good sense for this, instead of, say, a smell.
COPYRIGHT Flik of Roleplaying Extras |
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Post by Drustan mac Tiernan on Mar 7, 2012 21:59:21 GMT -6
If it had been a man that had suddenly appeared, Drustan would have run them through without a second thought, or at the very least kept his distance. However, this was a woman, and not just any woman, but perhaps one of the most prettiest things he had ever laid his eyes upon. He had to own that thinking with his cock wasn't the smartest of things he had ever done, but he had a thing for damsels in distress. So, moving his hand from the hilt of his blade, and to his mouth where he managed to keep his apple in place, he took a bite and lowered it, chewing as she spoke.
"Oh?" Drustan asked.
He looked suspicious now, although for good reason. He was certain that if she were running from anything that was substantial then she wouldn't have forgotten it. That, and Drustan had dealt with his fair of swindling women in his, but again, she was pretty. It was enough to make him second think himself, and at the very least give her a chance by hearing her out than straight ignoring her and moving on with his life.
"What's a pretty flower like yourself doing way out here?" He asked suddenly, testing her. If she had a good answer . . . well, then, mayhap he'd risk it and give her a ride. If she didn't . . . well, mayhap he would still give her a ride and see if he could get between her thighs before she got a knife to his throat. There were many possibilities, although not all of them ended well, and again, he blamed the thing that he thought with first at times.
Drustan took another bite of his apple as he watched her. He attempted to read her, and to weigh the consequences along with the potential to be had. He played a thousand and one different scenarios in his mind, and he knew that if she did turn out dangerous, that he could handle himself. He had survived thus far in his life because he was clever, charming and deadly. He wouldn't roll, belly up, for some stray, and he wouldn't be caught off guard either. He simply refused to be!
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Post by Malice MacArran on Mar 8, 2012 21:33:27 GMT -6
Malice's tactics had only failed her once, though it could be argued that the once didn't count, as she wasn't a highwayman at the time, just a gypsy. She knew what these men wanted of her, and she played them as though she'd give it to them-which was a lie. After all, a raping had caused her to be this way. She'd not have another. And so, Malice played her little game, luring in men. Sometimes they ended up dead, sometimes not. It was all just a part of Malice's malicious game.
Something in this man's curious expression, though, told her that he wasn't yet sure of what was going on, almost as if he were a shady figure himself. But Malice was counting on that she had taken him by surprise and any mistrusts he had would soon give way to that lust that all men seemed to possess bountifully.
She liked his voice; that was the first thing she noticed. But of course, it was all in relation to the game she was playing- she would never allow herself to be actually attracted to a man, and especially not when she was roving for an attack. But she could use this easily as a compliment, a lure. She looked on him for more and saw so much more to comment on. Oh, how strong! Oh, how tall! Oh, how devilishly handsome! Ha. She'd have him soon, she was confident. And when he inquired, she quipped back an answer easily.
"Why, good man, I was being followed by some beast, which I do not recognize. I'm but a gypsy, sir." She batted her eyelashes and moved a few steps closer, slowly closing the gap between her and this target of hers. He was actually rather attractive. But Malice knew not to count that as a good thing.
She smiled with a greedy lust that she didn't really possess. But it was naughty in its own right, and Malice called to memory some things she'd learned as a gypsy. Things of men. "Fine horse you have. Must be a good ride." She spoke suggestively. Her lavacious smile grew a little more. "Pray tell, sir, your name?" Malice wanted to have this one at gunpoint, for it appeared he had lots with him as he travelled. This would be a good catch, should she succeed.
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