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Post by loveboxer123 on Nov 11, 2018 6:38:41 GMT -6
Oh lawrd he comin a private rp between Boris and Manual. Set about a week or so after Chapter 6, Inaria, the docks |
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Post by loveboxer123 on Nov 11, 2018 6:55:05 GMT -6
 Boris;Talori | Briem Emissary
“Honestly, if you were any slower, you'd be going backward.”
Everything was stupid. Boris didn't want to come home. He had been hard at work with the officials of the herd, the Kings Guides, the Royal Overseers, to pull together an alliance to forge against Aodh and War Forged. Even if he would have preferred to have never gotten involved at all. But then, he wouldn't be here. A pegasus, wings intact, in high government. The only one he could think of otherwise was Faris, the Conparis, but he didnt count. He wasn't born of Talori, didn't experience it. How stifling it was.
Speaking of stifling, this boat sucked. Boris stared down at the docks, opening his wings as the crew docked the ship. He wasn't about to fly off the dock, but instead was showing off, stretching his primaries to the sun high above. Boris's wide grin was keen on this task. Murmurs spread through the crowds below, mostly grumbles. Boris eventually grew tired of doing such a thing, folding his green and blue appendages back against his sides.
The emissary backed off the guard rail, content to let the crew finish their jobs. Then he could hop on off, and go prancing to Delphine. His mother had written to him that she would be picking him up. And the sooty palomino pegasus couldn't be happier. His mother was a lovely soul, even if she hadn't been the best parent. No matter.
The gangplank dropped with a thunderous boom, as Boris lead the procession off the ship, his crew scattering around him. The pegasus slipped into the crowds, opening his mouth to call for his mother, when he spotted him. The dappled coat, large stature, little scar where Boris had thrown a hairbrush at him.
Manual.
"What are you doing here old man? Got lost?" Boris spat, ears flattened to his head as he raised his wings, nostrils flared.
WC: 311| Post #1 |
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Post by Blubber-Bun on Nov 11, 2018 12:35:17 GMT -6
Manual Gargantuan hooves, all polished ebony and an even shinier gilded fake, drummed idly at the putrefied wood of the dock. The brine of it stuck to his soles; he breathed it with each flare, smelled it on the hides of the sailors and travelers who clogged about, could feel it in the gentle lull of the lapping water below. Yet, those hooves did not sway, nor did they move to avoid the masses, rest assured that the surrounding feet - whether attributed to his significant size or title as a newly-christened councilor - would give him wide berth. Keenly he observed the hustle and bustle of a congestion now spilling from the hull of a ship.
A notice had arrived earlier that day, curt and with all the formality of someone unwilling to acknowledge a prior relationship, nor intimacy if there had been any to begin with. His ex-wife’s letter concerned the matter of their son’s return to Talorian turf, after he’d been off delegating on foreign soil.
It was not hard to spot him; his wings were a loud color, garish bottle-green within a sea of tanned bays and salt-sprayed monochromes. He had seen him, too - recognition made evident by how the young man’s face drew in displeasure, clear eyes furrowed behind clearer spectacles. His son's tongue curled with immediate insult. Manual hadn't expected much better, exhaling heavy exasperation before receiving the emissary in a clean white smile. "Always a joker, Boris. I hope the Breimians enjoyed your... humor as much as I do."
Boris's blatant immaturity was a matter to be discussed at a later time, once ushered away from the prying eyes of the public. It was a spotlight he was ever conscious of, a collective gaze he thought his son should take care to mind; even now, he felt the lingering stares. The questions, the bashful and the snide. A councilor in broad daylight, grimy docks and petulant son and all, could provide easy pickings for a desperate tabloid.
"Your mother was feeling sick today. Strep throat, something of the likes." Silvery teke reached forth as if to relieve Boris of the baggage he carried, but those tendrils merely formed a swash with which to gesture. A floral vendor shouted their wares from the cobblestone. "Perhaps you should buy her some flowers?"
Then, lowering his voice, " - it'd at least make you smell less like a sailor."
Manual - Talori - Council Member P 1 | WC 403 |
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Post by loveboxer123 on Dec 8, 2018 19:44:17 GMT -6
Boris;Talori | Briem Emissary
“Honestly, if you were any slower, you'd be going backward.”
Boris kept his hooves rooted to the dock. Wood creaked around him as he put on his best smile he could muster, more of him baring his teeth.
“Bet you know what that smells like you old geezer” He hissed, acid on his tongue, as he quickly turned to the flower stand. He would buy his mother flowers, not because his father said so, but because she was his mom. The man he so despised just got lucky with her. He knew eyes were focused on his palomino hide, but he merely ruffled his feathers arrogantly, swinging his head to the flowers.
His freshly healed wounds from the collapse of Nariah's rock ceilings still stung and itched, despite the best efforts of the staff. He shivered to remember it, a spectral blue tendril of his telekinesis scratching at the scab still located on his shoulder, right beside his beloved wing. He shook his mane out of his eyes, grabbing a bouquet with a nod to the seller, passing over a few shards to pay for such a thing.
He plodded back over to Manual, ears still pinned, now holding his flowers. He stared at his father, taller than his own lanky form, but the defiance still raged in the blue eyes of the emissary. He looked almost as if he were about to say something snappy, before he sighed, kicking a rock instead. He could be at least civil.
“Have you gotten word of what happened to Juniper?” His volatile sister, who made his stomach turn a bit.
Boris had never been the type for violence.
WC: 270| Post #2 |
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