Name: Nym
Gender: Male
Race: Drow
Age: Few centuries older than the avarage berk in the bazaar.
Professions: Planewalker, Bloodcrow, Jinker, Cross-trader, Crow Feeder... and the list goes on.
Class Build: Ranger 13 /// ELC 2.
The name goes as Nym, berk.
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*Lost and not Found
- Posts: 497
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
/// The posts below offer nothing worth to metagame, or read...
The drow stared at the lights of the city above in a foolish attempt of his to count all the little dangling torchlights and lanters that formed the "night sky" of the Cage.
The street below his feet lay still, it had certainly quieted down since his last visit to the Cage. The obvious reason for this was that the once popular inn had burned down. He could smell thelingering scent of burned wood, cracked stone, and brimstone oozing from the lone ruined inn. There are worse scents to be found in the planes, and it provided him a welcome change to the sweat and other putrid bodily odours the local primes and planar alike, soaked in.
It was his nose that first cought the Harmonium patrol of two strodding down clinking and clanking in their armor, with the unision of rythm from their boot heels against the cobblestones. The drow's nose was turned up in disgust, with his brainbox forgetting the which lights he had already counted.
As the patrol came closer, the drow did his little trick of shadows, and tripped one of the patrol members with his wooden staff. The Hardhead tumbled on the ground, catching a ratatosk on his face, while the drow took a quick turn to the left and hid himself amongs the shadows.
The patrol eventually departed with one bleeding nose and an urge to tell an indep or two to pike it.
The drow left the shadows and stood against the old lamp post, presuming his count from scratch. His lips barely moved when he whispered the first number; "One."
The drow stared at the lights of the city above in a foolish attempt of his to count all the little dangling torchlights and lanters that formed the "night sky" of the Cage.
The street below his feet lay still, it had certainly quieted down since his last visit to the Cage. The obvious reason for this was that the once popular inn had burned down. He could smell thelingering scent of burned wood, cracked stone, and brimstone oozing from the lone ruined inn. There are worse scents to be found in the planes, and it provided him a welcome change to the sweat and other putrid bodily odours the local primes and planar alike, soaked in.
It was his nose that first cought the Harmonium patrol of two strodding down clinking and clanking in their armor, with the unision of rythm from their boot heels against the cobblestones. The drow's nose was turned up in disgust, with his brainbox forgetting the which lights he had already counted.
As the patrol came closer, the drow did his little trick of shadows, and tripped one of the patrol members with his wooden staff. The Hardhead tumbled on the ground, catching a ratatosk on his face, while the drow took a quick turn to the left and hid himself amongs the shadows.
The patrol eventually departed with one bleeding nose and an urge to tell an indep or two to pike it.
The drow left the shadows and stood against the old lamp post, presuming his count from scratch. His lips barely moved when he whispered the first number; "One."