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((closed rp))

Grant Rothman sit at his desk, a blank stare on his face as he restlessly slumped over the papers before him. It had been a year since his kingdom, Roushan, had been destroyed by mindless idiots with no clue of what they were actually doing. He had stayed up many nights mumbling and pondering to himself on what their real reasons were for attacking him. A man with the last name Rothman could not make a kingdom because of past offenses? Did they even read the boards which he had written? Nothing in his manuscripts were bad, nor evil.

His hardened stare peered out from under the shadows, sheltered away from the few dimmed rays that leaked in through the stained glass windows; though the moon shed no light upon the dark figure this dreary night. Eyes as cold and unforgiving as the minions of Moshran, his icy glazed eyes stared out unblinking from under the darkness. His fists were clenched tight as though embedded in stone, bearing the long wet tresses of the traitor fool who had betrayed him wrapped around his scarlet fingers. The hair was matted and wet with fresh blood, clinging to the severed head which he had taken such pleasure in freeing from its horrendous figure…

All the anguish had burned away into insatiable rage, the young warrior who had attacked cities, slain men and creatures alike, whom had brought darkness back to the very country he loved so dearly, had withered away into the epitome of hatred. There had been no warlord that could overthrow his underground kingdom, no threat that would ever bring tyranny unto his faction. He whom had been praised for being the bringer of death and the King of Thieves, whose tales were boundless and as legendary as Nabranoo, or so he thought. Now having been deceived, there was no greater loss than that which he suffered. His family murdered… no… massacred by none other than the one person who cared for them with no kinder love or loyalty…

His breathing remained hoarse and uneasy as it echoed through the chambers of his underground keep, strained from the chaos he had so wrought upon his domain. His features taut with fury and the torment he forever held while beads of cold sweat leaked down his temples.


Julius… Malachin's words pounded like a broken drum through his mind, he’d been hearing them now over the past several moons, and only now did the words twist and burn into his heart. Grant would have His due; he would smite the people of goodness in all 4 kingdoms, and none would stand in his way. As though awakened, he moved to place his bloodied sword within it’s golden scabbard. A fool he’d been and a fool greater for entrusting this man into his underground lair. The blood from his wretched body had long pooled about his shredded and broken form, his sheer blue eyes glancing at it momentarily then back again.

Grant swallowed deeply, his throat dry. The rage that empowered him now gradually went away, softening his eyes and exhausting his body into weariness as he turned to leave the his domain. Grabbing the traitor's broken body and then dragging the thing to take it with him, leaving a long bloody pool behind his quiet footsteps.

He had his head and parts of it's body placed upon posts upon the walls of the cavern then had returned to his empty throne. His hand shaded the light of his eyes in shame as in silence he wept. The halls were long vacant and wordless in his presence, what was normally filled with light giggles and laughter, great feasts and celebrations in their honor… or the sweet sound of loot being jingled.

You will die...he comes to you at night...

“Leave me be!” His voice thundered as a giant’s might have, it was enough to quiet wolves in their dens as his voice boomed through the empty Halls; his fist slamming with a loud thud against the stone marble arm of his seat. Grant ran a weary hand through his disheveled flame red hair, slowly moving down his face to rub across his unshaven face. Every emotion lay on the brink of detonation under the surface of his skin, his head pounding as though it were being hammered by maces. A sick feeling suddenly crept and climbed through his body, unnatural and unwelcome…

He will come...mark these words my Grant...

“No!” He roared loudly, widening his eyes in almost visible pain. Will this torment ever leave me? Or is it truly cursed I am that even Death would mock me in my suffering! He buried his face in his hands, the pain within him swelling as though ready to rupture within the heart of his soul.

His vision began to cloud.. a slow kind of blurring that faded into darkness and back renewed in a flash of images... He turned in bed, his eyes wide open in a moment of fear, then turned again to find a large figure standing in the doorway, his silhouette casting a dark shadow before the candle light. Grant watched the man silently as he slowly say up in his bed. His blue eyes looked up at him, reflecting the same light that his normally held, his otherwise soft gaze now distorted and serious. "Is that you, Julius?” He murmured in a somewhat low tone. Grant raised a hand as he heard the unsheathing of metal from it's scabbard, raising a hand as a blade slashed through him...


Grant cried out in anguish upon the sudden assault of the unwelcome images, his tears streaming from his reddened eyes. His chest heaved with every breath as all his emotions refocused into one consolation, the light within his eyes dulling as though blackened by the corruption that had been brooding within his body... He trembled as the ferocity built itself within him, the pain peaking and crashing alongside his growing wraith. “So be it.” He cursed through his clenched teeth as the last frozen tears streaked his cheeks, his voice slow and menacing as though embodied within a forced growl, “Let no one stand in the way… of my redemption.”

((This will most likely be the last thread I ever start in rp. It's something to kinda close the rp of Grant))

Grant was a sturdily-built man, with short flame red hair and pale skin. A long thin nose was ended by an area of recently shaved orange stubble that circled his lips and coated his chin. His dark eyes were narrow and tilted slightly upwards, showing signs of fatigue and little sleep. He was dressed in finely woven gray robes of different shades so the only bit of colour seemed to come from his ashen lips.

As he walked down the line of slaves he seemed to examine each one closely, many of the women flirted silently with him, hoping to win him over with seduction. He needed a slave to die, to bid his doing. Grant slowly made his way down to short petite woman, his eyes looked her up and down because she was seemingly standing apart from the rest. He stopped and gazed at her. She did not cower or fawn like the others. Instead she glared venomously back at him as she stood tall.

“That one is more trouble than she’s worth, Sir Rothman,” The slave owner hissed loudly from behind him. “She will not be bedded, nor does she fear punishment. All she’s good for is whipping and beating.”

Grant turned about sharply and narrowed his eyes on the lizard slave owner, who instantly shrunk in fear. “I think I can decided that for myself, Lizard scum,” his deep voice stated menacingly.

He then turned back to slave girl and began to assess her. He ran his fingers through her tangled brown hair. He gently touched the massive purple bruise underneath her left eye , causing her to flinch slightly. He fingered her misshaped nose that did not healed properly the last time it had been broken. He took her hands in his and felt the rough calluses on them from having to do work usually reserved for male slaves. He pulled back her sleeves and saw the whip scars on her partially tanned arms.

“What is your name?” Grant questioned softly.

“I have no name,” she answered without emotion.

Grant smirked slightly, not bothering to ask her again, “And what can you do,” He narrowed his eyes on hers after the question.

“Sew,” She responded shortly, eviding his glaze.

Grant raised his eyebrows at her. “Is that all?”

When Grant saw that no answer was forthcoming, he asked asked the slave owner without taking his eyes of the female slave, “What else can she do?”

“Well, she also cooks, bakes, cleans, tends gardens, works in the fields, carries heavy loads…she’s worked with blacksmiths, carpenters, and masons…when we found her on the streets she had a dagger on her..”

“So she’s done the jobs of men?”

“Yes, but—,”

“If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it,” Grant barked sharply. With that, the smaller lizard promptly shut his mouth.

The other slaves were beginning to worry about Grant’s sudden intense interest in the girl and some of them shifted nervously.

“Leave us be,” Grant said quietly but firmly.

The lizard and the other slaves blinked back their surprise and a few exchanged glances. Noticing their hesitation, the higher master fixed his gaze on them unpleasantly. The room emptied promptly.

“Do you know who I am?” Grant questioned her, eyes narrowed.

The female slave only glared at him. Grant raised a curious eyebrow at her.

“Now I am thinking that a better question would be, ‘Can you speak for yourself, or does the lizard have you wrapped so tightly around his finger that you cannot speak without his presence?’”

It was a challenge. She studied Grant for a slight moment, sizing him up. If he got her to speak beyond monosyllables, would he test her further, see what else he could get out of her? Would he pretend to befriend her and then force her to bow before him? Instead of using force against her, he had started a battle of wits and determination. Despite having every reason not to answer, this stranger invoked curiosity in her, tempted her to respond. Sometimes, to win the war, you must forfeit a battle.

“No man holds my tongue,” she hissed in reply. She returned his challenge with one of her own, daring him to try and be master over her.

Both eyebrows met to form a high arc on Grant's forehead. “So you are as strong-willed as the lizard says,” he stated in an even voice. In long, purposeful strides, he began walking around the woman, looking her up and down as he stepped. “There are a few masters who would lavish to break such a spirit.”

The girl hunched her shoulders like a threatened feline. She didn’t like where this was going.

“Do you think that I’m that kind of man?” He fixed himself back in front of her and stared into her eyes, coaxing an answer from her.

She searched his gaze, trying to decipher his true character. But it was lost in the lightless depths of his eyes. Damn it! Why can’t you be easy to read like the lizard? And why do you have to be so sharp-witted and mysterious?

“Aren’t all men like that?” she answered blandly.

Grant chuckled softly. “I see that your master has not improved your view of the opposite sex. I guess that I should not be surprised.” He leaned in closer, as if to obtain some privacy amongst a large crowd. “But tell me, have you always been so cold?

“Since the winters have brought snow.” She had lied. Somewhere in distant memory was a little girl who used to value life, who did not wake in the morn’ merely to survive another day.

He called her bluff. “I do not believe that,” he whispered.

“Then you are a fool,” she scowled. With that, she turned on her heel and walked out the door. To her surprise, he made no objections to her leaving.

A few moments later Grant revealed himself from the tent, looking sharply to the Lizard, " I'll take her, two more women, and your strongest man. How much would that be," Grant asked as he pulled a pouch from his pocket.

"That'll be twenty sssilvers sssir." Hissed the lizard in a low tone.

The woman could hear the sound of hoof beats in the distance, it would not be long now. She stood up, not bothering to brush the dust off her pants, and rolled her shoulders slowly. She leaned forward on the rock and peered out to the side. The horse’s head was just breaking the surface of the next rise and the rattle of wagon wheels assured that this was the group she had scouted the night before.

She adjusted the gauntlet on her bow hand. It would need replaced soon, and it irritated her a bit that she hadn’t come across one to her liking yet. The armor from the awkwardly made plate that protected her throat was still in good condition. Her leather vest was in excellent shape, studded at the shoulders and reinforced at the sides. Her pants were of a dark, rough cloth, loose and easy to move in, but it was the boots that worried her. Last night on her scouting mission, as she lay flat on her stomach, she had felt the mud creeping through a small hole in the sole of her right boot. Boots were easier to come by than leathers anyway.

The wagon had made its way parallel to her hiding place. She reached back to her quiver, felt for the shaft with the three raised dots, a light arrow, it shouldn’t cause much damage.

Examining the group closer she recognized the members from the night before; the same man infront, his flame red hair flowing gently in the breeze. The morning light revealed the same faces that had lounged around the campfire last night. Looked a bit hung-over too; all the better for her and the others. She notched the arrow and took aim, just below the drivers head. A few moments later she heard the sound of the arrow make its target.

The arrow had hit the back of the seat. Three of the men looked back, started; the driver barely sparing a glance before cracking the whip with harsh word to the horse.

A minute later the wagon was over the next hill. The woman heard yelling and then the faint sounds of a scuffle. “Must have decided to fight rather than surrender”, she thought as she made her way down the side of the cliff. Before she reached the bottom she heard the victory cry of half a dozen female voices. Then silence. She knew they would cover the wagon in the woods nearby, take the horse and disappear silently. She had not been needed in the fight today. She dropped the last few feet and landed crouched, stretching her slender, athletic frame as she stood up.

She whistled for her own horse. While she waited she dusted off her pants and released her hair from the secure leather wrap and let it hang loose.

~~~~~~~~~

Grant slowly raised his arms as he looked to the women, his hands off the whip. A slight smirk on his disbelieving face.

"Ladies, there is enough of me for all of you. Though you will all have to take your turn." Grant said with the same smirk on his lips, his eyes watching the women.

The women all wore matching armors and assorted cloths, most of there faces were concealed by helms and other unrevealing material. Their weapon of choice seemed to be spears for they were now only within inches of Grant's face, which from the look on it really irritated him. The dark shadows under his eyes give a slight impression that he had been up since the night before, mostly likely due to more dreams of death and is coming demise.

The woman that seemed like the leader of the group dropped her spear and raised her hand, hushing the other women and making them drop their spears as well. She pulled her helm from her head, her sweaty silk brown hair fall from the con folds of the helm like a river as her blue eyes sized Grant up.

"You will not be that lucky on this day, sir. The only thing we wish from you is your wagon. I think that is fine with you, aye?" The woman questioned Grant in a commanding famine voice.

"Ah, you call it luck for me to sleep with you? And, if you think you can take this wagon without any type of reaction your wrong." Grant said with a slight chuckle, his eyes lingering on the woman that spoke.

Suddenly, the unsheathing of a blade was heard, followed shortly by the sound of metal slashing through flesh and armor. A smile was seen on Grant's lips...death was welcome.

((Sorry that it's so shitty. I'm tired, but bored. So, I decided to add to this thread. I'll make it better tomorrow.))