Having had your share of ale, you rise from the counter. As you go to leave, you focus on the sword lodged in the wall, tugging softly on its invisible tethers. They contract, and in seconds it's found its way back onto your belt. The bartender yells something about paying him and you pause for a second.
You turn to face him. His face is mightily red, either from drunkenness or anger. You call him a 'dolt', and 'worth less than the ale he serves' and he backs down.
The streets of Kuglirethaginstropolis (the city in which you now find yourself situated) are terribly dirty and you can't help but lament over the horrid smell that's entering your nostrils. The sewers were likely overflowing from the rainwater. You briefly recall your time spent in vocational school, but bury it once more. Now's not the time, Raleigh.
You can't actually see the sky, but you suspect it's rather dark. The clouds likely stretching across the horizon, a dark shadow cast over the entirety of the land, not that it matters. Next order of business: acquiring more swords. Oh boy, you've always loved them and their curves, their razor edges and most of all the delicious texture of their hilts... the way they dance through the air, their vibrations moving in resonance...
You stare off into (presumably) space for a moment, lost in your imaginings, before you regain your senses.
Right, sword shop. It'd be easier to find if you could read the signs. Well, no matter -- you're a swordsmage after all. Your soul is one with every blade in the world! You hear the whispers of the blades, crying and shrieking. They're coming from a nearby building. Must be the blacksmith's.
You feel around for the entrance, finding only a window. You lift it open and climb through, much to the shock of the man behind the counter. When he sees the blades adorning your belt, however, his expression changes. At least you think it does, anyway.
"Well, well, well! What have we here, are you a sword collector, perchance?"
"Something of that sort, I suppose, yes," you say, brushing off your jacket casting rain and mud onto the no-doubt polished floorboards.
"Ah, wonderful! I have a wide variety of wares, all available for your perusal!" He pauses for a moment, then continues. "Now there's this one blade I've been hanging onto for the longest time, she's a beauty." You're pretty sure swords don't have genders.
"That's nice and all, but is it particularly good at beheading?"
"Wh-what? Why on -- oh my. You aren't a collector, you're an adventurer, aren't you?" You can feel his eyes checking you over once more.
"Oh heavens, I'm so sorry. I hadn't any idea that one of your kind was in town. Please, forgive me -- I have special wares just for you."
He retreats to the back of the shop. While he takes his time sorting through his backstock (how much can he possible have?) you practice your sword twirling a bit. Sometimes when you're bored you make them spin really, really fast. You've lost many a companion to this morbid habit.
The shopkeep pops back out, wielding a sword whose song is quiet. Less of the typical shriek, more of a whimper or murmur. Awfully silent. You really hate silent swords. He holds the sword out, letting you examine it carefully. You raise it up to eye level, then slide your hands down the spine and hilt. Meanwhile, your other swords are still spinning behind you, making loud 'thwak' sounds each time they pass you by.
"Why's this sword so quiet?" you ask, genuinely perplexed.
The man's drawn out of his curious stupor by your stupid question.
"What?"
His eyes jump to you, then back to your swords. He's clearly engrossed in their subtle resonances, and you can hardly blame him. Oh, how'd you'd love to see them fly once more...
You lose track of time for a minute, imagining their wondrous movements, so wondrous...
...but you're drawn back into reality quickly enough when you lose control of one of your swords again and it sails out through the open window into the street. You really have to stop doing that. Your other blades clatter to the ground harmlessly.
The shopkeeper is less than impressed. He sighs.
"You could've killed someone," he says, no doubt looking at you with a dismissive expression.
You lie through your teeth.
"I've done this for years and have nary a single unintentional injury to my name."
"Well, whatever. Are you buying the sword or not? 50 pieces of gold will do, I suppose."
Status: Sopping wet, still. And blind.
Abilities: Telekinetic. Can lift small objects and also swords. Swordsmage. Can hear the whispers of the blades and maybe cast some magic. You think you've forgotten most of the magic you learned, though...
Inventory: Two swords sit at your feet. Your third is somewhere out in the street.
Author
Topic: Raleigh Crane: Wandering Blind Telekinetic Female Swordsmage (Read 14698 times)