The Kalcrotic Chronicles: Into the mist (ICsignupsTG)

[Stagmar]

Context
The year is 1430 AD, the location the area that will become Stagmar in about 400 years. The King Tyrus II is a just but greedy king of Talparia (Stagmar). His recent Christian crusades to Cimarus have been a success. They have expanded their sphere of influence which now encompasses 3 nations and have partook in a holy war against a foreign nation, Varia. A myth is growing among the people, a myth of a new land far to the north. Free from religious oppression, out of the reach of the Talparian empire. The lore tells of a continent free of disease and death, the people call it Alaras and numerous expeditions to find this land have proven unsuccessful. But travellers tell of a mysterious island shrouded in mist.
They believe this island holds the gate to the afterlife, where one can meet with loved ones, free of time.
Liciuma Calmerca returns to Talparia in 1428 from the 2nd crusade. He is a damaged war veteran at the age of 30. On returning to Talparia he receives a letter, from the Talparian Church of Christianity, informing him of the death of his wife and two sons. They were found dead in his home 2 months before he returned from the crusades. Our story takes place two years after the death of his family in the year 1430 AD.


The year 1430 AD

Liciuma Calmerca a simple merchant in the ancient fishing town Tetrak, Northern Stagmar sits in his house alone. His family dead. Killed by a group of unknown criminals 2 years earlier. He takes a swig from his flagon of ale of sits back in his chair. A map sits upon the table in front of him, reminding himself of the dream he once had before his marriage. The map depicts an island in the miasma off of the northern coast of Stagmar. Its name Tol Odressa, alone in the mist. The island never has been found by mortals, it is said one can enter the afterlife there. Paradise. He thinks to himself what a stupid idea it is before drinking the rest of his ale.

3 hours later
It's around 11 pm as Liciuma awakes in the local tavern, covered in his own sick and whiskey. He notices that not many folk occupy the bar after the thug like presence that usually fills the tavern. He stands up, with a stagger, and stumbles back over to the bar. Liciuma starts to compose a letter which he sticks, with a knife, on the notice board to his left, titled 'In search of paradise'. He stands up from the bar and attempts to light his pipe, but fails. He then moves over to the corner of the room, waiting for a stranger to sign up.
The note reads

To anyone willing to risk their petty lives in search of the mythical island, to anyone craving adventure, I am putting together an expedition in search of this island to find answers. It will be dangerous, some may die but the results will be grand. Come and find me in the tavern, we will set sail when the group of 5 is assembled
Liciuma Calmerca

Across the room, a man in a black cloak watches Liciuma stoically.

OOC: ok here's the rules, TG me for entry and if accepted please give a detailed description of your one character who you would like to join, and please state how you would like your character to join the story and I will set it up.
No modern technology, only the sort of weapons that one would have 1430
You cannot have super powers, except maybe when you reach the island.
I will make up random events to carry the story on
The main goal is to reach the island
Also please note, depending on how this goes, I may turn it into a novel so, provided that it happens please remind me to mention if you want me to list you as a contributor

[Florys]

Near Midnight, February 25th, 1430.
The Good Cleric Tavern, Tetrak.
Northern Stagmar.

'Oh, the irony.' Lydia mused. She was all too aware of Stagmar's visceral holy expansion, and of course of it's recent sanguine missions of the Christian faith. The subject of her amusement, came in the form of a hand painted sign, framed with dull wrought iron, emblazoned within it's ferrus, aged borders, a faded image of a man, bearing an arrow punctured shield and holding aloft what Lydia could only assume was the bible, printed below him read the words 'The Good Cleric.' this tickled Lydia no end, after all, the preaching of Stagmar's church of late had been nothing approaching the realms of benign or compassionate.

The tavern itself was a squat affair, broad oaken walls, no doubt laying host to innumerable mites and vermin, fighting a losing battle against the winter elements as they forced themselves aloft from the thick, viscous mud which lay in deep ruts either side of the village's sparse tracked pathways. Despite this, the amber light and chatter emitting from within it's drab confines spoke of comforts unavailable to the saddle sore traveler on the uneven roads of the surrounding country side beneath the teeming skies above.

Lydia took a step out of the ensuing torrent, seeking solace under the tavern's veranda, and pulled the soaking leather of her hood down, a rouge drop of salient rain water escaping down the nape of her neck and settling, beneath her fatigues in the small of her back, forcing an involuntary shiver to break across her supple frame. Regaining her composure, she brushed a wayward strand of sandy blonde hair from the sharp, tanned featured of her face. She bemoaned the weather, she was a daughter of the Summer Land, the Kingdom of Florys, yet her, at the limit of here hope, and supplies, she was, in a Stagmar town barely able to rear itself from the mud to find it's way onto a map. Still, her exodus had been necessary, the crimes laid against her were as myriad as they were dire. Pagan, they had called her, Adulterer, Whore, and worse besides, it had not been her fault the her father and his court wished to marry her off to some decrepit wretch of a man, no, she had done what she had to, and found her Old Gods in the process.

She caught her reflection in a small bowl rapidly filling with rain water, she cut a dashing figure, rugged from the road's miles, lithe from one too many close encounters with it's less than savory denizens. Her aquiline face was still a thing of predatory beauty, the old pervert had made that much known to her, and in her outfit hardened leather and course fabrics, with the form of her bastard sword at her hip, she looked every bit the warrior woman of a time long passed, in 'enlightened' land of Florys anyway.

With a sigh, she put the weight of her gloved palm to the door, and allowed it to part in the stead.

[Stagmar]

February the 25th 1430 AD
The Tavern
Liciuma sat back in his chair, holding his now lit pipe in his mouth, puffing out a thick draft of smoke every couple of seconds, staring at the scum this filled this tattered abode they called a tavern. He looked over to a group of men in the corner table, taking huge swigs of large glasses of their chosen poison, laughing, making a raucous for weary travellers from far and wide. He knew their type, city folk, the type that despised anyone who would dare look at them funny. Turning his gaze, Liciuma saw him. The stalker. A robed evil, sitting in the corner leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The light that glistened in his eyes, illuminated them. Liciuma recognised these eyes but did not act as if there was trouble. He remained calm.
But then they turned to him. The group of knaves saw him. Liciuma tried not to meet their gaze as they approached. The leader of the group, a tall fellow dressed in what appeared to be rags, came up to Liciuma. He noticed the shine of the candle light upon the man's dagger, the dagger that he failed to conceal. Standing, up Liciuma was met with strike, which made impact with his jaw, sending him flying backwards, falling over his chair, landing in a heap on the beer covered tavern floor. The attacker approached with his dagger......

[Florys]

Lydia's eyes widened at the plethora of violence that greeted them as she entered dank warmth of the Good Cleric's interior. A man, a strong looking type with the bruised complexion of a warrior, had apparently yielded his footing to a pack of rag garbed hooligans, and was now trying to regain some semblance of stance against his hollering assailants, and the cruel curves of the flaying blades gripped eagerly in there ruddy hands.

A fleeting, pensive voice played in her mind, willing her to simply ignore the altercation and secure a room for what was left of the dismal night, besides, the malnourished attackers seemed a familiar sort, the kind of men that had harried her every step during her passage form Florys to Stagmar, rapers, perverts and opportunistic scum the lot of them, seeking to work there grubby digits under her tunic, by force if needed. It mattered not, her dagger had bit into the flesh of many a low life during her years on the road, and her sword had dispatched more than one aggressor whilst in her ownership.

The thought nearly took hold, if the scum of this town was content with scavenging of drunken veterans, then that was all the better for her. Yet the memories of her own dogged harassment flushed a red, uncharacteristic anger to the fore of her angular cheeks. She cared less than little for the dour faced man stumbling to his feet in a desperate stand, but the three men that approached him, cackling like the prairie canines they so resembled in manner as well as appearance, well, she couldn't stand for them.

In a flurry of tan and argent motion, Lydia sprung forward, blade both drawn and held to the parry in a swift, almost liquid movement. The local's dagger bit hard into the steel of her own sword, and a white, metallic screech screamed round the taverns interior, sending teeth clenching as the bewildered thug's blade slid down to the hit of her own. She was close now, into the melee, she glimpsed the cocktail of awe and surprise in the bandit's own eyes, felt the pressure her strike had put through the rangy muscles that composed his lanky arms, and the smell, that God awful mash of pungent liquor, body odor and other human fluids besides ran raw through her nostrils.

[Stagmar]

Struggling to stand, Liciuma pulls himself up to face his attacker. There, standing before him, was the most beautiful women, but he convinced himself she was a drunken fantasy of his. The look upon the attacker's face is one of surprise. This women had defended him against an impending knife blow, an attack that would have decorated the tavern with his blood and sent the folk into a bloodlust filled craze to slaughter the inhabitants of the tavern. Swaying from side to side, seeing all in a blur, Liciuma kicks the knave in the chest, in a forward motion. The attack goes un-parried, sending the receiver tumbling backwards into his entourage, they collapsed under his weight, passing out under the crushing force of his body. He then looks at his defender and mutters in a drunken slur "and what is your name, foreigner?"

[Stagmar]

But the mysterious stranger does not reply, she stands there by Liciuma's side, looking vacant. Vision blurred and a loss of balanced, he looks down at the attacker's crushed bodies, picking up his flagon and drinking incessantly, tilting backwards, with his hand of the women's shoulder. The door bursts open to reveal Talparian city guards, clad in thick luminescent body armour and pointed helmets. They drew their swords and flintlocks, hollering for the trouble makers. Fortunately, before they notice the crippled hooligans, Liciuma finishes gulping from his glass, turning and smashing it over the head of the unwary punter behind him. This man, a well known miscreant, was took completely by surprise. The glass flagon shattered over his lobe, fragmented pieces of the flagon remained lodged in his skull, as he fell off of his flimsy oaken chair, and came to the wooden deck with a table rocking clunk. He lay on the ground blood spilling out of his head, glass and a little alcohol covering him. Pandemonium then occurred, turning the near silent tavern into a frenzy, a dystopia. Madness. A mass of bodies, wrestling, trampling over the stool sitters and firing off Wheelock and duckfoot pistols at each other. The guards, shocked, tried to navigate their way through the chaos, only to be crushed under a hoard of drunken fishermen and highwaymen. Just under the sound as fist on face, one could hear the cracking of bones and screaming, as the crowd stepped on the heads of the guards.
The brawl spilled out into the night, turning the sleepy town into a festive of yelling and screeching. Liciuma took his protector's hand and dragged her out of the now bloodied tavern into the brisk night, and into a alley. Then came the rain, blistering down upon the fight, and with the now up picking wind, Liciuma shivered.
The woman did not seem at all fazed.
"who are you?" he asked
"And why did you protect me?"