THE SICKLE | Peasant RP

[truelarper 594]

 

 

 

Word crept low and quiet through Furnestock, pressing onto the ears of the humble like a frigid wind beneath the door; it passed from field to hearth, from bent-backed serf to weary hand, a whisper that did not fade but grow, as though some unseen Lord had stooped to stir the dust of their burrows, and in hushed voices, with wary eyes and kindled hunger, they named it—again and again, like a prayer or curse: “The sickle. . . the sickle. . . the sickle.” Soon, the plebians would gather.

 

Spoiler

 

↓MEETING TBD! JOIN THE DISCORD↓

 

[!] PRIVATE ROLEPLAY [!]

 

“Father is dead.” 

“A flock without a shepherd.”

 

In the half-light of a dying flame, where shadows clung like graves and the cold pressed close as a living thing, their grief twisted into steel—Vaughn feeding it with blame, Lance dulling it with reason and Dirk letting it harden in silence; the fire spat and choked, casting their faces in ash and gold.

 

“We have coppers in the guard,” Vaughn muttered.

“For now.” Dirk said. “And when they dry?”
 

Lance shook his head. They listened as Dirk spoke, his words low and drawn, writhing shadows across the stone of that forgotten hearth. Alone they stood in the dead of night, the cold seeping into their bone, the silence beyond them broken only by the distant laughter of a drunkerd and the thin, dying shriek of a woman taken by a darkspawn. One by one, their voices faded. Silence claimed them—not empty, but heavy and coiled like a tundra’s creeping mist. They brooded. They pondered. And beneath it all, unspoken yet shared, something burned hotter than grief. 

 

Justice.

 

 

 

 

Edited March 25 by truelarper

[penninoe 169]

 

 

Lance, as strong as he was, had not borne a weight so heavy-  the burden of a son carrying his still fathers body to rest. No words were spoken before he finally laid the lifeless body in it's final resting place, a silent expression demanding Justice.