|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Sun Apr 12, 2015 12:46 pm
This Quest is for Ouen who is striving to become a Lancer.
 OOC
||. The quest prompt must be answered with a 2000 word reply (can be more).
||. Respond to the prompt given with an adventure of your own creation as long as it meets the requirements of the specific tasks.
||. NPCs may be used as long as they advance the quest in an interesting manner.
||. You cannot include any playable characters other than the quest taker.
||. Your responses will be graded with a Pass or Fail. Those who fail will have to continue with assistance from the staff.
||. Questions about quests can be asked here.
IC
Ouen had sat down in the tattooist's seat, ready to get what it was he was aiming for, and after hours of pain as the tattooist's needle piercing into his skin over and over again it was finally finished. And Ouen was proud.
As he exited the tattoo shop a kid about Ouen's age and his four friends hung around the outside of the shop. The leader of the group scoffed and ran his mouth, offending Ouen and his newest addition to his body.
Quest Tasks
||. This quest is to test Ouen's maturity and patience.
||. The quest should start with Ouen getting his tattoo. (If you choose to go into details about the looks of the tattoo please PM Suhuba ahead of time so the art can match.)
||. Once Ouen's tattoo is finished he will find the leader of the gang mocking Ouen and his choice in tattoo to look cool to the others.
||. The conflict should come to fist fighting and the gang will all join in and overwhelm Ouen.
||. The quest can either end with Ouen losing the fight against five and learning to pick and choose his battles... or it can end with the owner of the tattoo shop stepping in and breaking it up before Ouen can lose.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Apr 13, 2015 12:44 pm
Part 1: Minari
Ouen had seen tattoos before, sure. There were plenty of shifters who decorated their skin that way, colored ink in twisting patterns, spidering across pretty much any part of the body. He’d always liked them, too -- and of course he would! Tattoos were cool. Cool people had them. Warriors, and things like that. People that other folks respected, y’know?
And he’d thought about getting one, yeah. Most kids probably did -- but Ouen thought about doing a lot of other things, and rarely committed to one thought for very long.
Then he met Minari.
She was a leaf earthling, a woman of Tale. She was quiet, and did not seem particularly impressed when he interrupted her hunt for some desirable root-moss or other. But the jungle was hot, and when she shrugged out of her cloak he nearly fell off the tree at the sight of her tattoo -- it was unlike any he had seen before, not a decorative pattern of lines but an actual picture. A tree, stylized into a spiderweb of branches with animals folded between them, crowned with so many multi-colored leaves. It took up most of her back, and around the top of it, on her shoulders, there were four suns with earthling-faces with different expressions on each.
She wouldn’t tell him much about it -- what it meant, why she got it, or how come there were four suns. She wouldn’t even tell him what all the animals were, funny-looking critters he had never seen before.
But she let him look, at least. And the slight smile on her lips betrayed the fact that she was not altogether unhappy with his fascination.
Part 2: The Archer
After that, his desire for a tattoo became focused, concrete, and somehow more urgent. Ouen wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt that way about anything before; usually he just wandered, thinking things up on the spot and doing whatever he felt like doing. He made plans, sure, but they were simple things, stupid pranks and errands that could be completed in an hour or two at most.
This wasn’t like that. It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment lark. This took some planning.
Firstly -- he needed to find an artist. He’d never asked anyone about their tattoos before, never questioned how they got them; just kind of accepted the work as part of who they were. Now, for a few weeks he would stop every tattooed stranger he met, scrutinize the work (if they stood still for long enough) and demand to know where they got it done.
“You’re too young.” Was the most common response, followed by “Mind your own business!”
Ouen would respond with the rudest words he knew, and continue on.
He met an archer that way, practicing in a rare jungle clearing.
The man looked him over -- this lanky shifter boy, his silver hair a mess, some tattered red rag around his waist and a juvenile radaku sniffing around his feet. He had more muscle on him these days, and a faint shade of stubble on his chin; and he was tall, too, taller than most adolescents. But the indignant spark in his eyes, and the way he held his body… you would never mistake him for an adult. Not yet. But when the archer spoke, it was not the ‘you’re too young’ that Ouen had learned to expect.
“You can’t afford one, kid.”
This was new. “Whaddaya mean, can’t afford one?”
“You look like a tramp. Ay’ten in Emeka did mine, and he doesn’t work for free.”
Part 3: Ay’ten
“I don’t work for free.”
Ay’ten was older than Ouen expected; not some kind of tattooed warrior, but a small, aging shifter without a mark on his own skin. His workshop, however, was beautifully painted from the front door to the roof-rafters, and when Ouen had told him what he wanted, he had responded with a knowing nod. Inside the house there were jars and vials of so many colors, as well as needles and strange tools of that sort.
“I heard that.” Ouen huffed. “But I can work for you. To pay for it.”
“What can you do?”
“Dunno. Anything. I learn fast.”
Shenandoah, the young radaku, wove around the tables and shelves, sniffing at this and that thing. The animal, like Ouen himself, was getting bigger now -- too big to carry the way the prentice once did, but nowhere near as big as he might one day be. Ay’ten watched him a while, apparently unconcerned about his fragile-looking stock.
“My work is worth a lot.” The man finally said. “And yours may well be worth little, if anything at all. It will take a long time.”
“Fine.” Ouen shrugged. “I don’t got anywhere else to be.”
Part 4: Tyro
“You look like a spitorog.” The prentice laughed, hands folded over his chest. He was a local kid, and until Ouen’s arrival he’d been the biggest and the oldest among the prentices. But he was a full head shorter than the other, and none too happy about it.
He’d been coming to bother Ouen when he worked, and there was no shortage of subjects for mockery. Ay’ten had agreed to put him to work… and of course, left him with only the hardest and messiest of chores. Depending on the day he might be grinding dried flowers and sneezing purple-red dust all over his hair, or getting his hands sticky picking the iridescent wings off jungle bugs. Today, he was elbow deep in a pot of bubbling soap-water, struggling to wash the stains out of the cloth rags that the tattoo artist used in his shop.
“Shut up, Tyro.” Ouen grumbled, batting Shenandoah’s nose away from the bubbles -- he was hardly in the mood. “Shut up or I’m gonna make ya sorry.”
“Ooooh.” The kid laughed again. “What’re you gonna do, color my nails purple? I’m soooo scared.”
Ouen stood, knocking soap-water everywhere and balling his (rust-red-colored) hands into fists. “You better be, you lousy --”
“Ouen.” Ay’ten had come outside, and was looking rather unimpressed. “Your childish yelling is not part of our deal.”
Grumbling under his breath, the prentice sat back down and grabbed another handful of cloth.
“Whatever.” Tyro rolled his eyes when the older shifter disappeared. “You’re boring, anyway. All you do is work for that old fogey -- If you asked me, I think he picked you up in the bargain section of a slave-market.”
“Nobody asked you anything.”
Slave-market?! Ouen wanted to throttle the kid. He really, really, really did.
Part 5: The Artist
It did take a long time.
The weather grew hotter, and the work harder. Ouen watched Ay’ten’s clients come and go -- all of them fairly affluent sorts, successful in whatever it was they did and able to pay for his labors without breaking their backs in his yard. He didn’t mind, really. Seeing the tattoos they left with kept him motivated… even if Tyro was still a huge thorn in his side.
Then, one fair-weathered evening, Ay’ten waved Ouen inside his shop.
“I ain’t done with the grinding.” Ouen warned him studying his worn-down fingernails. “If you want something else done, I won’t be able able to get it started ‘till after. If I’m still awake then. I’ve been workin’ since dawn!”
“Bring in what you have. You’re done.”
Relieved, Ouen looked up and saw the artist at his station, lighting a candle and preparing his tools.
“Sweet. Didn’t know you had a client tonight. Can I watch?” He liked watching, when Ay’ten was in the right mood to let him.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Ay’ten laughed. He rarely laughed. “I said you’re done. Bring the powders inside and sit down.”
“Wait.” Ouen took a step back instead. “Like, done done?”
“Now you sound like a jungle bird. Don’t waste time, this is going to take all night as it is.”
With a broad grin, the prentice turned on his heel and ran to fetch the last batch of pigment he would ever have to grind.
Part 6: The Tattoo
It hurt. It hurt a lot.
Ay’ten worked at night, while his skin was silver-pale and easier to see against. Ouen was worn out and aching from a long day of work, but sleep was out of the question -- he had to sit upright, his skin was burning, and his shoulder was sore from being held in the same place for so long.
But he sat still, and distracted himself by running his fingers up and down the sleeping Shenandoah's long tail.
Part 7: The Gang
The dawning day turned him dark gray again, but the colors on his skin stayed vibrant and bright. Ouen had been staring at them for something like fifteen minutes now, resisting the urge to touch (like Ay’ten warned him he should) and hardly able to believe his eyes. It was… there. Right there. On his skin. Forever. And it was amazing.
Finally, when he has said his thank-yous and goodbyes to the old artist, he stepped outside dreaming of all the hushed gazes and impressed whispers he might encounter.
“What is that?”
The first voice he heard was all too familiar -- Tyro’s lazy drawl, the prentice leaning up against a fence-post and pointing at Ouen’s tattoo. “Did you do it yourself?”
Ouen bit down on his lip. “What’d I tell you ‘bout shuttin’ up?”
“You must’ve done it yourself.” The boy continued. “With one eye closed, while your master was sleeping. Right?”
Ouen was about to protest, but apparently the question had not been meant for him.
“Yeah!” Another prentice called out, resting just a few feet away. “Done it himself!”
“With both eyes closed, if you ask me.” Added another.
“Yeah, looks like it.” The third nodded… although the way he was looking at Ouen’s shoulder suggested that he wanted to say something entirely different.
“That’s probably why your master is kicking you out!” Howled the fourth, looking quite pleased with this clever quip. Tyro certainly thought it was clever, because his eyes lit up at the words.
“Yeah! You’re such a wreck you don’t even make a good slave for him. Now go on and run out of town, see what people think of you and that thing on our shoulder.”
Ouen couldn’t take it. He couldn’t take this garbage. Tattoos were supposed to make people respect you, not this nonsense!
“You’re insultin’ me.” He warned, taking a step towards the boy. “I don’t take well to that. And you’re insultin’ Ay’ten, too. He worked all night on this, and all you are’s jealous he’ll never give you the same chance.”
“Oh, I’m jealous, am I?” Tyro looked back at his gang, promoting them to guffaw. “Tell me, tramp, why would I be jealous that I don’t have a chance to work like a sla --”
He didn’t finish his insult, because this time Ouen’s fist knocked it straight out of his mouth (along with a tooth… or two). The boy flew back onto the ground, blood streaming from his lip. He looked stunned -- used, perhaps, to being the biggest kid in town, he’d never had to pick a fight with someone of his own caliber. Then again… this was somewhat new to Ouen, too. Sure, the shifter had always been a bit of a scrapper, and he’d always been a bit tall-ish for his kind. But until the last short while he had also been skinny and light, and usually his fights had more hair-pulling and screaming, messy tumbles between stupid children.
This time, his blow had come hard and solid, hard-earned muscle rippling across his back.
The perceived change was enough to stun him, looking from his fist to the boy on the ground.
“Get him!” Tyro shrieked. “Don’t just stand there, get him!”
The other four pounced. Now, with five against one, the fight dissolved into chaos. Ouen was the tallest, but Tyro and his gang were born scrappers. The older three weren’t exactly lightweights, either, and quickly managed to pull him down to the ground where his advantage was lost amongst a flurry of kicks and blows.
“You think I’m scared of you?!” Tyro was shouting, his own fists now landing across Ouen’s chest and (incredibly tender) shoulder. “I’m not scared of you! You’re nothing but a tramp!” The three largest prentices were now focusing their attention on him, while the younger two had their hands full keeping Shenandoah from running (teeth bared) to his companion’s side. Ouen didn’t have much of a chance to fight back or even reply, not with blood streaming from his lips and two boys holding down each of his arms.
It was early, and nobody in town seemed to want to come to his aid. Ay’ten was probably asleep after his night at work, and anyhow -- all his obligations to Ouen were finished, if he ever had any to begin with. Ouen gasped against the next volley of blows, and despite the aching fire of his wounded pride, fell slack in defeat.
“Had enough?” Tyro grinned, feeling his opponent give way.
Ouen bit down on his lip and looked away from them.
“Speak up!” The prentice threatened, fist hovering over his head. “Speak up or I’ll make you!”
This wasn’t worth it, he told himself. They were stupid kids, and they weren’t worth it. They were lying about his tattoo, they were lying about him being a slave, and they were only attacking him because there were five of them, five stinking cowards against one tired, sore and aching prentice. He knew that, he knew all that, and still --
It was hard. Hard to admit defeat.
Tyro’s fist came down again, right against his ear. Ouen cried out, his head ringing.
“You had enough??!”
He couldn’t look the idiot in the eye.
“Y--yeah.”
“You gonna show your face in this town again?”
“No.”
“Fine.” Tyro hissed. Apparently, he had nothing clever to say. He and the rest of his goons released Ouen and ran off before anyone came out of their houses to investigate, leaving Shenandoah to approach him with a wounded sort of whine.
“Sorry, Shen.” Ouen grumbled, not feeling particularly… cool, or respected, or anything else except pained and humiliated. He got to his feet and limped towards the cover of dark jungle, where he could sleep off his aches without anyone else to bother him.
“They’re wrong, anyway.” He told the trailing radaku as he walked, brushing the dirt off his shoulder. “I ain’t a slave, and it’s a damn good tattoo.”
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Apr 13, 2015 12:46 pm
done! 2460 words.
a little more preamble before the proper prompt part of it, hope that's ok.
<3
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Apr 15, 2015 9:21 am
Class Quest Result
Pass!
Ouen has passed and received a rank of Lancer!
Congratulations Ouen!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
