Post by Masquerade on Jun 2, 2006 3:34:20 GMT 12
Wharf Rats.
The name insinuates visions of rats crawling all over each other, spreading rumours and plots like a communicable disease.
Amongst the four tribes, we of the Wharf Rats are the schemers, the plotters, the backstabbers and liars. We think nothing of breaking bread with a comrade one moment, and betraying him the next. Nothing means more to us than our own skins, nothing appeals to us more than power.
At least in theory, in any case.
The Wharf Rats. The feral court ruled by a savage queen. How we will twist and kowtow to please the Berserker and her vicious rage. Like the court nobles of old we smile and compliment while behind the scenes we peel away the mask of pleasantries and sneer at those who’ve spurned us. A knotted rope about a throat has replaced the traditional poisoned dagger in the gut, but the meaning is all the same.
We feel no remorse for murder, even though it is openly frowned upon. As long as a kill furthers our cause, be it personal or in the name of our Queen and her consort (to whom we must bow and tug at our forelocks and address them in the reverent tones befitting worshippers of a minor blood god, even to the same degree that we do so towards our Queen), murder is acceptable.
Of course, so say so aloud is to invite the scorn of our fellows, for to speak such truths is terrible politics amongst us poor souls. Instead we whisper them in the shadows, taking discussions of treason and plot into the most inaccessible of sewer tunnels hoping that we’re not to be found and punished.
The prisons of our damp tunnels are a living hell at best, invested with all manner of vermin and illness. Two nights in confinement and a cough will set in, be it dry and wheezing or phlegmatic and bubbling. Two weeks and even the most iron willed of man or woman will begin to question their sanity; for the jailors speak not to the prisoners, lest the Queen or her consort slip a fine edge ‘tween their lips and part them from their tongue.
Such is the way of the rat.
-Mask
I'm gonna go back to being dead now, k.
The name insinuates visions of rats crawling all over each other, spreading rumours and plots like a communicable disease.
Amongst the four tribes, we of the Wharf Rats are the schemers, the plotters, the backstabbers and liars. We think nothing of breaking bread with a comrade one moment, and betraying him the next. Nothing means more to us than our own skins, nothing appeals to us more than power.
At least in theory, in any case.
The Wharf Rats. The feral court ruled by a savage queen. How we will twist and kowtow to please the Berserker and her vicious rage. Like the court nobles of old we smile and compliment while behind the scenes we peel away the mask of pleasantries and sneer at those who’ve spurned us. A knotted rope about a throat has replaced the traditional poisoned dagger in the gut, but the meaning is all the same.
We feel no remorse for murder, even though it is openly frowned upon. As long as a kill furthers our cause, be it personal or in the name of our Queen and her consort (to whom we must bow and tug at our forelocks and address them in the reverent tones befitting worshippers of a minor blood god, even to the same degree that we do so towards our Queen), murder is acceptable.
Of course, so say so aloud is to invite the scorn of our fellows, for to speak such truths is terrible politics amongst us poor souls. Instead we whisper them in the shadows, taking discussions of treason and plot into the most inaccessible of sewer tunnels hoping that we’re not to be found and punished.
The prisons of our damp tunnels are a living hell at best, invested with all manner of vermin and illness. Two nights in confinement and a cough will set in, be it dry and wheezing or phlegmatic and bubbling. Two weeks and even the most iron willed of man or woman will begin to question their sanity; for the jailors speak not to the prisoners, lest the Queen or her consort slip a fine edge ‘tween their lips and part them from their tongue.
Such is the way of the rat.
-Mask
I'm gonna go back to being dead now, k.
