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Writer: Vahriah
Date Thu Jul 28 16:26:03 2016
To All ( Zandreya )
Subject Close to You
Deep inside the Vallens it had remained. Centuries had passed and what was once a
hunter's blind hidden away in the large branches of a tree was merely a few boards
that mounted a useless resistance against nature reclaiming them. This was a place
where lessons were taught, where a father spent time with his two sons, tucked away
in some of the most deepest thick of the Vallens.
Small marks remained where wooden practice swords thunked into the trunk, marking
moments of youth that were centuries old, almost impossible to distinguish now.
The gates of Shalonesti had closed, and along with it, most of the hope for those
left outside. This had been a place of happiness, something that was rare to find,
with Vahriah's family. His mother and father taught Vahriah and his older brother
the basics of hunting, and shared stories of a place that was absolutely mystical,
Shalonesti. The children were born out in the wild, they never knew it, and so
for many years imagination of what it must be like was kindled here, in this place.
When mother died, they buried her near the base. Thus continued an idea of someone
or some place being close, but far away. The stories stopped, the harmony ended,
and hunting gave way to training to become a soldier. Vahriah's father, Ideco,
spoke perhaps once or twice a year after. Instructions or commands were issued with
nods and gestures, for the most part. Silence became common.
From then to now life became barracks and guard houses. Something had been abandoned
, something precious. It was something he could feel missing, ever present, always
on the precipice, to faint to understand, to loud to ignore, threatening madness. It
was easy to feel the absence of divinity, and incredibly painful. The gap was felt,
even if it had become a dull pain, rather than a stabbing one, eased by success in
other areas.
This is where that disconnect began. Vahriah pushed aside a fallen board, then some
vines, finding the remains of what were once steps on a ladder, the ones not crumbling
were used to ascend. There, where the floor was not rotting, was a small altar that
at one point had heard many prayers, and hymns sung by a family. Where a reflection
was hidden by centuries of dust, he placed his hand, clearing the surface of a mithril
symbol with a thumb, only to have a blurred image of himself, alone, facing him.
Yet something remained, buried by time, a warmth that called out through memories
regret and mourning had suppressed. He decided then this would be home for the next
few weeks. Repairs on more than just an altar had to be made.
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Jul 28 17:16:59 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Jul 28 17:21:44 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Jul 28 17:33:36 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Jul 28 17:39:45 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Jul 28 17:48:32 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Thu Jul 28 21:33:48 2016
Writer: Durst
Date Thu Jul 28 23:44:51 2016
To All Imm Tashio Marauders Claith Raije (RP)
Subject Hrm.... Check please!!
The frost{ clung to Dursts' red hued beard, blessing upon him a look of a
nobleman. His fur lined boots trudged upwards and his chest heaved with
every aching step. How much further up this mountain did he have to travel
he wondered. Another thought fluttered through his mind like a kender in
wonderment. How much further up this mountain did he have to travel he
wondered. With a echo in the distance his laughter came back to him, almost
in a mocking tone, "HA HA HA HA". Even the mountains were laughing back at
him. How dare they! Grubby gloves pawed away some of the ice and snow from
his face and he chuckled to himself again. He could see a pack of creatures
further up and they did not look like the friendly sort. He gazed further
up towards the approaching objects and shouted, "NOT TODAY I AM AFRAID! ".
With a {phaze and puff, he was gone.
The diner was warm and bones began to feel normal again. The bitter cold
was not that bad. It was the lack of fur that drove him insane. The
waitress was bubbly and a bit dim witted, Durst observed quietly in his
little booth. He poured heaping amounts of sugar into the brewed cup of
coffee, inhaling the rich flavor and warmth happily. A near sadistic grin
started to play upon his lips and stretched ear to ear. Pulling off his
gloves he cupped the mug for a bit more warmth and started to take slow sips
of the near magical {nbrew. Along the inseam of his right pointer finger and
towards his thumb was a scrawling of a tattoo that simply read: Haunt.
Durst blew some more steam from his coffee and took another gulp. A
passerby and his pal noticed the hunched warlock. The looked tough,
probably thieves or gladiator types... Why are they staring at me?! The
weary warlock slunk a bit more into his booth to avoid contact, but the men
approached anyways.
"Hey Paul! Look at this guy? Looks like someone transmorphed a pile of
Camel dung. {" Paul as he was apparently called chuckled and they both stood
over the shrinking man within the small booth. "Yeah Thomas, he looks like
an Orc and an Ogre had some odd bastard child". Both of the uninvited
guests started to laugh out loud and no other patron seemed to care about
the harassment that was taking place.
"OH! OH! Yes yes! I am ugly and made of dung, but of course I am" Durst
smiled up at the two fellows as politely as he could make himself do. His
odd shaped pupil seemed to pulsate for a moment. "Hey... What sort of bag
is that?! That looks odd... Lemme see that you pile of filth. {"X Paul
grabbed at bag that was in Dursts' possession and Thomas quickly followed
suit, both thieves gripping at it and grinned in victory. "The hell is this
made out of Tom? Some sort of pig? " Thomas looked at Paul in afraid
amusement and shrugged his shoulders just before Durst chimed in. "OH! Yes
skin... Of what well this and that sure yes no human... No kender.. Ummm
elephant!! ".
Both men looked in horror at each other then back at the Warlock in the
booth. With a teeth showing Paul looked down at Durst, "OH YEAH?! I BET!!!
" Both laughed again and opened up the sack of flesh. It only took a
moment... Maybe two. Durst saw it coming, but did not warn the vile
creatures. The reflections of the flam{oes were in their eyes and the sack
hit the floor along with two sets of boots and a heap of dark ash.
"CHECK PLEASE!"
Writer: Vahriah
Date Fri Jul 29 22:56:48 2016
To All ( Zandreya )
Subject Close to You (Harmony)
"We will not be returning, All that remains here is bitter sadness."
Vahriah worked to secure a webbed hammock between two sturdy branches,
while his mind focused on the words his father spoke the last time they
left the blind. It was the closing of a chapter, sealed away and over
years, All it's lessons erased to follow a new philosophy.
Ideco trained his two sons to let go of the past from that point forward,
and to focus strictly on discipline a dedication through the martial.
There was no room for the spiritual, everything became about strength,
speed, focus, sparing, and then rest so that the process would repeat
itself the next day.
The hammock held his weight, swinging gently to a stop. It felt
so strange not to be preparing the practice yard back at the barracks.
His cloud colored eyes lingered on the repaired and polished mithril
symbol sitting on the altar. Everything else he tore down. This was
the heart of it, exposed and raw, droplets of dew rolling down it.
The chapter was reopened.
He assumed for so long that by viritue of his race he was more connected,
to nature. Nature would not be ignored without consequence, and the acute
awareness of it's absence accumulated. It resulted in several centuries
lost, chasing after something meaningful that he forgot how to find.
Now, those precious memories, bonds that had been forgotten, began to
rise to the surface. Dew drops from the forest moisture marked each step
back, another page turned into memory by the echo made as they collected in
tiny pools where they splashed. A time when there was more to life than
being a soldier.
The words to a hymn sung by a family.
Celebrations devoted to something other than rites of passage or successful
raids.
Lessons imparted by a mother to her sons about the importance of understanding
the unity shared with the elements.
A gift of cord and wood left to him to remind him the importance of balance.
Soon drops of dew became a shower of rain. As it did, the void created by
loss and began a discord that persisted four centuries began to fill. It
would rain for two days.
Writer: Corron
Date Sat Jul 30 20:27:26 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Sat Jul 30 20:32:45 2016
Writer: Mysner
Date Mon Aug 1 07:31:01 2016
To All ( Imm rp Trojori )
Subject Spirit walk of a Runt (pat 1)
She looked proudly unto her son, he had grown so much, mature a lot from
the little frightened cub to the young adult standing before her. She knew he
was ready for this, he'd trained both with his father and grandfather, he
was prepared to take this step into adulthood and become a member of Pride
Trojori. Another of her cubs growing up to become an adult, it felt as if
time flew by so quickly. She treaded easily over the snow, her steps easy
and graceful as she guided her son to a cave where he would take his Spirit
Walk. She had visited the cave days before to ensure it would be a good
place, now she stepped in and began to prepare the bonfire, adding the herbs
needed as she took a sit and motioned Mysner to sit in front of her. "You
are ready for this step in your life, Mysner? The spirit walk is a serious
matter. You must listen carefully to what the Ancestors have to say." She
asked of her son, watching him as she adds more herbs to the fire, making
the flames crackle and hiss.
Without speaking, she makes her way to a small cave as Mysner steps through the opening. The cave was worm, the winds of the mountains not penetrating this far in. Mysner sits on a bed of moss and waits. Skylla starts a roaring fire,
filling the cave with heat and making shadows dance on the walls. 'Tonight
you will enter
the realm of your Ancestors. This place is seperate from our realm, the laws
of mortals are differant. Your guide will find you, walk with you, and lead
you to them. Do not fight your guide, no matter what it is. This is his
realm, the laws made for him. Learn from your spirit guide, cub. Hear its
voice. Only your guide can bring you back to this realm, only he knows the
way. Do you understand?' With a nod Mysner answers simply 'Yes Chieftess.
With a nod Skylla lays a bundle of herbs on the flames and begins to chant. The
words are unintelligible but stir something in Mysner's soul; Then there was blackness.
==============
Mysner wakes in the cave, the fire long cold, the air frigid. The young wemic
quickly looks around, but doesn't see anything differant, just the same cave.
'Father? With a sigh of dissapointment he walks out of the cave into the
deep snows of Icewall. His spiritwalk was a failure. Knowing the pride would
never trust him, never bring them into the Trojori as one of them, he sets out
blindly across the ice plateus. His feet crunching through the thin layer of
ice that had fallen on the snow. 'Where you going boy?' At first Mysner
didn't hear it, his mind lost in thoughts of lonliness and despair. 'Cub,
I asked you a question! That he heard. Lifting his head he turns around to
face the voice. Nothing. Turning around he takes a step and the ground vanishes into mist. 'You really aren't that bright are you boy..' A cackle
rises with the wind and is blown away just as quickly. Out of the mist a form
starts to take shape. Small, nearly lost in the mist and snow as it gets closer
and closer, until it finally reveals itself. A penguin. Mysner groans. Then
it hits him. This is the spirit realm, and his guide was a stupid penguin?!
Dissapointment turns to anger. Why can't he have the good guide. His father's
was a hawk, Roi has a panther, and even Stubby had a boar! Not Mysner, no he
has a stupid penguin! Your my guide? A penguin? I eat things like you.
The guide doesn't even twitch, just walks up to Mysner and pecks him on the leg,
opening a deep wound just above the ankle. Mysner tries to kick it away but
the penguin is gone. WHAM Another vicious bite to his hindquarters, making his back leg buckle.
Writer: Mysner
Date Mon Aug 1 07:34:46 2016
To All ( Imm rp Trojori )
Subject Spirit walk of a Runt (pat 2)
As Mysner falls through the mist that is the spirit realm,
blood pouring from his wounds, his mother's voice comes into his mind 'Trust yourself and the guides, be respectful.' Well, he screwed that up. Then
other warnings '{The spirit realm is dangerous, you can get lost without your
spirit guide' and 'Demons will look for any opportunity to hitch a ride
back to this realm The mist swirls around him, faces appearing then
dissappearing. Scarred faces, faces torn by war or murder, horned faces, and
even ones with fangs. Mysner swung his paws at them, his claws cutting through
the mist making it dissapate only to have it come back, the faces taunting him.
'Are you ready to listen boy, or do you deny me?' Mysner knew this was it,
if he denies his guide he will be lost in the spirit realm forever, or worse, a
demon will take over his body and take him back to his pride. 'I hear you
spirit guide, I'm sorry' Instantly the mist is gone. Icewall replaced by
the cool of rainforest. The howls of monkeys and the songs of birds of all
kinds. 'Now that that is over, we can get started. Leading the way, the
penguin waddles through the rainforest, not even looking back to see if Mysner
would follow.
========================================================
Mysner sighed heavily, but followed the squat little bird through cold and ice
until finally they came upon a great vallenwood tree. His guide simply walks
into the tree as if it were not there, but Mysner paused. You don't just walk
into a tree, that hurts. Walking up to it, he places his hand on the bark only
to find it passes through, so he steps in. Sitting on branches and logs, stones
and the ground, sat nearly fifty leonine. All of them were draped in animal
skins of All kinds. Lions, bears, pteridactal, even a T-rex skin, All of them
predators. None of them spoke, but a voice rings through his head deep and
powerfull. 'What is this cub that comes before us, who is this? He couldn't
speak, he couldn't move, All he could do was stare blankly. How do they not
know? Were these someone elses ancestors? Did his spirit guide take him to the
wrong place? Again the booming voice came from everywhere and nowhere All at
once''This is Mysner, son of the outcast, he is a runt of no consequence.
then a lighter voice comes through, this one not as deep but just as powerful.
Mysner looks at his guide as the penguin steps before him 'A runt he is, there
is no denying that, but he is battle proven, and with a pride. He is not
outcast, he is Trojori.
Gray mist envelops Mysner as faces peer at him, the booming voice nearly making
his fur want to jump from his skin. 'Stubborn and impatient are you cub.
Your ancestors are warriors, battle born and hardened on Raije's battlefields
across centuries. WE will be watching to see if you are worthy, now be gone
from us. As the mist clears the cave comes into focus. At first Mysner
can't tell if this is the spirit realm or reality. The moss is soft underneath
him, the fire died down to gray coals and a misty smoke. Then it finally hit
him where, and who, he really was.
He was home.
He was a warrior of Raije.
He was Trojori.
Writer: Jazaren
Date Mon Aug 1 22:18:51 2016
Writer: Garrett
Date Wed Aug 3 13:52:10 2016
To All Jazaren Ferg Kyri Alasdair Immortal RP
Subject The Ambassador's Work
A dark silence fills the Great forest of Arkane. The only illumination a
faint firelight from the Dungeon Entrance. It's doorway, seemingly nothing
more than a haphazard shack of wooden boards, is approached by a nondescript
man. The man looks inquisitively at the shabby locale. He holds an
exquisite scroll and letter in hand. 'Master Garrett?... Master Garrett
Locke? '
Answering the call, a man of impeccable business attire saunters out of the
doorway, a fine gentleman's cane in hand. 'What do we have here? ' The
messenger bows his head, and hands both the fine parchment and the sealed
note to the handsome arrival. Garrett opens the note and reads it.
Without hesitation, Garrett swings his cane downward to crush the bowed
head. Not missing a beat, he deftly turns on his heel to walk back into the
Dungeon. He nonchalantly unfurls the large scroll.
The corpse is left unceremoniously, blood still pumping from the open skull.
Writer: Corron
Date Wed Aug 3 16:12:38 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Thu Aug 4 07:56:32 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Thu Aug 4 08:24:03 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Thu Aug 4 14:19:40 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Thu Aug 4 14:22:47 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Thu Aug 4 14:24:57 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Thu Aug 4 14:54:47 2016
Writer: Garrett
Date Fri Aug 5 10:31:30 2016
To All Bloodlust RP
Subject Diametrical Concentration
'Spirit rise... , ' sings Garrett, using his mana to bring forth an
ethereal replica of himself. The spirit, completely tangible, possesses a
translucent aura that distinguishes the two of them. Other than that, the
pair are exactly alike - wearing the same clothes, standing in the same
manner, bearing the same grin on their faces.
Garrett and his doppleganger look at one another directly, and both furrow
their brows. Splitting his concentration into two different places is not
easy. His vision gets blurry. But then, Garrett's mind adjusts to the
sensory input and he can see simultaneously through both his own, and his
spirit's eyes. He looks at himself, focusing his mind into the two
entities.
Garrett takes out a small ball from his coat pocket. He throws it to
his twin. The twin catches it, and throws it back.
Full of mischief, Garrett grins widely.
Writer: Garrett
Date Fri Aug 5 11:17:40 2016
Writer: Talik
Date Fri Aug 5 13:11:25 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Aug 5 21:30:05 2016
To All RP
Subject The Expedition ( Part 1 of 6 )
Towering evergreens dominated his vision on All sides. Massive,
lichen-spotted trunks of pine, spruce and cedar risings dozens of feet
overhead and spreading branches so thick that most of the snow was kept
clear of the forest floor. Ice-kissed berries glistened on the branches of
spiny leafed bushes scattered through the sparse undergrowth. Bundled in
dense, fur-lined layers against the pervasive chill and wet of the
hinterlands, Corron trudged through an unexpectedly deep snow bank.
The last sign of habitation was more than a days's travel opposite the
seemingly endless evergreen forest. After weeks of painstakingly compiling
maps and gathering scraps of rumors and myths, Corron had begun his
expedition into the frozen heart of Icewall, chasing the merest hint of a
legend. He was truly off the edge of the map now. None of the taciturn
residents of the loch-bound highland village beyond the shroud of the forest
had any idea what lay on the other side of the woodlands, if they ended at
all.
Corron was undeterred by the prospect of forging into the unknown. The
thrill of exploration combined with the mystique of discovery in an oddly
compelling way to lighten his steps. The cold was ever present, yet so far
was little worse than the winter bite of the sea wind off the northern coast
by which he had lived for so long. He was well-provisioned for the journey
and spent each evening carefully warming nearly frozen vials of ink and
sketching new regions onto the composited maps he had brought with him.
Suddenly, the dense forest fell away on All sides as if sheered by a
colossal axe. The sight before him was far stranger than the perfectly
straight line delineating the evergreens from the tundra plains. Looming
columns of basalt, taller than the giant trees, thrust through the
permafrost to form dark spires and flowing curtain walls that glistened
dimly in the afternoon light. The frozen pillars blanketed the horizon and
formed a potentially unnavigable maze.
He was faced with a decision- enter the hidden valleys shaped by the strange
formation or likely spend days trying to walk around the obstruction.
Corron's supplies were finite and foraging was unlikely considering the
unfamiliar terrain. After minutes of futilely attempting to determine
whether he was near the middle or the edge of the basalt ridges, Corron
decided one path was as good as another and resumed his journey, passing
into an unearthly realm of frozen soil and sheer black rock that seemed to
touch the sky.
The sunlight barely filtered into the murky channels, the absence felt in
the piecing cold of the air. The basalt was strangely resistant to the ice
as though some latent inner heat kept the moisture from fully coating it.
The paths were a mad man's dance, erratic and swerving with many switchbacks
and box canyons. Corron journeyed through the evening and into the dimmest
hours of the night, unwilling to sleep in the bizarre landscape. He doubted
that he even could sleep since the last vestiges of the day's warmth were
leeched away with the setting of the sun. Even the light of the stars, so
crisp and bright in the northern sky, could barely funnel past the spires to
light his way.
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Aug 5 21:35:18 2016
To All RP
Subject The Expedition ( Part 2 of 6 )
Dawn's light, breaking across the horizon, found Corron still striding
through the basalt labyrinth. He ate on the move, the hard rations feeling
just as cold as the tundra. Only the warmth of his body kept his water
skins from freezing. Thankfully water was no issue in the wintry
hinterlands, a handful of snow sufficing in a pinch. Ahead, the shadows
began to falter until they gave way completely to the light of day as the
basalt valley ended in a snow covered field of ice. In the distance, a
mountain range stood with head and shoulders lost in the clouds.
Pausing for a few hour's rest after the full day of travel, Corron watched
the rising sun cast strange reflections over the unbroken ice plains. The
light caught in the snow, reflecting back up from something hidden just
below the surface. As his fatigue diminished, his curiosity grew until he
could no longer contain it. Carefully approaching the edge of the strange
shimmer, Corron began digging through the snow until his hands struck a
hard, smooth surface. He knelt at the edge of a vast lake, its surface
frozen solid. The rich mineral content of the water caused the peculiar
reflections and gave the ice a mirror-like sheen.
The next leg of his journey was painfully slow and nerve wracking. Each
step was placed with careful balance and shifting of his weight, senses raw
from straining to feel any shift in the solidity of the ice over the deadly
cold waters or hear a warning crackle that might signal a break. The wind
blew dense banks of snow across the ice, obscuring vision more than a few
yards ahead, leaving Corron in world of white and biting cold. Nearly two
hours into the trek with the sun a pale haze in the swirling now, the sound
he had been dreading reached his ears. It began slowly, a distant creak
growing louder as the ice contracted and fractured.
Quick-stepping several feet to the left, Corron dropped to his stomach and
began propelling himself across the slick surface, his pulse racing and the
splash of chunks of ice spilling into the frigid waters loud in his ears.
He managed to out distance the collapsing surface, skidding many yards
before trusting the ice to support his full weight again. While he had
avoided a likely fatal swim, the damp had sunk into his clothing and the
cold into his bones which made the remainder of the crossing All the more
arduous.
The sun was well into its afternoon descent when Corron left the frozen lake
behind. The exertion of the journey had driven the worst of the cold from
his flesh, if not from his clothes. The cloud enshrouded mountains loomed
closer, perhaps half a day's hard travel to reach their foothills. The
terrain was significantly less barren this side of the lake. Moss and
lichen pushed through the snow banks in low hummocks with the occasional
stunted shrub. Caribou tracks showed in the soil and hares rustled the
lowest branches of the bushes. Corron continued his steady pace forward.
Writer: Corron
Date Sat Aug 6 21:18:17 2016
To All RP
Subject The Expedition ( Part 3 of 6 )
It was only the dumbest of luck that prevented him from walking by the
snow-mired ruin without finding it. The edge of an overturned foundation
stone caught Corron's foot mid-stride, stubbing a toe and making him
stumble. Scooping away the layers frosty powder revealed that he was
standing on the remnants of a long demolished building. During the next two
hours, Corron unearthed the remains of nine more structures. Whatever had
befallen this place must have occurred years ago and left little trace. The
stones that would have composed the walls must have been carried away,
considering that the paths between each foundation were clear of debris. A
cursory examination of the remaining foundations gave no clue who had lived
here nor what had transpired. He could only speculate the use of each
building. Most had likely been homes and two larger foundations communal
storage or public houses. The largest site of All was at the center of the
forgotten village. The ruin was six sided and bigger than any four of the
others combined.
Something about the hexagonal building called to Corron. Why was it so much
larger and given such an odd design? What had been its purpose? While
pacing off the lengths of each side of the hexagon, he noticed faint lines
on the floor, a design centering each wall. Wind, frost rime, and the
scoring of blades had faded and defaced the etchings. At the center of the
floor, a strange symbol was carved and similarly ruined beyond recognition.
However, hidden within those lines, a trap door lay concealed. After some
time studying the etchings and chipping away layers of frost from the
hinges, the mechanism was triggered and the trap door rose to reveal stone
carved stairs descending a tight vertical shaft into complete darkness.
* * * * *
The torchlight cast unsteady illumination down the passageway, oily
smoke rising up the smooth stone walls. The tunnel extended into inky
blackness beyond the wavering light in either direction. The cut of the
tunnel was perfectly square, no seams marring the dull gray rock. Despite
there being no visual curve to the walls, Corron was certain he no longer
traveled in the same direction since coming into this passage at least a
quarter of an hour ago.
By now, the sun must have sank behind the ice mountains far overhead. He
had followed the spiraling stairs deep beneath the frozen earth before
reaching the beginnings of the labyrinth. There was no other word for the
subterranean complex. It was a spiraling mass of tunnels and passages, all
smooth walls and darkness. There were no markings to distinguish one
corridor from another, no hints about the function of the sprawling
compound.
Corron paused from his careful stride, resting his free hand against the
wall and watching his breath fog the air. Something about the feel of the
wall beneath his fingertips drew his attention. There was no dust and no
moisture despite the chill. Whether it was the work of a potent ward or
constant upkeep, neither boded well for his exploration. Perhaps he should
have stayed in the ruins above and scavenged for more information before
descending those stairs. He definitely should have taken a day to rest and
recover. The hard march over the previous two days, with only a few bare
hours of rest that morning, was catching up to him, dulling his mind and
responses.
Well, no use turning back with nothing to show for the effort. Corron
resumed his cautious progress down the hall. The monotony of the place
pressed at his perceptions, trying to lure him into complacency. Perhaps
there was no danger present, perhaps there was nothing at all. Yet why
would such grueling labor have been applied to the labyrinth's creation if
there was no purpose. The further he progressed, the more certain he became
that the seemingly arrow-straight path was not only curving, but descending
at an imperceptible degree.
Writer: Catroina
Date Sat Aug 6 21:21:33 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Sat Aug 6 21:26:12 2016
To All RP
Subject The Expedition ( Part 4 of 6 )
Ahead, the depth of the shadows shifted, presaging a divergence in the
path. The torch was beginning to splutter, casting more smoke than light as
it neared the end of its use. It barely provided sufficient radiance to
reveal a fork in the tunnel where the path split at sharp angles, left and
right. The quality of the masonry abruptly shifted at the fork. The
perfectly square and sheer walls became curved and vaulted, the surfaces
pocked by acid and pyroclasm. Blasted pieces of stone cluttered the halls
in both directions. The cold air hung heavy with the scent of long trapped
smoke. A battle had happened here.
One direction was as good as another. With nothing to indicate what might
lie down either tunnel, Corron turned left, straining to dismiss his fatigue
and focus his mind for anything that might forewarn of danger or give any
clue as to the purpose of this place. Not ten strides down the path, Corron
encountered the first true room in the whole of the complex, so far as he
had seen. The chamber was an immense circle, almost perfectly round. Soot
and blackened impressions were scattered around the room, showing that there
had been wooden furnishings in the room before whatever devastation had
befallen the strange compound. More symbols, marred beyond coherence, were
incised into the walls and floors, graceful curves and harsh lines blasted
away or hewn out of the stone.
Corron delved deeper into the complex, moving through rooms sculpted into a
variety of shapes. Each and every one was scarred by fire and acid, ripped
by brute force, every trace of furniture or amenities consumed or carried
away. In a relatively small room shaped like a stylized star, a spring
filled a deep pool, providing a clean water source. Unable to press his
weary body further, Corron ate a cold meal, drank deeply of the pool and
watched his torch gutter out. The darkness that enclosed him was absolute,
yet it was comforting. Even without the stark emptiness and solitude of the
tunnels, he had grown to feel more at ease enfolded in shadows.
* * * * *
Hours passed before Corron again opened his eyes, uncertain how
long he had slept or what the relative position of the sun might be on the
surface. Something had disturbed the perfect silence, penetrating the
shroud of sleep. It had not been a sound, not precisely. It was more like
the memory of sound, a barely perceptible thrum of power, like the vibration
of distant thunder felt through a wall. Corron sat in darkness for a while
longer, back resting against the wall. Had the sensation of power only just
started or had it been present All along, his senses unable to perceive it
due to fatigue? When no answer presented itself, he reluctantly drew a
fresh torch and ignited it, the tart scent of pitch and oily smoke filling
his nostrils even as light filled the room.
For the next hour, Corron roamed deeper and deeper in the complex.
Diverging paths opened on the sides of some halls and the perception of
traveling lower returned. The destruction was no longer absolute. He could
sometimes guess the lost purposes of some rooms- huge ruined libraries,
training halls, kitchens, store rooms, barracks, meditation halls with
dozens of circular recesses carved into the walls with spring-fed reflecting
pools ringing the spaces between.
As the integrity of the rooms improved, more of the runes and glyphs carved
into the floor and walls were almost complete. All were utterly foreign,
representing a dialect he could not begin to decipher. The signs of the
battle became sporadic, yet seemed to plot a course through the labyrinthine
passageways. After documenting what he could, Corron began following the
signs of destruction, using them as a guide. The distant thrum of power
steadily increased the further he progressed.
Writer: Vibulus
Date Sat Aug 6 22:35:23 2016
To Arkane All ( Cayenna Imm RP )
Subject Delightful Daydreaming
{n"Deuce.. *hiss* Deuce" called the hushed voice which neared. A
reluctant hand reached out to shake the still figure huddled upon the root
of a cypress tree, and drew back suddenly as eyes snapped open and a ready
dagger appeared. {n"Sir... False dawn, Sir. Third watch has not reported in
yet." The rugged-faced man finished when recognition lit the eyes of the
sleeper. "Very well, First.. Rouse the men, prepare for movement as
quickly as the watch can be called in." The officer replied, scanning
about as he flexed fingers gone numb from their grip on thei dagger's hilt.
Uncoiling as smoothly as stiffness would allow, Vibulus stood to gaze across
the forbidding and unfortunately familiar terrain, once more shrouded in
ground hugging fog which carried the foul miasma of the swamps. Letting his
thoughts clarify, he watched as the First file closer woke the remainder of
the Second Light Infantry Company with hushed tones and the occasional boot.
It had been 8, .. No.. 9 days now since they had begun their journey to
leave these accursed wetlands and reach civilization once more. Today would
no doubt hold more of the same slow careful plodding, winding their way in
the only direction seemingly open. The dangers of the swamp had seemed the
better bet than the likelihood of discovery by enemy patrols, out scouring
for stragglers such as themselves. The lessons of the swamp were costly,
and the debt settled with the lives of the men of the Second as payment.
Waiting for the watch report, Vibulus observed the attempts of his men to
ready themselves. Despite the hardships, training and discipline had held
thus far, evidenced in their tending to gear which the swamp wore out
despite best efforts and parsing out the meager rations remaining. He
wrapped his mind about the surge of pride he felt for them and used it to
push off the bone-deep weariness he knew they All felt acutely. He was too
young to feel so old, they All were, but he knew they looked to him and the
file closer to set the example. A burden he gladdly shouldered for all
their sakes.
He set his thoughts aside as the First returned, his brow furrowed with
concern. {n"Sir, the northern watch has not reported in. It's not like Ardur
to fail to report." The file closer said, and stepping closer added in a
hushed tone, {n"I'm gonna go walk him in myself, Deuce.. In case, well you
know.." . Vibulus nodded and said "I'll go with you, have the squad
leaders form up while we're gone." With a nod First turned and issued
orders as Vibulus belted his sword and walked off towards the watch station
with the file closer making up the distance to catch up quickly.
Approaching the site, the outstretched form of the watchstander lay with his
head atop his crossed arms, a look of peaceful sleep which left Vibulus
feeling resentful and brought a snarled curse to the lips of First. {n"Ya
lazy git.." Came the gravelly curse as the file closer laid a boot into
the side of the sleeping form. The wet viscous noise of impact startled
both men as the form rolled a bit to it's side and the hollowed out chest
and abdomen became visible before it simply folded in on itself and slid
down into the hole in the muck underneath. The body was given a final tug
and disappeared below as they scrambled back amid muttered oaths. Stunned
silence made the horror seem to stretch on forever before the shaking of his
shoulder and First's words called him back, {n"Sir?.. Sir! Your orders Sir?"
"Sir?.. Sir? Another order?" Shavia called as she gently shook him.
Vibulus tried to hide being startled behind a smile, embarrassment at
falling asleep covering the terrible visions still hiding behind smiling
eyes. "No.. Thank you. I've certainly had my fill today."
Writer: Garrett
Date Sun Aug 7 00:02:05 2016
Writer: Garrett
Date Sun Aug 7 00:25:57 2016
To Clare All RP
Subject "The Tempest" - a play by bard Garrett Locke
'WHAT THE POOP! ' exclaimed Scholarch Clare Kylen exasperatingly. '28
staves to enchant?! '
Garrett smiled professionally. This wasn't the first time his business
partner screamed at him. But that didn't make it any easier. 'I'd be
willing to pay you 50 eggs for this... '
'I don't want your eggs! ' she retorted. Garrett continued to smile
professionally. He gave her a defeated look, shrugging his shoulders in
acquiescence. 'How about a play and a ballad! ' she replied accusingly.
'A violent comedy? A lovely tragedy? Certainly one full of drama to
paraody... The life of Clar-ity, ' Garrett teased. Clare laughed aloud,
some tension defused.
Garrett thought to himself, 'I know just the play name that'll fit... '
Writer: Garrett
Date Sun Aug 7 09:39:07 2016
To Vershae All RP
Subject Negotiating with the Not-So-Friendly Giant
'You will explain to me why it must be me, ' the Supreme General bellowed
demandingly. Garrett smiled broadly, maintaining his professional demeanor.
Trying to placate the Giant Ogre's demands, Garrett lifted both his hands up
in a surrendering gesture.
'For one, you are evil. We should stick together and I should support
businesses of a like minded nature. For two? You are around a lot. And I
hate waiting. Is that sufficient? ' Garrett responded as a matter of fact.
Vershae grunted, seemingly not convinced, but not pursuing the issue
further.
'Oh, by the way, Pryma is selling the same gems for less, how about...'
Writer: Mathesan
Date Sun Aug 7 20:09:28 2016
To All Verminasia Immortal Roleplay
Subject Assault on the Bastille 1 of
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ASSAULT ON THE BASTILLE
The day was passing as many of them did when Mathesan was at home, in
Verminasia.
He sat at a table in the back at the Master's Table, a Markonian
restaurant of his estranged sister's ownership. Mathesan hadn't seen
Liviya in quite awhile. He did not harbor the same distaste for her that
was held by his father. In truth, he barely knew her, but she had
accomplished quite a bit in the name of Necrucifer, and that was worth
something.
Like other establishments bearing the Madaur name, though his sister
no longer carried it, the Master's Table was a high-class establishment.
It catered to the rich and powerful. The staff ensured that All the
tables were cleaned, even as guests ate, utilizing scrapers and other
instruments to sweep away crumbs.
Mathesan's table was in a secluded section of the restaurant, which made
it easy for his guards to position themselves to see everything in the
room. Mathesan chose the spot, however, not for its defensive location,
but because it afforded him a view of the whole restaurant without being
the center of attention.
It was exactly where he wanted to be.
BANDITS IN THE BASTILLE!!
The cry rang out resonantly against the mundane din of dinner chatter,
causing a dead silence to fall across the room. A number of the patrons
shared looks of alarm. Mathesan's guard placed their hands on their
sword hilts.
CALL THE GUARD! HIDE YOUR WARES! BANDITS!
A murmur began to swell up, replacing the ominous quiet. Mathesan quelled
it instantly.
Ladies and gentlemen. Our fine city guard will protect our walls from
any bandits. Relax. Go back to your meals. Worry not. Mathesan rose
to his feet as he spoke. His voice was deep and powerful, those who
hadn't noted his presence seemed startled to see one of the princes of
Verminasia, hood drawn back, standing among them so suddenly.
With that, Mathesan whispered in hushed tones the words of an arcane
spell. Magical energies rose up around him in a swirling blue mist, and
then he vanished, disappearing from sight.
Mathesan's guards looked around, slightly startled, but they were
well-trained and battle-hardened, their composure held.
I hate when he does that. One of the men whispered, grumbling.
A woman, a couple scars across her face, with ruddy brown hair, placed
a hand on her hip, relaxing her sword grip. Who's going to write the
incident report?
No one raised their hand.
pg. 01
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Writer: Mathesan
Date Sun Aug 7 20:12:41 2016
To All Verminasia Immortal Roleplay
Subject Assault on the Bastille 2 of
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ASSAULT ON THE BASTILLE
Herry was posted on gate duty. Everyone hated gate duty, because there
were no opportunities to sit, and one had to be alert at All times, or
be reprimanded if they were caught slacking.
Of course, being caught slacking in any of one's duties would result in
punishment, but the gate watch was more closely monitored than any
other, since it was the face of the Bastille to anyone passing by.
Almos' time fer a shif' change, yeah? Herry asked the other guard,
a tall, slow lad with the name of Rasfar.
Rasfar was upright, but had somehow managed to doze off. Herry could
tell, because he started a little when asked the question.
Wha-wha's tha'?
Herry shook his head, Nevermind.
Righ' then! Rasfar replied, adjusting his posture to be more suitable
for a soldier on watch.
The burn in Herry's thighs told him that he'd been on watch for quite
awhile. The sun had also begun to touch the tree-line, which meant it
was nearing supper, and, with that, a change of watch. Just another half
hour or so of drudgery...
Ya don' reckon we'll see battle soon, do ya? Rasfar asked suddenly.
What? Herry looked at the tall soldier. Rasfar wasn't exactly the
talkative type.
Well, ya know. With the war agains' Arkane an' all. Reckon we'll see
battle?
Herry had to think about it. He'd joined up with the military because he
was his father's second son. It was his older brother who would inherit
the family farm in Iolanthe. That was before the war had been declared
though.
There was increased activity at the Bastille. More recruits, many of them
taken reluctantly in order to avoid prison in the capital. They weren't
necessarily the most reliable sort, but when one needed bodies, they
did qualify.
Maybe. Don' know, I try no' ta think abou' it. Herry replied,
shrugging his shoulders.
Why no'? Seems importan' ta think abou'. Rasfar turned his head to
look at Herry.
I know. Tha's why I'm no' thinkin' abou' it.
Rasfar scratched his head, he didn't seem to get it, but he didn't
add anything else to the conversation.
The silence stretched between them after that. Thanks to Rasfar's
question, Herry couldn't help but think about the war now. He didn't
really want to be in a war. Many saw it as an opportunity to prove
themselves, become heroes. Herry just wanted to do his duty, maybe
become a hired mercenary, and then settle down with whatever gold he'd
acquired.
The gate behind Herry opened, he turned to see Hodrick peering out from
behind the large oak doors.
Hail! Hodrick roared, grinning. Get yer sorry arses ta the mess
hall!
Got the evenin' shift then, Hod? Herry asked amiably. He liked
Hodrick, he was a large man, but as friendly and humorous as they came.
'fraid so. Hodrick replied, his face dropping a little. Still
waitin' on Wheels.
Wheels was Tommy Wheeler, there were five Tommy's in the Bastille, and,
due to how fast he could dash, even in full armor, he'd been given the
nickname of Wheels. It had stuck.
Ras, mind waitin' 'til Wheels gets here? Yer probably jus' dozin'
anyways. Herry grinned, turning to Rasfar.
His grin was wiped away by what he saw.
Rasfar's hands were clenched around his throat, the long shaft of a
crude arrow protruding from between them. His eyes bulged out and he
sank to his knees.
Herry turned around to see a dozen arrows flying for the gate. The
Bastille was under attack!
pg. 02
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Writer: Mathesan
Date Sun Aug 7 20:14:06 2016
To All Verminasia Immortal Roleplay
Subject Assault on the Bastille 3 of
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ASSAULT ON THE BASTILLE
Bandits in the Bastille. Mathesan relayed to the rest of the
kingdom.
Arriving on the scene, Mathesan had a moment to wonder whether he had
arrived at the wrong place. His spell had taken him just outside of the
city limits, and Mathesan had to jog up the road that led to the
Bastille. Nothing seemed amiss from afar.
Will no one else respond?
Mathesan noted the crier running up the road behind him, he had outstriped
the man with his spell, the matter of distance was trivial to a master
of the arcane arts.
You there. Mathesan called, hailing down the man as he approached.
He was small for a guard, and somewhat breathless. Though, from what
Mathesan could see, he was very fleet of foot.
Aye? The man asked, gazing at Mathesan up and down warily. He placed
his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Stay your blade, soldier. I am Mathesan Madaur, Crown Prince of
Verminasia, Actuary of the Verminasian Economic Union.
The man showed the faintest bit of recognition. Oh, aye. Suppose ya
look like him, aye.
Mathesan was used to this. As a part of the royal family, and, more
importantly, having earned his father's favor in the court, there were
numerous paintings of Mathesan around Verminasia and its territories.
They were, All of them, dominated by grander portraits of his father,
but many Verminasians knew him by sight, even though he had never met
them personally.
Bandits? Mathesan asked.
Aye! Them bandits are pilferin, The man replied and, completing the
draw of his weapon, he charged ahead. AHHHHH!!
Breukig respond. Hello The voice was deep with a slight gravel to
it. Ogre.
To the Verminasian Bastille. Bandits are assaulting. Mathesan
relayed, and then pursued the charging guard through the gate.
As Mathesan neared the actual walls of the fortress, he could hear the
clear metallic clang of swords on armor, and the shouts and commotion
that went along with battle.
Passing through the gates, Mathesan began to mutter the familiar
incantations of protective and detection magic. His eyes tingled, and
his senses improved. Lastly, he surrounded himself in the white aura
of sanctuary.
The guard who had been running up the road was squaring down with
one of the bandits.
Get lost or die! It was a brave statement, All things considered. The
ground was littered with corpses, most of them guards of the Bastille.
As Mathesan cast a spell of flight, causing him to levitate off the
ground, the guard finished his charge, engaging the bandit in battle.
In spite of the bravery in his words, the guard was hopelessly outmatched
against the bandit. The bandit laughed, fighting crudely, with
well-placed kicks and jabs, followed by stabs and slashes of his blade.
pg. 03
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Writer: Mathesan
Date Sun Aug 7 20:15:27 2016
To All Verminasia Immortal Roleplay
Subject Assault on the Bastille 4 of
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ASSAULT ON THE BASTILLE
Halt. Mathesan said, in his most commanding voice.
The bandit cared not for Mathesan's words. He slew the guard fighting
him, and another who had run up and joined to aid his fellow soldier.
By the Crown o- Mathesan began, attempting to add authority to
his words. However, the bandit had wasted no time looting the fallen
gate guards, he'd found a new target.
Caught off-guard, Mathesan took several slashes before he managed to
parry one of the bandit's swings.
Reacting purely on instinct, Mathesan raised his hand and muttered the
words to the first spell that came to mind. The bandit paused for a
moment and stuck out his tongue.
Me tongue! My tongue's gone black! Wha' tha devil!? The bandit
peered at Mathesan, then began swinging wildly.
Mathesan smirked with self-satisfaction. Fake illness was an
extraordinarily useful spell. He wasn't much of a combat caster, but
he'd learned how to defend himself, and the first spell that came to
mind in a fight against an adversary was that one.
The upper-hand was now in Mathesan's favor. Though he wasn't a fighter,
the bandit no longer fought with the precision and skill he had shown
before. Mathesan even got in a few slashes himself.
Desist! Mathesan commanded, dodging and parrying the blows that
came at him.
We found this place fair and square! The bandit replied. Apparently
he'd figured out he could still talk, even if he thought his tongue
had been cursed.
This is a fort, imbecile. It was already found. Mathesan said,
dodging and parrying yet more blows. The bandit was certainly persistent,
landing a solid kick to Mathesan's stomach.
You trespass on Verminasian property.
Another bandit ran in from, coming out of one of the barracks. He
spotted his comrade engaged with Mathesan. Instead of joining in,
the man looked at the two recently slain guards, and then back to the
other bandit.
Keep him busy! We'll loot the place!
It occurred to Mathesan then he should have rounded up some of the city
guard before coming. He was adept enough in defending himself, but taking
down a whole crew of bandits would be a difficult task.
Even his own personal guard would have been useful.
Ya? An' we re-found et! Don't see your name on it! Whoever you are!
Mathesan had to figure out a new tactic. It was clear that the bandit was
ignorant of many things. It wasn't surprising that he didn't know who
Mathesan was. As many commoners as there were that knew about him, there
were still more who had never heard of him. The further away from the
capital of Verminasia one went, the fewer that knew of him, save for
those in places of power or authority.
Perhaps the bandit would cow to Mathesan's position once he was aware of
it. Verminasia's might was well-known.
I am the prince of Verminasia. Mathesan said. Not wholly true, he
had brothers, but it had a more authoritative ring to it. Lay down
your arms.
The bandit did not falter under the weight of Mathesan's words. He
didn't care at all.
Instead, he called out to the other bandits, Grab everything you can!
pg. 04
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Writer: Mathesan
Date Sun Aug 7 20:17:43 2016
To All Verminasia Immortal Roleplay
Subject Assault on the Bastille 5 of
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ASSAULT ON THE BASTILLE
The bandits knew only battle. Battle and plunder.
Mathesan did his best to match himself against his opponent. He knew a
number of spells that would injure his foe, but if he exhausted himself
too early on the one enemy, he would be useless against the others.
Your body thinks itself ill, you are no match for my spells.
It was clear the man had no respect for authority, but Mathesan hoped
to apply to the man's reason. A suggestion of force was always more
powerful when supported by a show. Mathesan could end this man, perhaps
his threat would force the man to reconsider. Even now, the spell
continued to work its malignant magic in the man's mind. He still fought
distractedly, worrying over the sensations he felt in his mouth.
Tonight we eat like kings! The bandit roared.
So sense was useless as well. How did the man expect to eat when he
believed his tongue was rotting?
Those who surrender will live! Mathesan called out. He could not
reason with this fool, but perhaps others would listen.
Ha! Ah pansy prince we got 'ere guys! Help me loot 'is bodae! The
bandit cried out in response.
Mathesan simply stared at the man, calculating his actions. Insults
were vexing, but they did not hold the same weight with Mathesan as
they did with others.
The rest will die. Mathesan yelled in reply. There was no inflection
of anger to his voice, however. His words were as cool as his expression.
Mathesan continued to fight with the bandit, but made no progress. Though
he was able to parry or dodge most of the blows, his own attacks were
making little headway with his opponent.
The bandit himself was protected by sanctuary magic. It was odd for a
lowly bandit to have such a spell, but he was no ordinary opponent
either. Mathesan cleared his thoughts and focused them, concentrating
on his next spell.
With a harsh incantation, Mathesan uttered words of arcane power that
vibrated through the air. There was no visible effect.
Mathesan tried again. The rippling in the air was more forceful this
time, even the bandit noticed, but nothing else happened. Mathesan
took in a deep breath, relaxed his body, even as he parried a blow. All
he had to do was find the power. Connect with it.
Shouting out the incantation, Mathesan stared at the bandit and watched
as the ripple in the air coalesced around his opponent. The spell of
sanctuary was ripped asunder, the magics violently crashing against
one another, even though they made no visible impact on the combatants.
It was a success. A small one, but the bandit was now afflicted with a
fake illness, and his defenses had been shattered. Things were adding
up.
Mathesan was vaguely aware of other skirmishes erupting outside the
entrances to other buildings. Most of them were still inside, but some
had begun to spill out onto the grounds.
Free the prisoners! The bandit yelled. Mathesan wished he would
shut up.
As one of the guards neared him, Mathesan shouted aside to the man, Get
reinforcements from the city!
pg. 05
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Writer: Mathesan
Date Sun Aug 7 20:19:03 2016
To All Verminasia Immortal Roleplay
Subject Assault on the Bastille 6 of
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ASSAULT ON THE BASTILLE
The battle was not going well.
Even with his advantage, Mathesan was no warrior. He continued to assault
his enemy with acid blasts. The man was taking wounds, but he was much
hardier than most men. He was wearing Mathesan down. Even when Mathesan
finished this bandit off, there would be more.
Blood mingled with sweat, which stung as it dripped across open wounds
on Mathesan's face, arms, and torso. He blocked or dodged most of the
bandits blows, but little cuts were adding up. Becoming deeper, larger
wounds than their initial injury.
Frustrated, Mathesan disengaged. There were a lot more bodies around
him now.
Mathesan could feel the blood pulsing his temples. He was drunk on
adrenaline. It was raw, visceral, unlike anything else he had
experienced.
Killing was easy. Mathesan had done it before. It had brought about
similar feelings.
This was different, it wasn't easy. Yet it was certainly exciting. The
foe was a worthy one, even if he smelled like feces and stale urine. His
breath was rank with drink, but he fought with a skill and ferocity that
not even Mathesan's spells could tame.
Mathesan searched out his foe, and approached him. Lay down your arms.
Just at that moment, the guard he had asked to get reinforcements,
returned.
Ah got re'enforcements! The young man said proudly.
Mathesan looked around.
But they left. The man added lamely.
Just as Mathesan asked, Where?
Blinking, Mathesan sighed.
Breukig at Guillotine. Where him go?
The Ogre's voice drew Mathesan's attention away from the scene for a
moment. He had been conversing back and forth, trying to get the only
active citizen who had responded to the Bastille. Ogres weren't known
for being bright, but Mathesan was patient.
Allow me to summon you. Mathesan responded.
The guard had retreated already. Perhaps, Mathesan hoped, to find the
reinforcements he had supposedly brought. One of the bandits ran up into
one of the watch towers. Mathesan measured his breathing. His entire body
was still ready for battle, but he had to calm his mind. Concentrate.
He wasn't going to win the battle of attrition by spamming blasts of
acid. Impressive as it was, it was draining, and he already felt weak
from the energy he'd expended.
Charming another creature -- or warrior, would certainly be a more
efficient use of his resources.
Breukig okies to summon.
Right. The Ogre.
Mathesan shifted his concentration and let loose the words to the spell
that would summon Breukig.
Instantly, Breukig appeared.
Waving his hand, Mathesan cast a spell that surrounded Breukig with the
white aura of the Sanctuary spell. At that moment, the gate guard
appeared again, with a street cleaner from the city.
Got one! The young man said, a little too enthusiastically.
pg. 06
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Writer: Mathesan
Date Sun Aug 7 20:20:14 2016
To All Verminasia Immortal Roleplay
Subject Assault on the Bastille 7 of
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ASSAULT ON THE BASTILLE
A street cleaner, a barely trained guard, and, by the looks of it, a
minimally trained Ogre as well.
Mathesan looked Breukig up and down. The Ogre certainly had the size
and ferocity of the giant Ogres, but he held himself with the uncertain
posture of new barbarian. He was likely to fight to the death, but,
given his inexperienced training, death was likely the only possible
result from his involvement.
Re-focusing his thoughts upon what he needed, Mathesan drew on the
latent power contained within the glittering white stone in his hand.
A nexus opened up before him. It was as though a door had been ripped
into reality. Around the edges of the gate, the magic fluctuated and
faltered. However, the gate itself showed a clear image of what was on
the other side.
The Forbidden Forest.
There was no time to waste. Mathesan didn't bother explaining what he
wanted to do. Instead, he strode forward through the gate with the
purpose and confidence of a man of action. It hurt to move, his wounds
were still raw, but he had little choice in the matter.
Without hesitation, Mathesan laid eyes on one of the wandering warriors
and uttered the incantation of the spell of charm. Magic rippled through
the air, hitting the warrior and wrapping itself around him. A barely
discernable change in his posture occurred, and the warrior looked at
Mathesan as though he were a god to be worshiped.
Wordlessly, Mathesan ordered the warrior to go through the gate that
returned to the Bastille. The warrior moved as he normally would have,
fluid and confident in his stride. Control over a charmed person was
all about mental discipline. Those who did not have the mental fortitude
would often cause their subjects to do haphazard, random things, and
movements would end up jerky, like a puppet with its strings pulled.
The second warrior was more resistant.
Initially, the warrior fought back as the spell passed through his
consciousness and faltered. Mathesan quickly disengaged. He found
himself momentarily disoriented. The fighting had taken its toll, he
was intoxicated on adrenaline, and his body was grasping for some sort
of replacement for the energy it had spent.
Finding the warrior once more, Mathesan summoned up the energy to charm
him again. The same, dreamy, adoring look filled the man's eyes. With a
mere thought, the newly charmed warrior followed the other through the
gate.
This the best you can mount for as a defense? One of the bandits
asked as Mathesan stepped back through the gate.
Mathesan didn't bother to answer. Wordlessly he ordered the warriors to
attack. The sight of blades flashing made more sense now. There was a
rhythm to the movements of skilled fighters on opposing sides. The
bandit's own hits were striking far harder, but the warriors were quicker
and double-teaming the bandit.
No wonder your walls fall. The bandit snorted through the fighting.
Narrowing his eyes, Mathesan focused initially on bringing down the
bandit's protective spells. However, he realized that the warriors were
taking harsher blows due to their own lack of protection. Chanting the
words of power, Mathesan was rewarded with a white aura around each
of the warriors.
Breukig smash bandit? The Ogre asked.
Finally, things were looking as though they had turned.
pg. 07
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Writer: Mathesan
Date Sun Aug 7 20:21:22 2016
To All Verminasia Immortal Roleplay
Subject Assault on the Bastille 8 of
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ASSAULT ON THE BASTILLE
Only with care. They are dangerous foes for you. Mathesan responded,
glancing between the Ogre and the bandit.
From there, everything faded to a blur. Mathesan remembered shouting,
proclaiming the power of Necrucifer and of the Black Moon. He flung
spells with reckless abandon as he never had. He dodged and parried
blows, had the warriors rescue him, but, mostly, he lost himself in the
fighting.
Somewhere in there the bandits were discussing loot, and about freed
prisoners. It wasn't until one of them spit at Mathesan that he was
finally jerked out of his almost trance-like state.
Mathesan glanced down at the spit.
Guard no fight bandits. They sit there no fight. The Ogre observed.
In All of the fighting, Mathesan hadn't noticed. There were only a
handful of guards left that weren't moaning piteously, or already dead
in a heap of bloody flesh.
Worrisome, yes. Mathesan noted, directing his comments at Breukig.
One of the bandits flashed a leering grin, That's cause we're not tied
up!
Because they are too scared. Piddled in their pants they did. The
bandit continued, even sparing a moment to flash a roguish wink in
between the sparring.
One of the other bandits laughed at the crude joke.
Mathesan diverted his attention back to casting spells. He was tired of
the uncouth bandits. They were rude and obscene, they were threatening
Verminasia's sovereignty, they had stained an otherwise ideal day.
BREUKIG NO PIDDLE! The Ogre shouted out, quite offended at the
notion.
The outburst finally diverted one of the bandits' attention over to
Breukig. Piddle, the bandit whispered.
A different bandit cried out, Break for it guys, head for the hills.
The loot is ours!
The Ogre howled and then screamed out a war cry. Even for a barely
trained fighter, the sheer size of Breukig was an intimidating sight
to behold when he was enraged.
BREUKIG NO PIDDLE!
The bandits were beginning to flee. Not out of terror, but simply because
they had what they came for. Some of them were clearly drunk, causing
Mathesan to wonder why there was alcohol stored in the Bastille. However,
not All of the bandits were fleeing. Two of them kept on Mathesan, to
distract him from halting their comrades.
Mathesan's temple pounded, throbbing blood building up against the inside
of his head like it was desperate to get out.
BREUKIG NO PIDDLE! The Ogre stated again. He emphasized the point
again, moments later, NO PIDDLE!
One of the remaining bandits laughed at Breukig. You sure about that?
He turned his attention to the Ogre, his blades cutting into Breukig's
flesh easily. It was a startling display of skill, and forced the Ogre to
disengage. Breukig did not look good. Garish gashes were everywhere on
his enormous body.
Mathesan wondered where the positive feeling had gone. The tide had
turned again. His own wounds were adding up. Fresh blood flowed over
dried blood that filled in between his digits, crusted on her lips, and
matted his hair. He had never before been in such a situation. There
was a modicum of fear vibrating somewhere in his core.
pg. 08
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Writer: Mathesan
Date Sun Aug 7 20:23:00 2016
To All Verminasia Immortal Roleplay
Subject Assault on the Bastille 9 of
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ASSAULT ON THE BASTILLE
The fight continued to devolve from there. Mathesan's charm magics
failed at some point, he lost track of when, but the forces that guided
the arcane laws wouldn't let him wrestle control back while they were
in heated conflict with the bandits.
At another point, Mathesan balefully remarked on the lack of the
Verminasian response. There were only a few Verminasians awake, but, of
all of them, only the least trained responded. There was some sense of
pride in the fact that the Ogre did respond. The heart of Verminasia
was still beating.
Breukig slaped one of his over-sized palms against his chestplate.
The bandits couldn't restrain themselves, they'd never been able to, they
didn't care. Aye at least he didn't piddle as much.
Mathesan groaned inwardly. He would never have let something so inane
show through his composure, even if he was drenched in sweat and blood.
The comment was intended to incite, and incite it did.
Breukig growled. BREUKIG NO PIDDL!
In spite of the renewed rage, the Ogre fared no better. The fight was
losing traction on them quickly, it was threatening to snowball into a
landslide.
Begone foul bandits! The voice was a new one. Mathesan looked from
Breukig to the source of the voice.
Already throwing himself into the fray was a guard from the city
patrol, the calvary had arrived!
Figuratively speaking anyways. Most of the city guard weren't mounted,
and this one certainly wasn't. He fought with the prowess that any of
the city guard in Verminasia could show in battle. Sure, among the
heroes of the realm, most of them would be able to best a singular guard.
But, amongst the commoners of the realm, the city guard were the elite.
Fortunes had reversed once more, but, this time it seemed they would
continue to be favorable. There was only one city guard, but he was
dispatching the bandits with ease. Aided by Mathesan's spells, the
bandits were no match.
Guard. Mathesan said, A sight for sore eyes.
Breukig was still on the point of frothing. The Giant Ogre was trembling
with his rage. Even with the situation finally settling in their favor,
there remained danger for Breukig.
See if you can round up more city guards. Mathesan directed to the
Ogre.
The city guard finally slew one of the bandits, impaling the criminal on
the blade of his sword. One of the other remaining bandits screamed.
Run if you know what's good for you! The guard shouted, then added,
Or die like that other useless pile of crap.
The bandit who screamed turned his attention on Mathesan. It was clear
in that moment that he was going to die, and perhaps wanted to take
someone with him.
Surrender. Mathesan commanded at the man, doing his best to fend
off the attack.
In spite of Mathesan's best efforts, the desperate bandit was still
managing to inflict wounds.
You okay sir? The city guard asked, unable to intercede.
Surrender this! The bandit growled.
Mathesan grunted. I could use some help. He replied.
Mathesan managed to disengage with some effort. He was breathing heavily,
sweat was stinging the wounds anew.
Surrender. Mathesan repeated, still trying to catch his breath.
Surrender. The guard added.
The battle had come to a halt.
pg. 09
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Writer: Mathesan
Date Sun Aug 7 20:24:33 2016
To All Verminasia Immortal Roleplay
Subject Assault on the Bastille 10 of
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ASSAULT ON THE BASTILLE
Never. The bandit looked between Mathesan and the guard.
Mathesan managed to get control over one of the warriors again, and the
battered combatant positioned himself behind the bandit. The world was
closing in around him. His options were running out.
And perhaps a cell will be your friend, unless you'd prefer a dark
dank hole in the ground. The guard added.
Seems to me they're the same thing. The bandit retorted.
Mathesan wiped some of the sweat and blood from his brow in a vain
attempt to relieve some of the stinging pain. The bandit flashed Mathesan
a grimy smile.
You fight well for scum. There's a chance for redemption in the cell.
Verminasia could use hard fighters. Mathesan said, trying to change
the course of the conversation.
Then Breukig interjected, Looks like yous piddled.
That comment pierced through the bandit's seemingly cold, hard shell.
Without warning, he leaped at the Giant Ogre. Breukig didn't even get
in a single counter blow. The bandit's savagery was blinding. It was the
last gasp of a dying man.
Piddle that. The bandit growled as his blades finally hit home and
ended the Ogre's life. He's bleedin, the bandit added.
As are you. Mathesan pointed out, And, with that kill, you've signed
your own death warrant.
There goes any redemption. The city guard agreed. Then, with a
dispassionate move, slew the bandit with one, fatal blow.
It was only after the kill that the guard showed any sort of passion,
spitting on the corpse. Mathesan stared at the lifeless body of the
bandit. There was nothing there, nothing.
You have my thanks. Mathesan said to the guard. Then, he admitted,
I should have prepared better, but time was of the essence.
Of course. The city guard answered.
What a waste. Mathesan muttered.
All for supplies. The guard added. Opportunists. All of them.
Perhaps a couple of your men can clear the area. Mathesan was
beginning to feel faint.
The guard was still talking. But some got away, they may attempt again.
Mathesan nodded. The faint feeling was becoming heavier.
I will file a report. Mathesan said.
The city is our patrol area, but perhaps the army can plan some forays
into the woods. The guard said.
Able to be summoned? Mathesan directed toward Breukig.
Breukig can be summon, was the reply.
Using what little energy remained to him, Mathesan focused his
concentration on the Ogre, causing him to instantly appear. The Ogre
was still a ghost, but he immediately began to recover his things. If
there was one blessing in Algoron, it was that death had to be special
to be permanent. It was ironic that the immortal gods were one of the
few that risked eternal rest in the endless void with but a simple, fatal
blow.
It will be done. Mathesan said. He had a missive to write, and a
date with some healing draughts and a cot.
pg. 10
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Writer: Corron
Date Sun Aug 7 22:06:58 2016
To All RP
Subject The Expedition ( Part 5 of 6 )
Whether a result of the power unleashed against the vanished denizens of
the complex or by intentional design for a final defense, the tunnels grew
ever more unstable. Walls wavered on the verge of buckling and in various
states of partial collapse, sections ponderously canted inward with chunks
of the ceiling fallen across the floor. Entire rooms and intersecting
pathways were often blocked by rubble. Weighing his steps with additional
care, Corron journeyed onward with increasing hesitance.
The only warning was a growing groan, rock scraping against rock as the
tunnel began to cave in. Heaps of dirt and stones, ranging from the size of
his head to twice the mass of his body, began cascading from above.
Scrambling madly, Corron rushed down the hallway, caroming off the walls,
flinging himself side to side in vain effort to avoid the falling debris. A
rock clipped his head, splitting skin above his right eye, his blood quickly
blinding him on that side. Leaping over a huge boulder that smashed into
the floor inches ahead of him, he spring-boarded against the tunnel wall,
launching himself further down the hall. Strangling clouds of dust filled
the air, coating his throat, stealing his breath, and racking his torso with
the need to cough.
A sharp rock tore open the back of the hand holding the torch, knocking it
from his grasp. The light was promptly snuffed by dirt, forcing him to flee
blindly. More stones battered him, knocking him off balance, punching and
biting into his flesh. Lungs screaming for air he dared not inhale, Corron
urged the last strength from his body, now weaving unsteadily rather than by
design. A boulder collided with his shoulder, knocking his arm out of
socket and replacing the darkness with electric shocks of agonizing pain
across his vision. The force of the impact sent him flying forward,
skidding painfully over the rubble strewn ground, gravel and grit skinning
his chest, cheek and limbs.
The last of the falling rubble settled with some minor rasping, constricting
and spilling of dirt, leaving Corron in dust swaddled darkness. Unable to
hold his breath any longer, his body rebelled and gasped in a great lungful
of the dirt-choked air, prompting a chain reaction of hacking coughs
inevitably bringing in more dust. The choking coughs rattled both his
dislocated arm and likely fractured shoulder, fresh lightning strokes of
pain exacerbating the cycle of struggling for breath.
Grueling, agonizing minutes later, Corron dragged himself out of the edge of
the rubble. Dozens of minor abrasions and contusions blanketed his frame.
All would require cleaning and the two most severe cuts would need
stitching. Unfortunately, one was over his eye and beyond his abilities to
tend. The most pressing concern was his arm. Fumbling into a kneeling
position, he clamped the hand of the unhinged limb between his knees.
Taking several deep breaths before jerking his torso up against the
restraint of his legs, Corron allowed the straining ligaments to yank him
down and guide the arm back into its socket. Explosions of pain and numbly
pricking needles lanced up his arm and through his torso.
An absurd desire to laugh rose within Corron. His lips twitched
spasmodically and his bruised ribs strained painfully as he resisted the
urge to laugh. His dust choked lungs were unable to comply with such an act
regardless. The way behind him was completely sealed. Should the equally
unstable path ahead lack either an exit to the surface or an alternate
passage to the rest of the complex, he was essentially buried alive.
Struggling to muster every stray shred of willpower, Corron drew his
battered body from the floor. His pack had been shredded in the collapse.
Most of his supplies were now buried beneath countless tons of earth. The
hysterical impulse to laugh rose again until he managed to dispel it. His
gait growing steadier with each step, Corron allowed himself only a grim
smile as he strode blindly into the darkness.
Writer: Garrett
Date Mon Aug 8 08:03:24 2016
To Tyrinx All RP
Subject Searing Memories
'Well, in theory, it is possible, ' Tyrinx of the White replies, his brow
furrowed as he stares up, thinking. 'It would take a balance of serveral
magicks. Forget. Permanency. Betray. Charm. Disjunction. Restore Mind.
I may need to even dabble in a little change sex to make you sexless...
Helps with the harvesting. ' The wizened, yet adorable Champion of
Kantilles turns his quizzical gaze upon Garrett. 'Question is... Why?
'My reasons are my own. Do you wish to experiment in this or no? '
'I will not lie. I am interested. I won't even charge you for the
services. But one thing? ' Tyrinx smiles cutely and raises his hands,
beginning the complex casting needed. Garrett nods, steeling his own will.
'This is going to hurt... A lot. ' Tyrinx finishes his hand motions,
energy bursting forth.
Garrett collapses to the floor, writhing uncontrollably as his mind and body
are torn apart from within. He screams hideously.
Writer: Shiara
Date Mon Aug 8 08:16:38 2016
To Conclave ( Tashio Roleplay Drakkara All )
Subject Perfecting the Trap: Into the Earth
The night air was cool and still, slightly damp and clung to the skin.
Shiara frequented this forest when the opportunity for quiet solitude
presented itself, away from but still not a great distance from the Black
Tower. What drew her here years ago she couldn't say, nor why she returned
to it so often.
She had heard of but never ventured near the crypt where she now delved at
the forest's edge. The structure above it might as well have never been,
collapsed stone and markers of what once were walls the only evidence left.
The passage down lay exposed slick with moss and soil, runoff having
collected into a shallow pool at the bottom.
Assuming shadowform she drifted over the rubble and ruined remains, down the
stone stairway into the earth. She relied on her naturally gifted sight,
foregoing the use of light. What she thought to be the bottom of the stair
was actually a landing where it turned in a spiral before descending again.
Lingering there briefly, scarcely noticable before, the weight of something
sentient, some essence pressed on her from below. The chill of adrenaline
ran through her limbs, her heartbeat quickened. For some time she waited,
reaching out with her senses, concentrating on controlling her nerves.
The aura remained unchanged, unmoving. At least this was a sign something
like what she sought was here.
Lightly, gracefully with her left hand she drew a gemstone from her pouch.
One of several she had procured for the occassion.
Still nothing changed after several moments had passed. She continued down
the stair as it turned passing soundlessly through the shadows into
darkness.
Writer: Corron
Date Mon Aug 8 19:25:00 2016
To All RP
Subject The Expedition ( Part 6 of 6 )
For a time, he wandered in darkness, fumbling blindly, injuries throbbing
and thirst gnawing at his dust-dry throat. Gradually, Corron became aware
of the thrumming power. Its presence entered his mind like the distant
tolling of a bell. With each soundless knell, the darkness lessened, or
perhaps his awareness altered, until the tunnel seemed suffused in a soft
grey mist that provided illumination. He must be hallucinating, nothing
else made sense. Yet, using the possibly imagined perception of light, he
could see the obstacles in his path and no longer scraped his shins on the
rubble of partial collapses that littered the corridor.
Somewhere ahead, true light spilled through a threshold- or maybe it was
more hallucinations, he could no longer tell. The tunnel ended in a vast,
circular chamber. Water from an underground river flowed through carved
pipes, coating the walls in quiet waterfalls and filling deep channels in
the floor with clear, bitterly cold water. The channels formed a
complicated sigil in the floor, the chamber too large and curved to see the
rune in its entirety from anywhere save the center. In the very middle of
the room, a raised dais held a silver font. The radiance which illuminated
the chamber emanated from within that font. The force that had nearly
obliterated the rest of the compound did not appear to have reached this
final chamber. The room exuded calm and serenity... And power. The air
was charged with unfamiliar energy.
From the threshold, Corron noticed that the room curved up at the center,
raising the dais and its silver basin even with his chest. It might have
only been his mind, addled by pain and fatigue, yet he felt a presence in
the font, one that stretched far beyond this room, tendrils of the aura
extending even beyond the ruined village on the surface. Corron felt as
though his presence dirtied this place, dust and blood staining a hallowed
hall. Conversely, he did not feel unwelcome. Despite the impossibility of
it all, this place felt familiar and his presence proper. Corron purified
himself in the achingly cold waters of the outermost channel, attending his
injuries and consuming the final scraps of his rations.
Finally, when he felt as restored and presentable as possible, Corron
navigated the pathways to ascend the dais. The source of the light lay
within the water of the font, catching flakes of crushed crystal and
creating an ethereal glow throughout the liquid. Reverently, he sank into a
kneel before the basin, feet and calves folded beneath his thighs. Hands
resting atop his legs and turned inward with his fingertips barely touching,
Corron let the light fill his vision and began to meditate, clearing his
mind and immersing his senses in the chamber's energy. Time became lost to
him, the hours slipping away with the passage of the sun and the moons far
above.
Within his mind came again the distant tolling of a bell. The sensation
drew him to his feet, feeling rejuvenated. With only minor reluctance as he
turned his eyes from the font and its contents, Corron drew a handful of
grass from within a fold of his sash. Smiling with grim resolve, he
scattered the still green blades of grass at his feet and set his mind to
the task at hand. It was time to find a way out. It was time to go home.
Writer: Zola
Date Tue Aug 9 04:16:44 2016
To All Bloodlust Abaddon Verminasia Darkonin Immortal Fatale
Subject X Re-Issuing the Challenge X
The call had gone out for blood. The thrill of the hunt, the joy of the
slaughter, the simple pleasure of living at the expense of another dying.
The challenge was being re-issued.
The rules were simple enough to follow. Find an enemy of Fatale, and kill
them. Bring their body back to the Graveyard of Fallen Enemies in Abaddon,
bury them. Their interred bones would form the foundation of His Temple,
and their cursed spirits would remain entrapped within for an eternity.
That was the easy part. The more challenging portion was finding a suitable
foe. Any idiot with a sword could kill a villager or slaughter a herd of
sheep. Few could boast taking down a dragon, and fewer still
single-handedly. Great warriors, powerful sorcerers, leaders of mighty
kingdoms, prominent spiritual heathens, these were worthy kills of Fatale's
faithful.
The Deathscythe had a list of worthy candidates to consider, many powerful,
many prominent, All worthy of dying by his hand. He'd choose one in time.
For now, he was supervising. Guiding the other faithful as they returned
with their kills, telling tales of murder most foul in myriad beautiful
fashions.
Zola watched from his perch beside the central obelisk, as the graves were
filled, and more on the peripherary being dug by the day. The Graveyard was
a place of death and dying now, and he could well imagine the Lord of Murder
was pleased. He leaned against his scythe for support, resting his right
hand against it as he watched ominously.
In his other hand, he clutched a precious object to him. A single, tiny
little bell of silver. Idly he lifted it up, holding it beside his hooded
head, near his ear, and let it dangle freely. It did not yet ring, to his
disappointment, but it would. Sooner or later, it would ring. He needed
only be patient.
Writer: Corron
Date Tue Aug 9 12:15:16 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Tue Aug 9 12:18:25 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Tue Aug 9 12:29:22 2016
Writer: Teimhnean
Date Tue Aug 9 12:49:35 2016
To All Garrett imm
Subject Two Crowns and a Cane
So far as bardic poetry goes, the epic verse holds little appeal for
patrons of the seedier taverns, save for the rare soul that prefers their
skulduggery and rotgut with a touch of erudition. Still, the following
verse could be heard in bits and pieces at various taverns in Algoron, more
generally in Arkane and Verminasia - describing a brief meeting between an
Imperial Crown and a certain Bastard and Gentlemen known within the dungeon.
----
Mortal imitation of immortal hand, calld upon halcyon
Dreams of honeysuckle glory; of peaks without valleys
Of power without flaw, and All the weight of J'thraal's throne -
Immutable and untouched, spoken by twin thrones lit
In gloam of eve; Regal halls of ancient dominion, whereon
They received in austere posture the sanguine emissary.
A fairer soul lost not to virtue, by ostensible mien he
Was of good blood and generous disposition - but parted
Seemings reveald danger of allure - for where he spake
Words were gilded - silver over a butcher edge. Eager
To ease or to sever, to join or part - as moment invited.
August were they, in cautious reception stood, to hear
The Dungeons Ambassador; who spoke of wants and
Understanding - expectant respects and courtesy
among enemies - tone and tongue shifting from question
To statement, query to claim. Wary they received and
Demurring in measure to force - words danced as vapors,
Scant conclusion drawn - rather ended parley with none
Having minded each not offending, small achievement
Were it not for the voice of the Ambassador's officiating
Constituency. Substantial was the maneuver, permitted
By his charm or aplomb, to dwell if for a moment in those
Halls of light untouched and unharmed; And a rare,
handsome piece of work indeed to convince brief civility
for a Gentleman Bastard such as he.
Writer: Garrett
Date Wed Aug 10 09:35:31 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Wed Aug 10 22:24:00 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Aug 11 14:20:49 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Aug 11 14:22:58 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Aug 11 14:25:09 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Aug 11 14:26:54 2016
Writer: Vahriah
Date Thu Aug 11 20:57:42 2016
Writer: Shiara
Date Fri Aug 12 01:21:33 2016
To Conclave ( Tashio Roleplay Drakkara All )
Subject Perfecting the Trap: Introductions
The dark was so complete not even her vision could make anything out, the
starlight outside was too faint to penetrate beyond the foot of the stair.
The weight in the air from below grew, whatever it was had changed. A
raspy, hoarse whisper, strained and tinged with anger came forth as though
echoing down a long tunnel, "Trespasser! Interloper!"
The dialect was old, something perhaps she had heard as a very young child.
At the same time two points of bluish-white light kindled in the distance.
It approached her quickly, with purpose.
Shiara froze, again trying to reign in her physical reaction, her heart now
thumping in her chest. In seconds it was on her, and stopped. The lights
only a few inches from her face.
A force dragged across and through her shoulder. Then up to her face,
insubstantial strands brushed over her eyes. The lights receded, the raspy
whisper returned, less insistent, "Begone..."
She let a few seconds pass before responding, "I do not mean to intrude, I
have come to help you." All fell silent again. Could it even understand?
Did it know a lie when it heard one?
She conjured a small ball of light, just bright enough to get some idea of
what she faced. The tomb extended on maybe only ten yards under a low
vaulted ceiling. Regularly spaced pillars on either side ran down the
length, each pair with a sarcophagus in between.
The being before her was more difficult to make out, a void where the light
refused to penetrate. A shadow in the shape of a person but ill-defined
with only a vague resemblance to a head and arms. Its eyes remained the
same bluish-white, undiminished in the light.
Her shadowform had served well to provide some protection being of a similar
essence. "Now let us see if we can free you of this place." Holding forth
the gem she began uttering a spell.
Writer: Shiara
Date Sat Aug 13 10:53:11 2016
To Conclave ( Tashio Roleplay Drakkara All )
Subject Perfecting the Trap: Paying the Toll
She closed her eyes and put forth her concentration on the stone. Like
the magic used to assume a corpse host, she imparted a portion of her
essence to the gem. But only a portion, just enough.
Instantly the shadow moved forward, drawn like a hungry animal to a
profferred piece of food. Her conciousness split between her own body and
the stone, she continued the spell waiting for the right moment.
In an instant it pounced, on this bit of life force held before it as an
affront to its own miserable existence. She was not prepared for the
fierceness of this spirit and its rage. Blind rage, senseless and savage.
Mingling with one another, trying to maintain focus on the stone, she felt
its twisted mind full of hate. Hate of this crypt, hate of the dead within,
hate of itself, hate of the world, and most of All of the living. Through
countless years, the sting of emotion was still fresh and raw: betrayal,
treachery, revenge. Left alone with only enough sense to be aware of
itself, to turn and gnaw on itself with no purpose and no end.
Shiara struggled to exert her will to subvert the shadow's and seal it
within the stone, it being bent only on murder. Suddenly it sensed her
intention and recoiled. Her concentration could no longer remain fixed,
torn in too many directions as she fought in vain to hold on.
She sputtered the last few words of the spell just in time to be too late.
The gem instantly shattered in a spray of slivers. The mental shock sent
her staggering backwards and reaching blindly for anything to steady
herself.
Unable to maintain it, her shadowform slipped away, drawing the spirit in to
advance again. This time its cold touch bit deep attacking with ethereal
hands that had taken a grim, sharp form like monstrous claws. Still
reeling, she was defenseless, cursing out loud as one blow after another
sapped away her strength.
She drew her enchanted dagger in desperation and stabbed wildly at its face.
It was howling mad, disturbed but not deterred. Icy, inky darkness pressed
on her, suffocating in the grasp of death, obscuring sight, All sound
fading.
Conciousness drifting away, All turned black as she slumped to the ground.
Writer: Anathaelynn
Date Sat Aug 13 14:45:23 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Sat Aug 13 17:49:15 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Sat Aug 13 17:55:46 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Sat Aug 13 17:59:01 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Sat Aug 13 23:13:10 2016
Writer: Vahriah
Date Sun Aug 14 11:13:30 2016
Writer: Verdemar
Date Sun Aug 14 15:45:35 2016
To All Shadow Zorreau Reklah Crelius ( Necrucifer Imm Roleplay )
Subject The Renegade and the Cannibal, pt. 1
There are five of them, Sir. Armed and unarmoured, but for the renegade.
He still wears th-
I know what he stole. The lieutenant shifted uncomfortably as his
commanding officer cut him off. He looked down at the written orders in his
hand and back up to the long haired man seated imperiously behind the war
table.
What would you have us do?
Bring her to me.
The lieutenant's breath caught in his throat, but he brought his arm up,
saluting his superior smartly and turning on his heel to obey.
Rain slattered down on the rolling hills of Ithersea as it had for days, and
the encampment of soldiers had long since terraformed the lush veridian
field into a criss-crossing network of dirt paths which had now been churned
into the frothy sort of mud that likes to snap horse's legs at the knee. It
wasn't a long path to Captain Randall's tent, but the lieutenant made sure
to wind his way through the twisting paths marking the different sections of
the encampment.
When he finally stood before the leather flaps of the monster's tent,
Lieutenant Aerok Kein took a deep breath. Wiping his brow, Kein looked from
one guttering torch to the other, wincing at the crackling hiss of rain
dissolving against the heat of the flames.
Aerok had been afraid of Morwenna ever since he joined the Lyov expedition.
Before, really. What sort of commander brought along a known murderer, a
rumoured cannibal, on a mission like this?
The stories he'd heard during the journey to Ithersea were enough to curdle
his blood. Men said when she was born, a priest gave her a bowlful of water
used to boil the bones of her siblings. Fresh life to a grotesque sketch of
the 'good life. '
Morwenna was worshipped from the time she was five. Hailed as the second
coming of a minor devil by the men and women comprising Absum Diluculo, her
every need was catered to. On the eve of every new week, one of her
followers would prostrate himself before her, offering supplication and
obeisance as she tore at the muscles of his chest with her teeth, profaning
his flesh and sating her grotesque needs.
Shuddering at his own revulsion, Aerok pushed aside the flap of her tent,
briskly walking past the two guards stationed to either side of the door
within, watching the chained beast lit only by the dim glow of two lanterns,
whose flames had been slowly guttering for the last half hour or so.
Get up, the command in Lieutenant Kein's voice wavered, catching in his
throat as Morwenna's eyes met his. There was something feral lurking
within, a sincere belligence that belied her small stature. She rose with
the assured confidence of a predator stalking her prey, despite the low
clanking of irons encircling her wrists and ankles.
Slinking towards him, All sinew and strength, Morwenna was stopped short by
the abrupt jerk of her chains, naught but a foot from Aerok's face. Licking
her lips sensuously, the cannibal turns away from her captor, as if to
dismiss the obviously lesser being's presence. She could have laughed and
he would not feel more insignificant. Aerok was almost inclined to take her
offer and beat a hasty retreat.
Almost.
The thought of his commander's reaction stilled his pounding heart. With a
gesture to either of the two brawny men manning the door, Aerok marched
towards the prisoner and seized hold of her shoulders, ending her rebellion
before it had room to truly take hold. The nameless guards each took up a
wrist and ankle chain, tightening their hold until the clanking stilled,
chains tautly straining at the slip of a woman's wrists, chafing the skin
and digging sinister crimson lines around her flesh.
They dragged her unceremoniously through the opening of her tent, her
shuffling steps sloshing in the murk already begininng to muddy the paths
worked so thoroughly by the camp-builders. The apostle would have something
to say about that. Morwenna settled into a rhythm quickly, turning this
process from the humiliating affair it was intended as into an honour guard
for her divine presence.
Writer: Garrett
Date Sun Aug 14 16:06:45 2016
To All Bloodlust RP Immortal
Subject The Bard's Lament - A Broken Heart
The Hall of Bloodlust was empty. Normally alive with traffic, the
hideout possessed a still silence. Its only occupant Garrett. He lay in a
hammock, his left leg hanging over the edge. His Fedora tiled forward to
cover his eyes. Garrett played the guitar.
Come back, rebound... Simpler said than found.
Day by Day, and tear by tear.
Somehow, someway getting there someday.
Mile by mile, and fear by fear.
Disaster has a way of remaking my heart,
Long after All the thunder and scars.
Night pass and bit by bit, I begin to restart,
My disaster heart....
Garrett's captive audience of empty tables, chairs, and mugs kept him
company through the night.
Writer: Durst
Date Sun Aug 14 23:15:15 2016
To All Imm Tashio Marauders Claith Raije (RP)
Subject Succumb to Fear
The gentle lapping of the soft waves were soothing to the ear. The sound
alone could mesmerize the senses in the most peculiar way. The robed man
stretched out his limbs slowly, letting his palms and base of his feet slide
against the obsidian hued sands of the beach. The sun was just on the rise,
its soft tendrils of light spread forth like the fingertips of an unseen
god, welcoming the world to yet another day. Durst moved his left arm
lazily to the back of his skull, propping his head a bit to take in the
majestic sight of the rebirth of the light. Just to his right was a gull.
The birds flight was reminiscent of a still life painting. The gull floated
along with the upwards current of the breeze. The creature did not make a
sound, but simply hovered there, perhaps fishing or perhaps... CRACK!!!
The body plummeted into the cool ocean below. An odd smile crept upon the
man's unforgiving face.
"Messing up my view would ye?!" Durst said out loud and went back to
enjoying the rays springing forth before him yet again. He let out a gentle
sigh and reached with the same cruel hand that dropped the bird and pulled
out an odd shaped gourd from an equally odd looking sack. He tossed it
lazily towards the floating body in the water. He cursed slightly as his
aim was not as perfect as he had hoped. But the gourd eventually married
with the corpse and with a suction sound it was zapped... To where who in
the world would know. Durst chuckled and said aloud, "Well hopefully not in
some poor mans pants. That would be a story to tell the wife. Honey...
Umm yeah you see..." . Durst gave out a huge burst of laughter and spread
his limbs out some more, almost looking like a starfish as he dozed back
into his own little world.
Writer: Durst
Date Sun Aug 14 23:50:35 2016
To All Imm Tashio Marauders Claith Raije (RP)
Subject Translucent Odyssey
Sleep depravation could do this to anyone. Complete lack of control of
ones eyelids was no laughing matter and Durst was not laughing. Muddled
sounds seemed to bombard him. The voices came and went through each side of
his brain. Get out... Get out... Haunt gripped fruitless at each side of
his head. His gnarled up fingers were near carving pieces of his skin as he
rubbed, clawed, and tried to squeeze his skull.
Darkness. Freedom. {uLavender?
The smell wafted along the air stream and managed to wiggle its way into his
nose, dodging nose hairs and other things. The voices diminished from
ramblings to a muffled giggling from what seemed like children at play. Yes
yes children at play it would seem thought the tired warlock. He laughed
and reached out towards them, perhaps confirming they were real, but they
only seemed blurred and began to shrink out into darkness.
Sand.
Drops of sand started to fall from above him like the fat raindrops in the
dense forest of a fabled island. What was once laughter of joy was now
screams of monkeys from above and to the sides of him. They were carrying
spears and closing towards the down trodden man as he did a three hundred
and sixty degree turn to see them All slowly moving forward. Wait what?!?
Monkeys don't carry spears!
Pain!
Was he stabbed? Durst gripped at his left side as best he could. His
entrails were slowly slipping out of his broad frame. With every exhale the
putrid looking guts were falling faster, spilling to the ground like a pasta
dish. Jaw clinched tight as he attempted to let out a long cry of agony.
{oFate....
An explosion occurred, yet brought with it no sound. A visage of some ill
fated being stood before Durst and what was seeping from him was no more.
Durst prodded the soft flesh of his side and no wound was present. He
experimented with several deep breathes and nothing seeped out of him.
Haunt squinted his eyes to make out the figure. With every attempt he was
sure he would get closure to what the thing was.
WAKE UP!
Durst was certain it was loud and heard it again. I said wake up you fool.
This is Lord Pretulo's Land you fool. Be gone wit' ye' Eyes blinking
rapidly as Durst stood up. It was a dream? Durst looked around and said,
"Oh yes yes of course! I'll leave". Sand crushed against his boots as he
made his way home.
Writer: Shiara
Date Mon Aug 15 10:12:24 2016
To Conclave ( Tashio Roleplay Drakkara All )
Subject Perfecting the Trap: Initiation
A raspy, hollow voice called to her, speaking an archaic form of
Verminasian...
This one was not for thee to slay
Thou has't not a place to defy thine House
Through the suffocating void, for some time she was hardly aware of it.
Shiara had no sense of up or down, or even of her body. No sight or touch,
only the voice. How long it had been speaking she did not know. Trying to
remember or make sense of it, her thoughts were drowned out by its tortuous,
grinding sound.
Thy life is not thine own, choices are not thine own to decide
Anon it shall be undone
Each pronouncement became more insistent. Each one more grating, more
irritating.
Thou shalt be made to serve
Thou shalt be beholden, to keep over them through the ages as they lie in
repose
A compulsion to strike out grew, to lash out, and still she could do
nothing. Unable to react and unable to ignore.
Never shalt thou know peace
They shall live on in honour and strength
Thou shalt be forgotten, never to be spoken of again
Raw frustration became wild anger, a stinging ache that rose to howling
madness. She wanted to howl but could not find her voice.
Was she dead? What hell was this?
On it droned, without end. It began interrupting itself, a new damnation
begun before the last ended.
On and on it went, time was meaningless: hours, days, weeks she could not
know. The cacophony spiraled into nonsense, a rage she could not comprehend
swelled threatening to consume her.
But it did not. Past the point of any earthly sensation she could have ever
imagined, she became numb. It subsided ever so slightly, the sounds
steadily became muffled. Gradually into a muted grumbling, then to a
murmur. Slowly falling away, the voice became silent.
Writer: Shiara
Date Mon Aug 15 11:05:27 2016
To Conclave ( Tashio Roleplay Drakkara All )
Subject Perfecting the Trap: Domination
Her body shuddered, every muscle finding life again at once. Eyes opened
wide as a gasp of breath burst into her lungs. Withstand death's
resuscitation was never a pleasant experience, but a fair bit nicer than the
alternative.
She flailed trying to grab anything to pull herself back away from the thing
before her. The meager light she had conjured before showed it was still
there, or rather where it was not, unmoving.
She fought through a surge of nausea to rise to her feet and quickly resumed
shadowform.
What stupidity.
Shortsighted fumbling.
She breathed a faint prayer of thanks and praise.
"Begone... " it protested once again. Its posture and voice were passive,
powerless to enforce its demands. She needed time to process this.
She watched and waited, catching her breath. The two were transfixed
staring, reflections of one another. Only the impression from before
remained.
She refocused herself producing another gemstone from her pouch and held it,
turning it over in her hand. Her thoughts briefly wandered back to a
conversation with Ozleust.
Human minds are strange.
Compulsion, persuasion.
I've seen you now.
She straightened her posture and held forth the stone as before.
"Your House is no more. They have abandoned this place and are lost to the
past. "
"There is no one to exact revenge upon, and no one to make you whole. "
As before, silence. She still had no idea if it could understand anything
she said, her fluency notwithstanding.
She formed the mental picture, clearly visualizing the result. With her
mind fully toward it, she began casting the spell and again the shadow
approached. She commanded firmly, "Come with me, come to rest. " Its mind
was still a roiling storm of emotion but could not take hold, her unwavering
focus piercing through. It twisted in hesitation, but offered only token
resistance. Finally submitting without further protest, it was done.
The change in atmosphere was noticeable immediately, the oppresive weight of
the air had vanished. The gemstone chilled her hand, but superficially
appeared untouched.
Writer: Shiara
Date Mon Aug 15 11:17:39 2016
To Conclave ( Tashio Roleplay Drakkara All )
Subject Perfecting the Trap: Rumination
Shiara chose to ride back to the Tower. Maybe risky in her state but she
wasn't in a rush to be in the company of others just yet. She picked a path
through the forest that let her gray stallion stride surely without constant
attention.
Her chest ached with every breath, dull but difficult to ignore. Thoughts
drifting between the gem secured in her belt and disjointed memories of the
experience.
The more she tried to remember the more faint it became. All that remained
were impressions. A grim feeling hung over her.
How long had it been in that place?
Was it still aware now?
A strange and unfamiliar emotion.
Better it than me.
It had earned its place somehow.
As daybreak came, she emerged from the forest on the road south. Passing
over the bridge, through the gate, she went into the Tower.
The few magi that were awake were busying themselves, none paid her much
mind. She found a quiet practice room, went inside and shut the door.
Writer: Trahan
Date Mon Aug 15 11:46:06 2016
Writer: Talik
Date Mon Aug 15 12:50:09 2016
Writer: Mokla
Date Mon Aug 15 18:21:35 2016
To Darkonin All ( Sunny Cayenna Imm RP )
Subject *X* Turning the Millstone *X*
"So you feel they're ready to spill?" Mokla asked, looking up from the
report with an upraised eyebrow to the ever reliable hobgoblin officer.
Dkom remained in his easy stance, hands clasped behind him and replied
"Having three makes it easier.. Mistrust will always turn two upon one
given the slightest cause. I just made sure to give it." Mokla considered
this a moment, tapping a taloned finger alongside his temple. The continual
calculations of Dkom's mind had always impressed him and made him one the
most formidible interrogator he had ever known. "Take me through it if you
would.. So I may admire your technique." , Mokla said, laying the report
down and leaning back in his chair. The officer gave a barely perceptable
shrug, seemingly oblivious to the implied compliment.
"It was fairly straight forward, M'lord. I brought the three in and set
them together in a cell seperate from others in the prison. Blankets and
ample food were provided as instructed to ensure a certain level of comfort.
I then observed them for some time for certain signs, namely recognition and
any sense of, .. Well call it pecking order." , Dkom began settling into a
chair at the offering gesture of his king. "It soon became apparent they
were familiar with each other, and the first detainee held some sway over
the group despite the larger size of one of those we gleaned from near the
fort. So some sense of order preceded their capture. I allowed this
arrangement to carry on for two weeks until I was sure they had time to sort
and get their stories straight. It helps when they feel they have a plan to
follow." Dkom continued.
"A plan?.." Mokla interjected. "Yes, M'lord.. Letting them feel they can
outsmart us with a solid story only adds to the panic and confusion when the
time comes to shatter their best efforts of control." Dkom replied with an
offering gesture of his hand. Mokla nodded sagely, rubbing his chin, the
dawning comprehension bringing a grin to his lips.
Taking the nod as a prompting, Dkom continued "When I felt they were ready,
I introduced a bit of pressure. I drew them one at a time out of the cell
for a short period to question them. It was the first questioning they had
undergone since arrest, and I kept it light getting the expected planned
responses. I repeated this for three days, always taking the assumed leader
last." "I reinforced the idea that the most helpful would naturally be
dealt with less harshly. On the fourth day I held the leader over for
several hours. When the concern of the other two was evident, I drew them
from the cell and marched them down the hall towards the common holding
area. I had the guard pause them in the hall just long enough to ensure
they saw into the interrogation room, where I had the leader unchained, and
enjoying a meal far better than the standard rations we serve in lock up.
As instructed, the guard then turned them into the common cell with an
offhand comment about their lack of further usefulness."
Any but the sharp eyes of the king would have missed the fleeting mirth
which passed over Dkom's face before vanishing back into the usual stoic
expression. "The leader was returned to his isolated cell and remains there
still, no doubt realization of what has played out has begun to become
clearer in his mind. The other two feed off each other's sense of betrayal,
and have made several attempts to have the guards contact me. I'll let them
all stew a few days more." The officer finished with a small shrug.
"At any rate, they feel the weight of the stone rolling over them and should
be more than ready when you want your answers, M'lord." Dkom concluded.
Mokla sat silently for several moments admiring the symphony of deceit his
trusted friend had performed for him. "Simply beautiful Dkom, and
beautifully simple.." Mokla crooned.
Writer: Tyrinx
Date Mon Aug 15 18:29:36 2016
Writer: Tyrinx
Date Mon Aug 15 18:37:07 2016
Writer: Mokla
Date Mon Aug 15 21:37:34 2016
To Darkonin All ( Sunny Cayenna Imm RP )
Subject -X- To Face the Ice -X-
Peering over the seperate reports for the third time left him unsettled
and more than a bit aggravated. The dimly lit humble office was cluttered
with the endless stream of parchment upon which a kingdom lived and
breathed, but the once cozy feel had crowded in upon him salting the wound
of frustration which dogged him. The second of the two scouts dispactched
had disappeared into the ice like the first, and the waste of valuable
riders galled the king who could abide many things, but never waste.
Knowledge of what went on near the Ice prison remained a must, but the idea
of losing another on a fool's errand was not something he would ask another
to undertake. A fitful swipe of his long arm scattered the reports from the
small desk and upset the nearby stack which had been set upon a chest.
Leaning back in his chair he regarded the chest a few minutes before lifting
the lid partway with the ball of his foot. The familiar contents drew a
grin in remembrance of simpler times.
Sliding the chair forward he drew the tall, well-oiled boots out of the
chest and turned them in his hands admiring the tough leather and blackened
buckles. Minutes passed in silence, his mind turning over times past and
the unknown fates of the two riders, a strange sense of kinship nagging at
him before his hands moved of their own accord. The unbuckling, fitting and
rebuckling of the boots upon his feet sped with an ease of long practice and
returned muscle memory. Standing to stomp his feet setting the fit drew
sparks as the arcanium studded soles cracked upon the stone floor. When the
decision was reached he could not say for sure, but he felt he had set his
feet on the path already, only the details remained. Returning to the chest
he removed the thick, folded wargpelt cloak, which he shook out and slid
about his shoulders and clasped. A wry grin crossed his face as he
remembered Dkom's advice and slipped the Reaver's pin from the hood and set
it upon the desk.
He reseated himself at the desk and had begun to write upon a blank
parchment when he was startled by a sudden knock upon the office door.
"Ahh.. Enter!" He called and the door opened to the familiar stone-faced
countenance of Dkom. "M'lord, I have the new rider orders for..." Dkom
began and stopped abruptly taking in Mokla's dress and the unfinished page
upon the desk in a few rapid glances. The unspoken question in the tall
officer's eyes held the king and compelled a response which began with a
sigh. "I can't shy from it Dkom.. I need to know and I can't send another
to do a job I can do." , Mokla stated as firmly as he could under Dkom's
steady gaze.
The immediate questions duty compelled from Dkom came expectedly, "The
risks?.. The Queen?" Nodding sagely, Mokla acknowledged the questions he
had himself deliberated. "It's a Darkonin problem and everyone has given
effort to see it solved, how do I set myself above that?.. Yes, the Queen
will fret at best and be furious at worst, but I think she knows my reckless
side by now." Mokla said. "With luck I'll be back before it's known I'm
gone, and since you've butted in, I have you to calm the queen.. After all
it's just Trooper M'kod taking a scouting mission.. Nothing to fuss over."
Mokla added with a conspiratorial grin to the older officer and fellow
DeathRider.
Looking down and giving his head a slight shake, the hobgob officer knew no
argument would suffice and looked up with a tight-lipped expression.
Stepping forward to the desk, he reached out to pick up the gold warg's head
insignia and said "In that case.. You'd best be in proper uniform..
Trooper M'kod." , And affixed the pin to the hood of Mokla's cloak.
Stepping back he regarded his king a moment, then offered a stiff DeathRider
salute before turning silently to leave, closing the door behind him.
Drawing a deep breath, Mokla gathered up his maps and buckled on the long
cavalry saber. "Fool's errand... Seems I'm qualified.."
Writer: Mokla
Date Mon Aug 15 22:56:50 2016
To Darkonin All ( Sunny Cayenna Imm RP )
Subject -X- To Face the Ice -X- pt.2
The steady howl of the wind and sting of ice crystals upon the few bare
patches of exposed skin served well to keep him awake and focused upon
finding the path towards what he hoped would be sign of the two previous
riders. The second day now since his departure had him moving slow so as to
avoid overlooking any sign or danger. It would not do well to stumble into
the hazards the others may have met. Having spent the night huddled with
his warg within the small hastily dug out hole in a drift, warmed only by
their own bodies and a simple glow stone had left him stiff and far from
cheerful.
By the afternoon of the second day he had reached the known ice tunnel shown
on Dkom's map. This was surely the means of entrance sought by the other
riders, and caution had him hunkered down with his warg in patient
watchfulness. He had planned to make an attempt at the entrance at dusk
when the hazy light mixed with the swirling snow to make visibility a matter
of feet. His plan became folly though with the sudden emergence of two
goblins from the tunnel who disappeared into a subtly hidden alcove from
which an ice goblin and a minotaur exited and proceeded back down the
tunnel. "Guards.." Mokla muttered to himself, cupping his head in his
hands to rethink his options. Backing away slowly he stopped behind a tall
drift to reconsider his maps and whether to turn back, cursing his stupid
pride for insisting on going alone.
Setting aside Dkom's map, he drew out an older, cruder map reportedly taken
off an escaped prisoner found frozen upon the glacier in years past. The
body's position had been marked on the map and Mokla felt it may be possible
to work backwards with it, effectively breaking into the prison the convict
had died to escape. At any rate, it offered more hope than forcing an entry
here. Moving off it was several hours past nightfall when he neared what he
felt the best guess at the entry point. The glow of the bright moons
reflected eerily over the shifting snows creating a sense of vertigo, but it
also shone brightly off two ice-encased rocks he was gambling were the same
as those marked upon the map.
Creeping closer, chance paid dividend as an opening between the rocks
yielded a small cave whose origin disappeared into the gloom further on.
Near the back a small hand dug tunnel within the ice was discovered and
Mokla hesitated in thought at it's beginning. His decision made he
scribbled a note upon the old map directing Dkom to it and his intent to
follow it deeper. Placing the map within a pouch he removed his Reaver pin
and secured it to the outside and hung it over the saddle horn of the warg.
Offering a quick prayer to Dragoth he commanded the warg "HOME!" And
slashed it across the flank, sending it off across the ice with a yelp. He
watched silently as the beast sped off out of sight, trusting to it's
instinct to see the message delivered.
Setting down his pack and removing the bulky saber, Mokla crouched and
entered the tunnel, converting the described goblin lengths to his own
larger lengths to gauge the distances. Though cramped, the smooth glassy
surface of ice eased his passage through the dark. Several small cave-ins
were encountered on the way, but he was able to clear them with his hand
spade and dagger. By his calculations he figured that he should be near the
end of the tunnel before coming across another blockage. Eager to find it's
end he worked vigorously to clear the frozen debris when a different subtle
noise froze him in mid stroke.
What sounded like an irregular ticking at first puzzled, then raised him to
full alarm as he tried to back away quickly. The difference in weight
between a goblin and a hobgoblin was a critical factor up to this point
overlooked, and the cracking ice gave way beneath him dropping him head
first into the light of a large open passage.
Writer: Mokla
Date Mon Aug 15 23:09:57 2016
To Darkonin All ( Sunny Cayenna Imm RP )
Subject -X- To Face the Ice -X- pt.3
The impact of his head upon the ice floor dazed him momentarily and when
his sight refocused the image of a pair of large cloven hooves before him.
Sitting up slowly he gazed around at the two minotaurs and icegoblin who
looked at him quizzically. Realizing he had lost the grip on his dagger,
Mokla calmly brushed the chips of ice from himself and set a smirking grin
upon his face. Peering up at the minotaur directly before him he said
"Cheers up boys, am bein here ta rescue ya.." The minotaur blinked and
after several seconds guffed with deep throated laughter. The other
minotaur and goblin joined in quickly with their own laughter which Mokla
added to. It was that booming laughter which Mokla remembered distinctly
before the sight of a large rapidly approaching hoof sent him into darkness.
Writer: Vahriah
Date Tue Aug 16 04:56:18 2016
Writer: Garrett
Date Tue Aug 16 06:54:50 2016
Writer: Euterah
Date Tue Aug 16 19:11:16 2016
To Darkonin All Sunny Cayenna Imm RP
Subject Grist for the Mill
Wind whistled through the next strange crevice as the Witch Queen, riding
Kreegah, kept her aura gathered tightly around her, feeling with tendrils
before her trying to sense something in the vast maze of ice Dkom discovered
below the plains. The crystalline ice gave off the weirding brilliant
rainbow light pattering her and the gequine as they passed into yet another
uncharted cavern. The narrow entrance widening and giving to a space that
could easily contain a clan of Grogmar, she worked off instinct, her King
was reported to pass through the charted portions.
The Witch Queen was not at All pleased as she passed into another narrow
tunnel. Where was Mokla? What had he found in the caverns beneath the
snow? She had half a mind to turn back, but her stubborn nature held fast
and she led the gequine, having to duck under the sinuous ice flows of the
tunnel.
Writer: Anathaelynn
Date Tue Aug 16 21:54:38 2016
Writer: Anathaelynn
Date Wed Aug 17 00:32:43 2016
Writer: Trahan
Date Wed Aug 17 07:02:15 2016
Writer: Mokla
Date Wed Aug 17 21:00:21 2016
To Darkonin All ( Sunny Cayenna Imm RP )
Subject -X- Icy Entrapment -X-
A humming grew steadily, to become a whine, and lastly a roar exploding
in a vision of red pain before his eyes. Awareness came slowly in the sound
of garbled speech, and the cold touch of ice. He held very still hoping to
glean what he could of his surroundings before confronting them. "Wez
alone.. Know youz awake.." Came the goblin speech in a thick ogrish
accent. He confirmed to himself the sound of two beings breathing and
slowly shifted onto his side. He attempted to open his eyes but sight
remained obscured. As he reached up to touch his face, a taloned hand
clasped his wrist, halting the attempt and a goblin voice said "Ya don't
wants do tha.. Face am bein puffed up like gorged tick.. Couple rag strip
an me spit be All tha holds tha gash on yer brow tagether."
"Who are ya?.. Medik?" Mokla rasped as the hand released his wrist.
"Nah.. So dun worry bout tha bill.." Came the reply, his snickering
joined by the muffled throaty chuckle of the first voice. "Youz wid frends
Troopur.. Mez Troopur Cudo.. Udder Troopur Feck.. Whud youz name?"
"Ahhh.. M.. Kod. Trooper M'kod." , Mokla said, as he recognized the
familiar names from D'kom's reports on the missing scouts. "Am sent ta
rescue ya.." He added with a snicker they All shared. "Rememburz youz
frum D'kom patrol.. Wez find tunnul. Wer bin?" The ogre voice asked.
"Garrisun.. Garrisun duty, musta tweeked D'kom nose sumways.. How'd y'all
git here?" Mokla replied hoping to shield his identity for All their
sakes.
The ogre voice sighed and told of retracing the patrol's route to the
discovered tunnel, and being caught and overwhelmed a short ways inside.
The goblin's tale was much the same excepting that he had been caught by the
guards outside. Mokla considered this a moment before rasping out a single
word ".. Ambush.." Grunts of agreement were heard as the helped ease him
into an upright sitting position. Mokla cursed to himself and added "They
knew we'd be a comin.. An we jus kept feedin 'em" "Ice Prison jus big
trap.. Near empty now.. Dis wer they basin.. Gots icer gobbo slave
a'plenty.. An wez All tu bizzy lookern at Prison ta sees reel targit."
The goblin voice offered. "Lil icey gobs nod strong tu face dem.. Godda
dos whud Ginral sayz ur gos tu butchur.." The ogre said causing Mokla to
turn in the direction of the voice and say "General?." "Yep.. Sum big
buggerin mino theys All gibberin bout. Ya will see, him bin by lookin in ta
sees tha new troopur tha dropped in.. Am thinkin ya shakes em up fallin
inta they basecamp.. Gots ta be worryin wez gittin tu close."
Mokla nodded in the direction of the goblin voice and said "Am hopin so..
Jus like am hopin hims curious enough ta keeps us away from butcher fer a
good long time. Am wantin ta gets good long look at dis General."
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Aug 18 20:10:03 2016
To All RP
Subject Stormy Reflections ( Part 1 of 2 )
Lightning cracked the sky and thunder boomed a deafening retort,
heralding an increase in the already considerable deluge of rain. The
sheets of water grew thicker by the moment, spilling from the dark purple
and grey clouds that blotted out the sky from horizon to horizon. The sharp
scent of moisture rising from sun-baked stone and heated wooden boards
filled the air as the storm continued to roil. The dusty streets were long
since transformed into muddy streams. The torrent of rain and mist kicked
up from the lingering heat in the ground lowered visibility to perhaps a
dozen yards. The fierce wind whipped the surface of the river into choppy
waves. The clean smell of the rain blended with the pungent odor of
decaying plant life churned up from the river bed.
Leaning against the door frame of the dock master's office, Corron gazed
into the growing gloom with a faint smile across his scarred lips, letting
the storm wash through his senses as it scoured the docks and the city
clean. For many days he had been away from the wharves and shipyards where
he felt most in his element, if no longer at home there. Various tasks
seemed to constantly demand his attention and his life had grown ever more
complicated, far beyond the scope of what he could have imagined when he
first left his remote, seaside home to journey into the mainland. The
simple days of whiling away the hours with gainful labor and the occasional
book were quickly becoming a distant memory.
Perhaps in some ways, it was poetic that this, the first day he had in weeks
without more pressing matters engaging him, he would finally return to the
docks only for them to be beset by this storm. During his limited time in
the area, The Desert Jewel rarely experienced such weather. Storms were far
more likely to bring heat and sand in from the dunes than cold and rain down
from the mountains. No good would come of sawing planks and joining beams
in this weather. The other laborers had promptly fled to the warm interiors
and cold ales of the various taverns. The withered master shipwright, a
venerable half elven fellow, was snoring contentedly in a hammock strung
from the rafters in the back of the office. The sound echoed through the
maze of crates and shattered boards that made one doubt whether it was a
place of business at all.
Corron had been surprised to learn that the man hidden behind that shaggy
grey beard was a half breed like himself. He rather liked the fellow,
sprightly beyond his advanced years and meticulous in his dealings. While
largely dealing in small rivercraft and barges, the aged man had been
willing to share his knowledge of construction techniques in exchange for
some work. It was a deal Corron was more than happy to accept, if only his
other concerns did not require so much time. He wasn't certain he could
still call himself a shipwright in light of how much time he spent roaming
these days. Yet another wrinkle in the growing weave of his life that would
require sorting when time allowed.
A sustained series of lightning snaked through the belly of the clouds like
pulsing veins of dull yellow, filling the sky with fresh rumbles and
refracting in the mist that kicked back up into the air from the heavy rain
hitting the street. Something about the flickering light made Corron frown
and glance down at his hands thoughtfully. Squinting at the tensing digits
as though expecting to see something that was not there, his mind was
inevitably drawn back to the quandaries that occupied so much of his
thoughts. The darkness of the storm seemed to close in around him as his
thoughts turned inward to a couple night's prior.
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Aug 18 20:18:01 2016
To All RP
Subject Stormy Reflections ( Part 2 of 2 )
The oars cut through the still, muddy water with hardly a sound, each dip
of the wooden blades deliberate and controlled. Slowly, the tiny rowboat
moved against the current of the murky river. Scarcely longer than a coffin
and every bit as narrow, the watercraft sat low in the stream, bare inches
shy of taking on water. Shadows hung heavy in the night air with branches
from the trees hanging far over the river and the dark clouds of an
approaching storm obscuring any illumination from the moons and stars.
Unable to risk even a candle at the prow to light his course, Corron guided
the dinghy by memory and the subtle clues given by the current- hidden
eddies over deeper swaths that sped his progress or sudden shallows that
slowed him and warned of sandbars.
Through a break in the trees, a lighter shape loomed out of the night. A
spire of mortared stone thrust from a rocky hillside bordering the river
like a gnarled finger of moss and stone jabbing at the sky. No light came
from the windows that dotted the upper floors, no indication of anyone
inhabiting the decrepit tower. Corron knew the appearance of vacancy to
only be an illusion for the tower was indeed occupied. Reversing the
direction of the sweeps against the current, he directed the boat closer to
the river's shallow edge and the sheltering branches of the encroaching
forest. Unlikely as it might be for any eyes to find him in this gloom
there was no sense in taking chances until absolutely necessary.
Ahead a rocky outcrop cast darker shadows over the waters where the foot of
the hill housing the tower met the river. Mooring the boat in the lee of
that natural stone wall, Corron banked the oars and let his eyes adapt as
much as possible. At the waterline, a half submerged grate blocked the
mouth of a rank tunnel carved out of the stone- a refuse chute for the
tower. A simple cantrip revealed no obvious wards. It was unlikely any
stronger or concealed enchantments were wasted on the water-logged passage.
Few would bother to guard such a vile and difficult means of ingress with
even so much as a grate.
This one had seen better days. The metal was untempered and flaking rust
from constant exposure to water. The mortar holding the bars in place was
cracked and missing significant portions. If he was going to attempt entry,
this would be the way. The front door was surely barred and heavily
enspelled. The windows might be less protected, but the climb would leave
him painfully exposed. Such a daring route was for those more skilled or
more foolish than himself.
Pushing his narrow craft back into the current with an oar, Corron reclined
in the curve of the hull and let the river draw him downstream and back
beneath the concealing foliage. Too much was unknown for him to proceed,
for now. Even with a more complete understanding of the situation, there
are some places one simply does not tread.
With a start, Corron drew himself back into the present, dismissing the
memory. The rain had slackened considerably while his mind walked the
trails of thought. He extended a hand beyond the eaves, letting the runoff
from the roof wash over his skin and the sensation sharpen his focus. There
were far too many mysteries to be unraveled, far too many questions that
needed answering for him to be standing idle All day lost in thought. To
find what he sought, he would have to venture forward, not revist the past.
Rolling his shoulders, he shoved off from the doorway and strode into the
afternoon rain.
Writer: Jemrin
Date Fri Aug 19 22:05:00 2016
To All Arkane Azure Tower
Subject A brief background
Born to Leighojirah, a proud tribe of sea elves who resided along the
eastern coasts of Althainia. The greater struggles of life in the kingdoms
seldom found their way here, for aside from the occasional fishing boat
visiting to share the news and trade supplies, there was little contact with
the outside world. Much of Jemrin's childhood was learning to cope with the
changing seasons as part of a tribal culture. Days were spent assisting
hunting and gathering, or learning how to make pearl jewelry as an
understudy for the master crafter.
It was in his thirtieth year that his world was torn apart. For reasons
unknown, a white dragon struck the heart of Leighojirah, squashing its small
defense force and killing its elders. Amid the chaos, a small group was
able to escape, eventually making it to a merchant ship, where they traveled
as refugees to the continent of Arkania.
Living in the bustling city of Arkane was a new chapter in Jemrin's life. A
jewler, and amateur mage noticed Jemrin's aptitude for crafting and
learning. A half elf himself, the jewler took to mentoring the boy,
teaching him magic in exchange for his help in the jewelers shop.
During the next decade Jemrin grew from a refugee to citizen, and from
dabbling magician to mage. Living in the shadow of the Azure Tower left him
with the aspiration to one day become a great mystic himself. It is to this
cause, and to repay the city for taking in his kin, that he joined the
Kingdom of Arkane, swearing an oath to uphold its laws and values.
Writer: Corron
Date Sat Aug 20 19:04:01 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Sat Aug 20 19:11:03 2016
Writer: Vahriah
Date Sun Aug 21 05:44:23 2016
Writer: Anathaelynn
Date Sun Aug 21 08:09:57 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Sun Aug 21 17:07:11 2016
Writer: Mathesan
Date Sun Aug 21 17:07:23 2016
To All Verminasia Immortal Roleplay
Subject The Horses of Markon I
"No- " Mathesan's refusal with cut-off by a small grunt as the strawberry
haired woman placed another ice sack to one of his many large bruises.
He looked less like a prince, and more like a newly acquired squire.
Bruises mottled his skin, each of them were small pockets of hate, and
each complained when he moved, some complained when he breathed, and
others pulsed in agony no matter what he was doing.
Clare Kylen kept her lips in a thin line as she retrieved yet another
ice sack. The sacks were made of a thin silk, they felt soft on the
skin and allowed the magical substance inside to shed its cold
comfortably and evenly.
A sense of grattitude swelled up in Mathesan. It was rare for him to
feel anything. Emotions were an elusive beast for Mathesan. He could feel
his blood pumping as his system flooded with adrenaline. The thrill of
the hunt was a very real feeling for him. Yet, he did not feel fear, he
did not even feel anticipation or excitement. A job well done was ismply
that, and pleasant surprises engendered nothing resembling feelings,
other than a mild curiosity at what surprised him.
Worrying her lip, Clare looked up at Mathesan as she held the ice sack
in her hand. Mathesan was struck by those green eyes. Lately they had
seemed wider than normal, more affectionate. Mathesan could see the
feeling they called love in Clare's eyes, though he could not explain
it, which was frustrating.
He knew he felt something similar. It was most certainly not the same,
he had never known what love felt like. Yet, there was an urge to protect
Clare in a way that exceeded reason. It was likely the closest he would
come to love.
The ice sack was placed against a particularly large bruise on Mathesan's
side. It was roughly the size of a grapefruit, but slightly misshapen, as
though the grapefruit had been squashed.
Mathesan ground his teeth and bore it. He may not have been the type for
combat, but he'd still been raised on the principles of strength. Don't
reveal weakness, such as pain, vulnerability, or ignorance, for one's
enemies would be sure to exploit it, and one's friends would begin to
question or doubt.
It was obvious that Clare knew the sort of pain Mathesan was in, her
face had been a mask of concern after he had been released from the arena.
The way Clare's brows knitted together was an endearing trait. Clare's
expressive emotions were something that he admired, she was unlike
Mathesan in many different ways. Her ability to feel, express, and read
emotion was staggering.
"I will be fine." Mathesan said to her once more.
Clare nodded, but she was distant, as if her mind were elsewhere. Mathesan
knew the look All too well. As a practitioner of the arcane, he was often
thinking about or designing experiments.
"Clare."
The strawberry haired woman turned her green gaze on him once more. There
was something in her eyes, a twinkle or sparkle, just looking at him
seemed to fill her with happiness.
"Mmm?" She replied.
"I'm not a fighter, I never have been. I know my limits." Letting out a
heavy sigh, Mathesan watched Clare for a reaction.
"You're one of the strongest men I know." Clare said with a smile, "Second
only to my father." There was a playful grin on her features now.
"Indeed?" Mathesan lifted his brows, but he recognized the cues, and he
played into the moment. Clare giggled.
"So... what are you going to do?" Clare asked, the sunny smile still
gracing her features.
"I will put a call out. For riders and heralds. House Madaur will be
a force to be reckoned with. I needn't sit in the saddle."
Clare nodded as she listened.
"I cannot fail again."
Clare caught his gaze again. Her eyes were so deep. The affection there...
How could a man feel like he lost looking into those eyes?
End of Part I-------------------------------------------------End of Part I
Writer: Catroina
Date Sun Aug 21 17:09:14 2016
Writer: Mathesan
Date Sun Aug 21 17:09:37 2016
To All Verminasia Immortal Roleplay
Subject The Horses of Markon II
The first change that had to begin was to ensure that Verminasians had
access to steeds from Markon.
The only people who would dare question the quality of a Markon steed were
Verminasia's enemies. Even then, it was simply jealousy, and, sometimes,
fear. The Madaur family had been developing the program ever since they
had come in to the province of Markon.
It was no secret that Marcaus, the patriarch of the family, and Crown of
Verminasia, was a grossly wealthy man. Rulers didn't tend to live in
poverty, but Marcaus had built up the Madaur-brand, and his enormous
wealth was admired as much as it mocked.
The war stallions of Markon were as fierce as a nightmare, a creature of
myth that was rumored to be so terrifying that weaker souls fled before
it. Such a creature was indomitable. Predators did not fear prey. They
were hardy and well-built, the perfect sort of horse for war.
There were also Markonian riding horses, some bred and trained for speed,
and others that were shaped into a hardier version of a mule.
A horse from Karon would be able to contend with the various beasts that
joust competitors took for their mounts. They would fear nothing, including
the dreaded and awful dracoliches summoned from corpses by necromancers.
Mathesan took out some parchment and quill and began to write,
Riam,
I write to you with a request. I know that we have a
healthy supply of horses at this time. I need for you
to organize a reserve of horses specifically for the
use of Verminasia's champions.
Do NOT cut into the reserve for the Royal Army. We
can afford some losses from export until breeding is
ramped up to meet the new demand.
Below you will find my father's seal in addition to
my own. He has many things to see to, it will be me that
you will deal with if you have questions or need of
Madaur resources.
I expect ten solid war stallions to be prepared as
soon as you receive this letter. You may use the
attached note to procure funds from our family in the
province in order to see to this need.
Do not fail me, Riam. When last we spoke, I was but
a boy. Polite and deferrential. I am a man now, and I
remain a Madaur. You know the consequences of failure.
I have every confidence in your ability. If you have
questions or needs, you may use Tutor Ashlana to
contact me via spell.
I thank you for your cooperation,
De'Marcausan Mada M.M.Madaur
Crown of Verminasia Crown Prince of Verminasia
Owner of the Card Sharks Actuary of the VEU
Head of House Madaur
The note was written in beautifully flowing script. Unlike many of his
peers, Mathesan took pride in his handwriting. It had been tedious, at
first, to improve it from scrawling scratches on parchment, but now it
was second nature.
Mathesan wrote a quick note of allowance to go along with the letter,
and ensured that it also bore the seal of his father in addition to
his own. He also wrote out a copy for Cameran, his brother, and Count
of Markon.
With the steeds taken care of, there remained only one barrier to
victory.
End of Part II----------------------------------------------End of Part II
Writer: Mathesan
Date Sun Aug 21 17:13:52 2016
To All Verminasia Immortal Roleplay
Subject The Horses of Markon II
Mathesan was no combatant. The attack on the Verminasian Bastille was
sure enough a sign of it. But Marcaus knew it in his heart as well.
Bloody, brutal fighting was not something he enjoyed. Mathesan scratched
his chin as he contemplated his next move. Everything that Mathesan did
was meticulous, designed to a specific purpose. If he knew he had a fight
coming, he did his best to find a way to deal with it that didn't include
physical combat.
As a Madaur, he had a wealth of resources to employ wet work when
necessary, and kidnapping if not. However, as a master of the arts of
a mentalist, he also had spells at his disposal that, when executed in
a proper plan of attack, ended any combat before it could begin.
Jousting didn't operate on those principles. If Mathesan used his magic
to dislodge an opponent, from their mount, he'd be disqualified. Nor was
there an honor to be gained in it.
Which meant that jousting was something that Mathesan was better suited
to finding another to support. He needed at least one jouster and one
herald. Mathesan could herald in a pinch if needed. He had already done
so for the infamous Kaisan Mitsuhara, and the energy from his audience
had given Lord Mitsuhara an enormous boost of confidence. Though he was
not fated to win that day.
Mathesan had already put out a missive in search, with a basic listing of
terms, so that any applicant knew what they were getting into.
Nothing had come in.
He shouldn't have been surprised. Mathesan had also been working on
gathering a raiding party of champions to meet on a regular basis and
take on Algoron's most formidable foes. To date, he'd had only one
formal response, and two informal responses that amounted to "maybe".
Yet the title of jouster and the title of herald were far from
demanding. Not only could Mathesan pull in back-ups if the jouster or
herald could not make it, the opportunities for jousting would be far
less frequent than raiding.
In the end, it came down to patience.
Patience was one of Mathesan's exceptional gifts. As a noble son, as
royalty, he had been trained not only to be patient, but to be patiently
impatient. It was a difficult skill, one that many nobles simply didn't
learn, leading to stereotypes of childishness, pettiness, and other
negative comments on the character of a noble.
Mathesan had attached to the training as readily as he had attached to
the stud.y of the arcane. In many ways, they went hand-in-hand. A
practitioner of the Art needed patience, but they also needed to be
able to identify when patience was no longer the answer. An improperly
constructed spell could be deadly if something went wrong, and many
advanced spells could often be cast in such a way that "nothing" as a
result of the spell didn't mean it had simply failed and sputtered out.
The right jouster and herald would present themselves to House Madaur
in due time. In the meantime, House Madaur would be ready.
A feeling of satisfaction, one of the few feelings Mathesan was capable
of, overtook him. Mathesan had been content to study abroad indefinitely,
but, being home, he was just as proud of his ability to serve his family
as he was serving his homeland.
With the matter of horse, jouster, and herald left to the responses of
others, Mathesan could turn his direction to two other projects: a home
and a wedding.
End of Part III--------------------------------------------End of Part III
Writer: Garrett
Date Mon Aug 22 14:43:20 2016
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Thanatael All Bloodlust
Subject The Ballad of the Tragic Hero, Thanatael Shalonost - prelude
Garrett approaches the Wayfarer's Inn's stage. A quiet location, nestled
in the norther part of Icewall. Within the oaken entryway, Garrett was not
the Bastard. The Ambassador. The Ward.
No. In here? He was a simple musician earning his dinner and a night's
room.
A hush falls over the patrons. Garrett calmly undoes his cloak, and takes
his lute out from the ever present guitar case on his back.
Garrett sits on a small stool on the stage. The lights shine brightly. He
strums his lute, each note a gold coin left for the audience to follow.
Garrett inhales, breathing his tale.
I sing of a legend of Algoron. An elf who sacrificed everything. A brother
to me. Thanatael Shalonost.
Writer: Garrett
Date Mon Aug 22 15:16:30 2016
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Thanatael All Bloodlust
Subject The Ballad of the Tragic Hero, Thanatael Shalonost
Thanatael, the Son
Born of the most noble lineage of Pythia's line
Said birthed from Zandreya herself
The Hopes of Shalonesti to restore the divine
Paragon of the elf
Thanatael, the Speaker
Leader of the most excellent race
Wedded to the magnificent Amyth'lynn
Aratoamin, Champion of Zandreya's face
Dark of the world, his downfall begins
Thanatael, the Soldier
Forsaking home, family, and peace, he picks up the blade
Gorging on blood, he slays without end
Afforded no bliss, plunging his soul into the shade
Merciless and ruthless, death is his trend
Thanatael, the Demon
And so to protect the angels, he becomes the devil
Fighting for what he loves, he learns to love the fight
Gorging on murder, his soul finds revel
Piercing his very image, upholding his people in the light
Thanatael, the Pariah
The bloodied bulwark, no longer of his own kind
Too long has he battled, eating the elven sin
He is no longer pure, but beast and elf entwined
I welcome you brother. Murder. Killer. Wretch. Kin.
Writer: Aviandha
Date Tue Aug 23 11:20:04 2016
To Marauders ( Imm rp Raije All )
Subject The birth of a new generation
Avaindha knocks on the door, pulling her cloak tighter around her frame
to shut out the coldness of the mountain wind. Her blue highlighted hair
whipping around her causing a chill to race up her spine. The twins pick
that moment to startwhat must be an epic battle in her womb, making her all
the more cranky and uncomfortable. The door opens slowly, revealing a much
older Shalrienne. Her skin much more wrinkled and hanging off her bones
with age. 'Come in dear, I've been expecting this day for some time now. '
Walking into the kitchen she is given tea, a dark broth that quickly soothes
and dulls her mind. Her muscles relax as she is led into a back bedroom and
laid on the bed. 'The tea will work quickly dear, try to rest while you
can. '
It doesn't take long for the tea to do its work. Aviandha is awoken
suddenly as her water breaks and the contractions start. Small ones at
first, but each one getting a little longer, and little more painfull. For
the next ten hours she fights the growing pain until two children are born.
Twins, though not what she was expecting. The first born was a boy, the
second a few seconds behind him, a girl. Both came into the world healthy,
with ten fingers and ten toes, screaming at the injustice of this new, cold,
world they now call home.
Writer: Dreac
Date Tue Aug 23 20:03:32 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Tue Aug 23 21:28:07 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Tue Aug 23 21:43:17 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Tue Aug 23 21:44:47 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Tue Aug 23 21:46:34 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Tue Aug 23 21:47:08 2016
Writer: Garrett
Date Wed Aug 24 07:49:15 2016
Writer: Zola
Date Thu Aug 25 04:42:19 2016
To All Abaddon Bloodlust Verminasia Darkonin Immortals Fatale
Subject X Tolling of the Bell X
Ring, damn you, Zola thought.
Ripping the silver bell from his belt and holding it up, Zola glared from
the eye sockets of his mask at the tiny bell of silver, examining it
critically. It was of simple, yet undeniably fine craftsmanship. Perfectly
shaped, ideally forged, and in no way broken. The slightest motion should
have caused it to jingle and ring for All to hear, piercing the silence the
way a knife pierced an enemies heart.
Yet it made not a sound. Not throughout his many fights while it dangled
from his belt. Not in the countless hours of prayer and introspection in
the Dungeon, when he shook it from his gloved fingers. Nothing. Not a
tingle, not a jingle. Naught by silence.
When it rings again, the time had come, he'd been told. Had it been a lie?
Impossible. He dismissed the possibility before it was even fully formed in
his brain. It had been an Avatar of the Dark Lord of Murder. It had to
have been. The guise, while not wholly familiar, had the look and feel of
Fatale. The touch of divinity was unmistakable. None of His brethren in
the Darkness would dare to stoop so low, and none of the Light would have
the courage or intellect to pull off such a farce. It had to have been a
message from Him.
Resisting the urge to smash the small bell against the wall, for he did not
wish to see it ruined, Zola took in a deep breath. The mask's filters made
it sound almost metallic and ominous. Feeling his shaking muscles ease and
relax, Zola again tied the bell to his belt, listening All the while.
The bell remained silent. But one day... The day he waited for... It
would ring.
And he would be ready for it.
Writer: Garrett
Date Thu Aug 25 18:02:57 2016
To Bloodlust New_Thalos All Kyri Alasdair RP Imm
Subject The Overlord Garrett Locke
The Bard never signed up for this. Wearing dusty dungarees and a broad
brimmed hat, Garrett wandered in the scorching desert sun. A theodolite in
one hand, a measuring stick in the other, the newly appointed Underlord was
doing the most exciting work of... Surveying. It was balls hot outside.
'Damn you, Ferg. Damn you, ' was All Garrett could mutter, every step
another step towards yet another boring, dull, and unexciting survey point.
Resigning himself to his fate, he continues into the shimmering horizon of
heat and sunlight. It was balls hot.
Writer: Garrett
Date Thu Aug 25 19:46:55 2016
Writer: Vibulus
Date Fri Aug 26 18:18:04 2016
To Arkane All ( Cayenna Imm RP )
Subject Personal Log of Vibulus Praetor
I have finally had a chance to speak to a few of the military personnel
and try to get a feel for their sense in matters of duty and purpose.
Morale among them remains high, though I sense some lack of direction.
Quite understandable given the current situation and the fact that most were
guard units assigned to garrison the city. I have scrupulously avoided any
discussion or questioning of numbers or unit types currently fielded as
espionage is a real thing and it is not in the interest of either the FA or
Arkane to see such intelligence leaked through any means. I have not spoken
with their Marshal of Forces as it seemed a burden upon his time due to the
fact of forces currently afield, and also because the information we seek is
best uncovered within the ranks.
In searching through their histories to get a better understanding of
Arkane, I came across material I think may serve the common interest beyond
the usual emplacement of troops we have offered in the past. Arkane has
grown tremendously from what was once frontier territories and retains to
this day a remarkable latent ability in fieldcraft among many of it's
citizenry. That ability was once harnessed in a unit called the Skirmishers
which seems to fit very nicely into our light Infantry model. In fact their
current leader King Arthais Godwind once served as an officer of said unit.
I have come to believe that such a unit could be resurrected through the
assistance of our training cadre to tap and refine that hidden talent. For
a fee and the promise of provision and maintenance I believe we could make a
mutually profitable deal to provide what may be their only need, a sense of
quality and the pride which follows elite units. Querried upon the idea,
several of the current guards found favor in the idea of a specialized unit,
and zeal is always the first crucial ingredient. I hope to find an
available time to receive an audience with the king and present a finalized
offer sheet.
In personal matters, I have this very day received post from Tilly, he
indeed lives and I feel a great weight fall from my shoulders. I will take
the news to father and mother personally as other matters have required a
brief time away from Arkane proper. Following the advice of both a good
friend and a wise deacon I have stepped back to find bearing and balance.
Their advice has been fruitful in a strangely literal sense and I feel
clearer of mind even as I confront memories I had long avoided looking upon
the streets of the Althainian kingdom after these many years. With luck
father will content himself with the news of Antillicus and leave off the
usual urgings and wheedling he plies me with.
Writer: Vahriah
Date Fri Aug 26 20:53:13 2016
Writer: Clarissia
Date Sat Aug 27 20:40:04 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Aug 28 00:02:49 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Aug 28 00:10:03 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Sun Aug 28 18:31:08 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Sun Aug 28 18:35:21 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Mon Aug 29 11:01:45 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Mon Aug 29 11:04:31 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Mon Aug 29 11:08:43 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Mon Aug 29 11:14:16 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Mon Aug 29 11:19:38 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Mon Aug 29 11:22:27 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Mon Aug 29 11:26:36 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Mon Aug 29 11:30:15 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Mon Aug 29 11:34:56 2016
Writer: Anathaelynn
Date Mon Aug 29 15:28:06 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Mon Aug 29 19:34:45 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Mon Aug 29 19:38:01 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Mon Aug 29 19:49:35 2016
Writer: Trahan
Date Tue Aug 30 14:05:30 2016
Writer: Trahan
Date Tue Aug 30 14:29:45 2016
Writer: Trahan
Date Tue Aug 30 14:49:57 2016
Writer: Arawn
Date Tue Aug 30 17:34:39 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Tue Aug 30 23:29:44 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Tue Aug 30 23:32:44 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Tue Aug 30 23:36:04 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Tue Aug 30 23:40:37 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Tue Aug 30 23:42:56 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Tue Aug 30 23:46:11 2016
Writer: Vaerus
Date Fri Sep 2 18:18:58 2016
To All Chaos (Imm Rp) Malachive
Subject Her soft white throat
'Vaerus' came the siren call of her voice, tearing the veil from grace.
Well, the grace of what was a few moments ago sleep. Not that it mattered
who it was calling out to him, sleep was something seldom had. It required
too much patience. But for her...
The crash of waves against the shore masked his footfalls. For once,
abiding his very nature, Vaerus rushed ahead dispensing with stealth.
Dispensing with any of his usual precautions. No, this was too important to
waste precious seconds caring about the usual techniques. Though, in truth,
walking in the shadows was so innate to his being that it would've required
little real effort. Sort of like breathing.
The honey-drenched venom of her scent reached his nostrils even before his
observant gaze caught sight of her slender frame. 'Not exactly safe out
here' she whispered, her voice playful. All Algoron knew them as enemies,
thought them anathema to each other. Whatever others thought mattered
little to him. They were the ones damned, not this erudite pair blessed by
truth. But appearances must be maintained. 'Then let us relocate' came his
reply with a smirking grin. 'Can you get into.. ' A single beat might have
passed in the barless prison of his heart as he answered her query. 'I can
slip past any guards, ' he replied before unconsciously returning to the
methods of the ambush predator that whispered at his true nature as it
coursed through his veins.
Returned now to the Warp, he clung to the wraith of her scent. Grasping
tight their phantom tendrils, longing to wrap his arms around her... Place
his hands upon her, squeeze her...
He shook his head, unsure if he had dreamed it, had hallucinated yet again,
or if...
Writer: Mezlak
Date Fri Sep 2 20:53:47 2016
To Marauders Aviandha ( Imm RP Raije Religion All )
Subject News of a Birth
Mezlak straighten the pile of paperwork he'd just finished going over.
They were nothing more than minor orders and reports on day to day matters
such as availability of steel for horseshoes for the Army's calvary. He
sighed. The messenger had come days ago. Three or four days at least, he
thought. Most people seem to think he should be happy to receive the news
the messenger had brought. He just couldn't see the reason to be happy over
the news. His wife had given birth to their children. He couldn't see
reason to be happy over children. They had yet to accomplish anything.
It'd be years before they could do anything worth noting as an
accomplishment. Not that he'd indulge them. He certainly had never had
anyone even hint at indulging him. He had always had to earn everything he
had. His "children" would have to earn as well, and more than any trinkets
they wanted.
Grumbling loudly, he set the papers aside. It seems there would be no more
work to give him an excuse to stay away. It seems his aides and under
officers were doing their best to ensure he couldn't find an excuse to stay
away. Though Mezlak had to admit, he did look forward to seeing his wife
again. She always had a way of making him smile, and making him not be the
priest and second in command of Raije's Army.
Writer: Garrett
Date Sat Sep 3 12:54:36 2016
To D'arude All Bloodlust RP Alasdair
Subject The Sandstorm and The Bard
'You sell it, and it will be your head, ' hisses the Sandstorm of
Algoron.
The Bard kneels, humbled by the Firstborne's majesty. 'I will wear it as I
seek blood across the world's shores, Firstborne. What would you have me do
in return for this boon? I am humbled. ' The quiet trickle of an elaborate,
finely carved brown dragon fountain the only sound in the cavernous lair.
'Kill, Bard. Kill. '
A slow, broad grin makes its way to Garrett's lips.
Writer: Vaerus
Date Sat Sep 3 22:17:04 2016
To All Chaos Her (Imm Rp) Malachive
Subject Awaken, the sleepers...
The day started as had every day in memory: morning, the accursed rise of
the burning daystar again cast its light creating pools of shadow where it
could not touch. This day though, was to be different for Vaerus. The
usual hate and rage coursed through him, fed him, nurtured his black heart.
But today, the cavity where it beat was filled with ire even more vitriolic,
even more malevolent than usual.
'Wordbearer' he wrote, starting the report in the usual manner. 'Truly the
Redeemer, glory to him, has blessed my hatred.. A smile, one touched by
cruelty that he could do little to supress, even if he'd wished it spread
across his lips. The crimson spread across the page, each scratch of his
quill like the lick of carnivorous winds.
Finished at last, he cast a handful of ash upon the page. The words grasped
out and pulled in All that remained of the doomed, with their addition and
now dried, he sealed it and tucked it away. Rising, the intent of passing
it along to his most trusted of couriers, inadvertently knocking over the
vial of crimson he used to feed the thirst of his pen. A portent metaphor,
he thought, watching the sanguineous pool spread.
A portent metaphor, he thought, watching the sanguineous pool spread.
A sign. A vision gifted, of what was to come.
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Sep 4 01:32:13 2016
To Abaddon Forsaken All RP
Subject The Gravedigger ( Part 1 of 5 )
The sky roiled with brooding black clouds, whipped by fierce winds into
turbulent swirls that moved across the mass of thunderheads blanketing the
sky to horizon's edge. Between the gathering dusk and the density of the
cloud cover, darkness hung like an umbral cloak. A rising mist, growing
thicker from the chill in the air and moisture from the recent rainfall,
swirled through the dense foliage and growth that cloistered the winding
pathway into the cemetery of Abaddon. Save for the fluttering of raven
wings and shambling passage of the odd caretaker, silence dominated the
rain-slicked paths and tombstone dotted fields of grass and low rises.
A dull chopping sound echoed from the western reaches of the cemetery,
steady and occasionally replaced by a sharper note of metal striking stone.
A practiced ear could resolve the sound into a shovel cutting into heavy
soil with some deflection from striking stones hidden in the earth.
Standing ankle deep in the muddy water covering the bottom of a nearly
finished grave, Corron went through the repetitive cycle of digging:
stabbing the shovel into the earth, kicking to break through thicker clay,
shoving the blade deeper, twisting and lifting the muddy shovelful, pivoting
and tossing the dirt. Repeat.
The rain that had only stopped half a bell earlier had proven a mixed
blessing. A little rain loosened the hard-packed black soil while more
precipitation turned loam into clinging mud that stuck to the shovel and
grew heavier and harder to sling the longer it rained. It also mired the
unfinished plots, turning them into pits of sucking mud. A bank of red clay
ran through the rise on which he currently labored, staining the water and
resisting his excavation. Thunder rolled across the sky, foreboding and
lasting several heartbeats, and promised an eminent renewal to the rain.
The walls of the grave now stood some inches over Corron's head, showing he
was drawing ever closer to being finished with this one. The vain hope that
he might finish before the rain returned to flood the hole was fully
shattered as the first few drops fell across his cheek. The moisture
brought a slight sting, reminding him of the cut over his cheekbone from
where his shovel had earlier splintered a piece of shale. One of the flying
slivers had drawn a ragged line just below his eye. Grunting as he felt his
shovel chip from striking a large stone, Corron continued the routine that
had grown automatic over the last several days. Stab, kick, lift, fling.
Lightning began to pulse through the sky, brief flashes that illuminated the
graveyard for a few seconds at at time before the gloom reclaimed the night.
Nearing his last shovelful, Corron allowed himself a rueful smile as the few
patters of rain became a steady drizzle. One burst of lightning backlit a
shadow across the broad opening of the grave and an outline reflected in the
surface of the standing water.
"Found ya. " A rough voice boomed just before the thunder crashed.
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Sep 4 01:35:50 2016
To Abaddon Forsaken All RP
Subject The Gravedigger ( Part 2 of 5 )
Tension quickly knotted the already fatigued muscles in his shoulders as
Corron turned to look up at the speaker. Standing at the head of the plot
beside the pile of displaced soil was a half ogre garbed in grungy furs.
Scars crisscrossed the gristly frame of the half ogre and a chunk of his
nose was missing. Hair unevenly shorn in a vain attempt to rid himself of
fleas that teemed in the uncured furs he wore, the half breed grinned down
with mouthful of broken brown teeth.
"Yous remember me? " A hairy foot kicked a large chunk of muddy soil into
the hole, splattering Corron with water and dirt.
* * * * * *
He remembered. It had only been several hours since he had driven the
brigand from the city. While on his regular patrol of the Bloodlands, the
cacophony of a drunken brawl had sounded like a tempest in the normally
quiet streets. His footfalls silent on the bone laced cobblestones, Corron
quickened his stride down Gluttony Lane. The raucous violence was spilling
from the ajar doors of the Fall From Grave Tavern. Without hesitation,
Corron slipped into the building, ducking a flying patron and the leg of a
chair that flew after him.
The sight before him was more fitting to a boisterous port town than the
austere brooding the city normally exuded. One man writhed on the broad
mahogany bar amidst a pile of broken glass, holding a shattered hand to his
gut. The interlopers and apparent instigators of the disturbance stood out
clearly from the citizens of the city.
Dressed like brigands that had seen better days, their moldy leather was
coming apart at the seams. The raw fur hides they wore were stained and
ridden with pests. Their simple weapons consisting of wood axes and
skinning knives brittle with rust, the motley crew was in the thick of it.
One man with a garish tattoo over his scalp gurgled on the floor in a
growing pool of blood.
Two others that had the look of brothers traded ungainly punches, movements
slurred by heavy intoxication, with some of the locals, mugs and chairs
frequently coming into play. The last was the true threat. Brutish
countenance enhanced by a slopping overhanging brow, the half ogre stood
head and shoulders above everyone else in the tavern. Like a living
sledgehammer, he rampaged through All obstacles, throwing tables and patrons
with equal ease, howling like a wolf, a wolf that had tipped a few flagons
too many.
His grey-green eyes flickered over the interior of the tavern, gauging and
analyzing. Seeing no value in exchanging bravado with unkempt ruffians,
Corron wove his way through the landscape of broken bottles, tables and
people, silently drawing up behind one of the two brawling brothers, leaning
back at the last moment to avoid the backswing of a wild rabbit punch. With
hardly a whisper, he drew his blade. The jasper in the pommel caught the
low lantern light as it swung, striking the bandit in the temple and sending
him reeling to the floor.
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Sep 4 01:44:44 2016
To Abaddon Forsaken All RP
Subject The Gravedigger ( Part 3 of 5 )
"Enough."
The simple word was not spoken loudly. Corron did not like raising his
voice. The timbre, rather than the volume, of his voice cut through the
violence like a scalpel, bringing hostilities to a momentary pause. His
face drawn into a stolid, almost empty expression, the keenness of his gaze
was like a shard of ice as he turned his focus onto the remaining two
threats, after sparing a brief glance to keep one of the few citizens still
on their feet from falling over the man he had downed before he could rise.
The normal air of blood and ale with faint whiffs of sulfur that permeated
the inn was far sharper now with the coppery tang of freshly split blood and
violence. Isolating the half ogre with his stare, Corron almost missed the
approach of the second man.
"Yah kilt mah kin!" He bellowed in the moment before he attacked.
Shifting his weight back, Corron narrowly avoided that first swing, barely
aware of the jagged end of a bottle that led the attack. A single look was
all that was required to tell him there would be no reasoning with this one.
The set of his eyes, the compression of muscle in his hands, the tendons
straining in his neck. Very well. Corron thought.
Shoulders lowered and moved under the outstretched arm. Left hand snaking
up to seize the man's wrist, Corron rammed his hip forward and rolled the
drunken fool right over his back, slamming him into the ground. Still
holding the hand wielding the broken bottle, Corron drew himself up to his
full height and set a foot on the prostrated man's shoulder. Yanking the
arm to full extension, his knee crashed into the back of the locked elbow
bringing a brittle crackle of bone and a squeal of arcing pain. The bottle
fell from the the now limp grasp and Corron released his hold, letting the
brigand grab at the mangled joint and roll away, sobbing.
Brief as it was, the altercation had blinded Corron to the rise of the first
man he laid low. Blood streaming from his split scalp, eyes frenzied from
seeing his brother crippled, he hit Corron with a flying tackle, shoulder
spearing into his ribs and driving the air from him as they both crashed
into the debris-choked floor, grappling for position. The quarters were too
close for the traded punches to have much weight to them.
Expecting the half ogre to intervene at any minute, Corron brought the
wooden knuckles reinforcing his handguards to bear, splattering his
attacker's nose across his face. On his next swing, jagged rings extended
from the hollows between the knuckles tearing bloody furrows up the man's
neck. Left hand brought a small diamond shaped blade to bear, stabbing it
repeatedly into the man's side.
Shoving the brigand away, Corron saw foam was already bubbling from the
man's mouth with a bloody froth, the potent toxin that coated the rings
spreading virulently. Standing far more steadily than he truly felt with
his ribs aching, Corron swallowed a mouthful of blood and leveled his livid,
blood-streaked stare at the half-ogre who has even then advancing, a chipped
and notched hatchet drawn to take advantage of the moment.
Perhaps it was seeing the odds equalized or perhaps it was his state of
intoxication or perhaps it was something unsettling in that stare, but the
mix breed stopped several steps short, suddenly uncertain.
"Sufficient blood has been shed. Take yours and go." Corron said.
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Sep 4 01:50:01 2016
To Abaddon Forsaken All RP
Subject The Gravedigger ( Part 4 of 5 )
Something strange passed through the half ogre's alcohol addled gaze.
Stowing his weapon, he grabbed the brother with the broken arm, the only
member of group that still drew breath, by the collar and bodily hauled him
out of the tavern. Shaking his head at the absurdity of it all, Corron
shadowed the pair out of the city until their forms were lost in the dense
fog that secreted the ancient kingdom. Just as they moved out of sight, the
half ogre called through the shrouding mists.
"Mez find you! Youz not see last of mez!"
Placing little stock of the bluster of those with nothing better to do with
their time, Corron returned to his duties without a backward glance.
* * * * * *
Knuckles whitened as his hand clenched around the haft of the shovel, the
sound of the wood creaking lost in the growing downpour. Corron silently
stared at his self-appointed adversary, painfully aware of his disadvantage.
Quite apart from being in the bottom of a six foot ditch that was slowly
filling with water, he had left most of equipment in a locker before
undertaking his grave digging assignment. No sense making a several hour
stint of overturning earth more difficult with bulky armaments that would
then require cleaning afterwards. He would have to reassess that later. If
he made it that far.
He could try reasoning with the half ogre. Doubtful. He might try to
intimidate him again. Unlikely. The half ogre began laughing and kicking
more mounds of dirt down on Corron.
"Youz dig good hole. Mez help."
Corron was not about to waste any words on this man. Right arm came up and
hurled the shovel like a javelin aimed for the half ogre's face. Not
expecting any true results out of the diversionary tactic, Corron turned and
leaped against the wall at the foot of the grave. Even as he feet touched
the soil, he turned and kicked back out, aiming for the right side. He
wasn't counting on how much the water weighted him down, how much the rain
had weakened the integrity of the dirt channel he had hewn into the ground.
He also wasn't counting a rock he had unearthed earlier to come flying in
the next load of dirt kicked at him.
Part of the grave collapsed, ruining All attempts at traction to gain more
height and clear the walls, dragging him downward even as the rock struck
his neck, twisting him around in his rapid descent. Corron found himself
laid out flat on his back in the bottom of the grave, dirty water clogging
his ears and nearly covering his face. Overhead, the half ogre roared with
laughter, not even caring about the new gash on his hand from intercepting
the shovel. Corron couldn't make out the next words, but the intention was
clear. Lightning crawled across the sky as the brigand jumped into the
hole, intending to crush the prone digger.
Feeling as though he was moving through mud, Corron brought up his hand and
uttered a few arcane syllables while his fingers moved through an intricate
pattern. A move of desperation, the lightning bolt would have made a proper
mage laugh at the middling potency. It proved sufficient for this instance,
catching the descended bulk of his attacker square in the chest and knocking
him back against the wall of the pit. The sharp smell of ozone filled
Corron's nose as his teeth chattered from the residual energy. Likely not
one of his best strategies, invoking electricity while laying in water.
Another thought for later.
Writer: Aethelwine
Date Sun Sep 4 01:52:46 2016
To Folt Zola Devion Abaddon All
Subject A box of chocolate
Tiny little hands light work a pan full of melted chocolate making sure
the recipe is just right. Several drops of Belladonna are added to complete
the task. Aethelwine smiles to herself as she picks up small chunks of
rotten cherries and dips them into the poisoned chocolate one by one they
are placed on the wax sheet to dry.
After letting her special treats dry the small pixie places the chocolate
back into the box, mixed with the untempered chocolates. Smiling down at
her work Aethelwine closes the box up and tops it with a purple ribbon.
It wasn't long until she found the perfect person to recive her special
gift. He was happy enough to accept the chocolates and very willing to
admit to having a very special someone to give them to. The pixie sent him
on his way. Reminding Folt not to let them melt. Now All she had to do was
wait... And wonder did her gift cause a tummy ache? Did it get tossed into
the trash? Or did the one given the wonderful gift die? Oh it was All too
exciting playing tricks and serving Devion!
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Sep 4 01:54:24 2016
To Abaddon Forsaken All RP
Subject The Gravedigger ( Part 5 of 5 )
Like an arrow released from a bow, he burst into movement, sloshing water
as he regained his feet and launched himself at the half ogre. His foe
roared defiance, smoke rising from the scorched flesh on his chest that
showed through the hole blasted into his layers of furs. The next several
breaths were mindless savagery. Corron knew he couldn't match the bulk and
raw strength, his opponent easily twice his own weight.
Ducking and weaving around most of the artless, heavy swings, Corron drove
knuckles repeatedly against the major blood vessels in the neck and the ribs
over the heart only to catch a huge knee in his gut. A slung handful of
watery sludge stole the larger man's vision. A ham-sized fist slipped by
Corron's guard in a hook that All but unhinged his jaw and loosened a few
teeth, sending a ribbon of bloody spittle into the air.
A few pronged metal discs, roughly the size of clamshells, slipped from the
bindings on his forearm. Hand pumping, he launched the shuriken in rapid
succession. His own blood was no longer the only one that stained the
water. Already sporting several quickly growing bruises, Corron matched
brawn with speed, tactical strikes and the occasional burst of the arcane.
Limited blasts of icy shards and scouring streams of acid kept the close
quarter brawl from being completely lopsided against him.
The brute was not going to die easily, suddenly tipping forward to crush and
drown his smaller foe. There was no room in the trench for Corron to evade,
all he could do was to brace for the impact. Joints screamed in protest as
they resisted the crushing force as the behemoth collapsed on top of him,
driving him into the growing pool of muddy water. Some of the jagged stars
still embedded in the half ogre dug into Corron, while others were pushed
deeper in his foe, tearing vital organs and severing blood vessels.
Stubbornly, the brigand continue to fight, unwilling to relent even as his
life pumped out. Outmatched in strength, Corron would never be outmatched
in stubbornness. Trapped beneath the choking bulk of his opponent and
unable to shove him away while the brute actively tried to crush him into
the muck, Corron did the only thing he could.
Minutes later, Corron scrabbled out of the grave, thoroughly soaked and
coated with mud and blood, a near feral light in his eyes. Almost as an
afterthought, he turned and spat a large mouthful of something back into the
pit. A flash of lightning revealed the lifeless body of the half ogre,
glassy eyed gaze looking skyward, horror in the last moments of life etched
on his face. A gaping hole was torn out of his throat, trachea laid open in
a bloody ring.
His jaw clicking and aching with the movement, a laugh bordering on unhinged
and devoid of any mirth spilled from Corron's scarred and blood slicked
lips.
{nHe was going to have to dig another grave.
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Sep 4 17:53:31 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Sep 4 17:56:55 2016
Writer: Aethelwine
Date Mon Sep 5 00:13:00 2016
To All Devion Boof
Subject fish out of water.
Aethelwine stood on the deck of the Scythe pulling the net as hard as she
could back to the deck.. She grinned as she watched the fish flop around
dying as the air strangled them. Several hours later and hundreds of fish
later the pixie was done with the first step in todays prank. She knew she
could not carry them All on her own so with the help of a levitation spell
the nets full of fish began to well.. Levitate.
Aethelwine was very proud of herself for thinking up this prank, and she
sang a little tune as she headed off to Althania. The pixie was very
thankful for magic, it was a great gift and she needed to remember to thank
Devion for it more than she did. Finally arriving at the cross roads, the
pixie set down one of the nets and cast another spell that flung the dead
fish All over Althania Houndreds of fish went flying in different
direction.. It was a wonderful site.
The small pixie then headed to the deans office, a perfect spot for another
net to be disbursed. What a wonderful plan, Soon Althania would smell
wonderful! Aethelwine left the wretched city with a heart full of joy. Oh
what fun it is to be Devion's Pixie.
Writer: Garrett
Date Mon Sep 5 18:36:28 2016
To Abaddon Bloodlust All Alasdair Kyri RP
Subject The Bard - Overlord, Ambassador... Council Member?
Garrett leaned against the mural of the Abaddon meeting hall. Tipping
his fedora forward, he covered his eyes. He was honored to be invited, but
was content being a fly on the wall.
With a start, The Bard realized he was leaning on a picture of two girls
getting murdered? Odd tastes, to be sure. Who has this picture in their
Audience Chamber? Abaddon...
Turning his attention back to the Count, he was able catch him saying, 'We
will be expanding our new council to include a member of Bloodlust.
Garrett? '
The Bard laughed. With a theatrical bow, he sweeps his fedora deeply below
his knees, 'At your service.'
Writer: Mercerion
Date Mon Sep 5 21:44:54 2016
Writer: Zola
Date Tue Sep 6 03:04:33 2016
To All Aethelwine Abaddon Bloodlust Verminasia Darkonin Immortals Fatale
Subject X Feeding Time X
Showing the insects to the Devionite Pixie (something about a new prank
planned) reminded Zola most keenly of the time. While he intended to keep
his 'pets' lean, he did still need to feed them every few days while he kept
them carefully contained in captivity.
Bidding Aethelwine an ominous farewell and displacing himself from his
current location, Zola re-emerged in the caverns deep below Abaddon. While
swampland made the region difficult to farm and build, dig deep enough into
the ground and you found solid rock. And deeper still, darker, more
terrible things.
Himself amongst them.
Finding his way down a deeper tunnel and pausing momentarily to conjure a
flame, he lit a black candle and held it above his head to illuminate his
way. While fully capable of seeing in the dark, the effort was annoying,
and in any case, the light was for their benefit as much as his. He needed
his project to be able to survive in the light. If they could not, they
would be utterly useless to him.
A number of cages lined the cavern he reached, hanging suspended from the
ceiling by a number of sturdy chains at waist level. Pausing by each and
every one, Zola saw their occupants were napping, or had been, though he saw
the occasional flash of light reflected from the candle, keen eyes studying
him as he moved amongst them.
"One... Two... " he counted, one by one, until he reached the end. "...
One thousand five hundred forty-two... One thousand five hundred
forty-three... One thousand five hundred fifty-three. " Another twenty-one
must have perished or been devoured by their brethren in the interval
between their last feeding. Still acceptable losses, as Zola had only need
of thirteen hundred when the time came. More than enough.
Well, time to feed.
Finding a chest at the far end of the room, Zola pried it open and pulled
out its contents: carefully preserved hearts. He owed a necromancer for
this particular favor, but they were as fresh as the day they had been
ripped out of their owners chests. Taking the first red organ in his gloved
hand, he squeezed tightly between his fingers, letting its bloody contents
drip down into the first cage.
It would have made more sense to use a cow's heart, from a more practical
standpoint, it was a larger organ, and held a great deal more blood.
However, that wasn't the point. It wasn't wholly important that he just
feed the monsters. It was important to teach them the proper taste. When
the time came for them to fly, he did not want them attacking cattle. He
wanted them swarming down over the people.
Eager chittering emerged from the cage as its contents shifted, the
multitude of eyes shifting as fangs flashed in the dim light, thousands of
them fighting one another for the first taste, shoving their multitude of
brothers and sisters out of the way, each of them eager to feed.
It wasn't yet time, but it would be soon. Already the stars were aligning,
the moons coming into their proper orbits. Particularly the dark sphere
that was Drakkara's. The dead were starting to stir. Soon, the time would
be right. And then they would be free to feast.
"Soon, little ones... Soon," he promised.
Writer: Aliera
Date Tue Sep 6 15:41:02 2016
Writer: Clarissia
Date Wed Sep 7 15:17:43 2016
Writer: Ryim
Date Wed Sep 7 17:01:14 2016
Writer: Aethelwine
Date Wed Sep 7 20:21:38 2016
To All Devion
Subject A soapy tale.
Aethelwine sat staring at the boiling cauldron. Inside the ingredients
mixed and boiled. Poison ivy, mint and bars of soap All melting together
into a very aromatic mixture. The pixie sat stirring and stirring it was
taking a lot longer than she had liked. Aethelwine had spent days looking
through fields, asking everyone she could for some Lavender. Some people
where helpful, others were rude.. And then others where so mean they made
her growing list of people to get back at. It was late one night one of
Abaddon's citizens suggested she use mint instead, that perhaps it would be
easier to find. Two days later a very kind green person offered some to
her. Traveling to a place she called a mountain the pixie finally received
her final ingredient.
Some people didn't take her seriously, they thought she was anoying or even
a bit odd but Aethelwine didn't care she knew she had a job to do, after all
she is Devion's Pixie. These little pranks might seem childish, or silly to
many but to Aethelwine she had a grand plan.. And her supporter Boof
insisted she earn her money by continuing her efforts. Althania had
received her first prank, and now it was Shalonesti's turn. After careful
thought she had considered two options. One her very special soap. Poison
Ivy and Mint to cover up the plant that she hoped would leave several people
covered head to toe in a horrible itch rash!
Sneaking the soap into Shalonesti's shop was not as easy as Aethelwine had
hopped. Turns out they don't like her simply because of where she lives!
It made her trick play All the more worthy in her eyes. So she set out to
find just the right person, watching and listening as the traders swapped
supplies at the river. After some time, and several eggs the soap was
finally slipped into the supplies headed to market, beautifully wrapped and
mint scented her poison ivy soap was soon to be on sale.
The pixie was very proud of her work. This prank was one of her best yet.
She only hoped the 100 bars was enough to cause a nice itchy outbreak On to
her next plan.. A box full of bugs was only the start, she had many more to
gather and collect.
Writer: Mercerion
Date Thu Sep 8 00:41:05 2016
Writer: Mercerion
Date Fri Sep 9 01:15:28 2016
Writer: Mercerion
Date Fri Sep 9 01:23:40 2016
Writer: Garrett
Date Fri Sep 9 20:04:24 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Sep 9 22:44:17 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Sep 9 22:47:43 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Sep 9 22:52:13 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Sep 9 22:58:17 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Sep 9 23:02:23 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Sep 9 23:05:45 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Sep 9 23:09:44 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Sep 9 23:13:56 2016
Writer: Garrett
Date Sat Sep 10 06:00:33 2016
Writer: Vaerus
Date Sat Sep 10 10:08:02 2016
To All Bloodlust Chaos Garrett Kyri Alasdair (Imm RP) Malachive
Subject Ladykillers (The Blade and The Bard II)
'Matron! ' he heard Garrett the Bard, and his drinking partner, call out
while he lowered himself into the seat across from him. It had been quiet
here most of the evening, but with the performance ended, and the booze
about to flow that would All change. A lose-lose situation for the rest of
the Wayfarer, but not for this pair.
THUMP! Came the sound as the Matron set the mug down, in front of Vaerus,
stealing his attention away from the one sitting on the other side. His
target, his foe, and for the rest of tonight at least, his friend. For this
moment though, his eyes were on the Matron, unsure how he could've missed
her earlier, unsure why she was, instead of looking at him as All women were
wont to do, looking at Garrett.
'A toast! ' he intoned, holding up the large ale and extending it towards
Garrett, 'To brews! And to bo-' *CLINK* came the sound of the mugs slamming
against one another, drowning out the rest of his words, rest of his toast,
to anyone not at the table with them.
THUD! Followed by the distinct sound of coins hitting against one another.
A black coin purse, with a crimson drawstring, came to a stop in the center
of the table. Surrounded by the countless empty mugs, empty shot glasses,
and the half eaten food: Corpses of the night's partying.
'A wager... ' He belched, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and
continued, 'A bet. Which ever one of us getsh to.. ' went on, explaining.
'... And if you win, you get thish' as he patted the black and red purse
he'd flung, carelessly, onto the table.
Writer: Eadaoin
Date Sat Sep 10 14:38:48 2016
Writer: Garrett
Date Sun Sep 11 07:21:27 2016
To Nordmaar Malasand Kyri Alasdair Bloodlust All Eadaoin
Subject The Bloody Ice Queen
Princess Eadaoin MacCallum swung her axe with a vicious right backhand,
disemboweling the shocked gnome. She followed through with a pointed blade
thrust into the dying gnome's right orbital socket. Blood splattered
everywhere in a wide semicircle before the corpse, coating the Princess.
'Ah'll finish mae trainin' tuedae! ' she bellowed. The Viking Malasand
quietly follows Eadaoin, blades in hand. He nods in agreement.
With an overly theatrical bow, The Bard appears behind the pair. Eadaoin
turns around, and nods once to Garrett. 'Try this, perhaps? ' He tosses
over a two handed asterite lugged spear.
Effortlessly, the Princess grasps the spear, dropping her axe and dagger.
Without missing a beat, she runs towards the nearest gnome and impales him.
The wide eyed gnome screams as his spinal column is severed just below his
solar plexus from the blow. Eadaoin is ruthless, and jabs the lengthy shaft
over and over into the soft flesh. Carotid Artery. Liver. Left groin.
Right Shoulder. She finishes the gnome with a two handed scream, the spear
cleanly severing the gnome's head from his shoulders.
'This spear bae nae gude, ' Eadaoin tosses the spear back to Garrett without
even looking at him. She picks up her axe and dagger from the floor, and
charges into another group of gnomes.
The Princess Eadaoin MacCallum is covered in bright red blood.
Writer: Tayira
Date Sun Sep 11 19:26:48 2016
To Abaddon Bloodlust All Garrett { Immortal Rp )
Subject Blade practice
Tayira waited until Garrett had finished unloading the boards from his
vault and returned to the Dungeon before she reached into her vault and
pulled out a tattered parchment. She walked over to the far end of the
vaults and reached for a small blade tucked into the edge of her skirt.
Moments later the blade was protruding out of the wall as it held up a crude
drawing of the Overlord. The parchment was riddled with holes already but
moments later a loud 'thwack' was heard as a small throwing knife sunk into
the wall, slicing yet another hole in the parchment.
She snickered to herself and shrugged her shoulders at the Captain of the
guard when he looked at her questioningly. 'What? I'm just venting
frustration when I get stuck on a particularly difficult trinket. He talked
me into this after all!'
The Captain just laughed and shook his head, 'Aye, Executioner. I'm just
glad he finally learned his way around and stopped yelling 'The Bard is
lost! The Bard needs help!' The woman laughed and nodded,' Come now
Captain..I find him quite amusing. It's too damn quiet in this city most
of the time. At least it livens things up.' He nodded and then tipped his
head, mumbling something about rounds before he left the Executioner alone
with her trinkets and thoughts.
She had a lot of time to think lately considering the trinkets weren't all
that hard once you got the hang of it, after that it was merely repetition.
Most of her thoughts lately were on how well Abaddon was doing. She was
glad to see that things were progressing even if it was slowing just a bit.
They were gaining new members, getting things moving in guilds and getting
people involved. They had many working on crafts now and the Dungeon had
been a tremendous help in that.
As much as she liked to joke that Garrett was a slave driver or practice
throwing her knives at his picture, there was no denying that things were
looking up. The cooperation between the Dungeon and Abaddon was a
refreshing change, she hoped it would continue to grow. It made sense for
them to work together, Murder was a vital part of both organizations. The
Outpost would be good for both the Dungeon and Abaddon plus it would help
strengthen their bond.
Writer: Vahriah
Date Mon Sep 12 06:58:47 2016
Writer: Garrett
Date Mon Sep 12 10:07:12 2016
To Vaerus Chaos All Bloodlust Kyri Alasdair RP
Subject The Blade & The Bard fight
'Sir, please stop, you are hurting me! ' the Bar Matron cried out in the
back room. Garrett and Vaerus were well into their game of alcoholic
stamina ego endurance. But the shriek from their server snapped both of
their attention to to the commotion. A group of unsavory slave traders had
made their way into the Inn. And a singular surly man had his hands on the
Matron's wrists. He was pulling her close. 'Stop, please! '
The Bard and The Blade wordlessly looked from the scene, then to one another
for a brief second. In unison, they stood from their seats. The Bard
grabbed his half empty mug and the lit table candle, sauntering directly to
the Matron. The Blade stood and made his way around the crowd gathering,
flanking the scene.
'Come now, Sir. Leave the poor woman alone, ' Garrett slurred and took a
big swig of his mug. The accosting ruffian turned his dirty, crooked tooth
grin towards Garrett. His breath smelled like ass. Quickly, Garrett lifts
the candle to his face, spitting his mouth full of drink as a flaming
blaze unto the ruffian's eyes. Careful not to hurt the Matron.
Out of the crowd, Vaerus grabs the accoster's scalp with his left hand. In
one fluid motion, The Blade slams his opponents head unto the bar. His
right hand bringing down his dagger with superhuman precision. The tip
penetrating both caroid arteries and the windpipe cleanly at the same moment
the head slams on the surface. Vaerus stares deeply into the wide eyes of
his target, savoring the succulent and sumptuous view. Bubbling air through
spurting blood in the throat, the lights of his eyes facing. 'Delicious.'
The Matron is gently pushed into the arms of another serving girl by
Garrett. He and Vaerus turn from the corpse to face the remaining Slaver
Company at the far end of the Inn. The group of them stand, deadly serious
in their posture.
Vaerus stands on the balls of his feet, both daggers in hand. Garrett
raises his mug, to them, 'Come at us. ' He finishes the rest of his drink
then smiles.
Writer: Garrett
Date Mon Sep 12 10:50:38 2016
To Vaerus Bloodlust Chaos All Kyri RP Alasdair
Subject The Bard & The Blade get hammered
Honestly? I clearly recall the fighting that night. Vaerus was in rare
form. The group of Slavers were so incensed by my banter they chased me
around the room. I skitted around the tables avoiding their charges and
swipes. While Vaerus simply went from foe to foe. Stabbing them in the
back. By the time they realized what was going on? It was two on two. A
little roundhouse and stabbing and it was over.
I do also recall the Matron and the others happily cleaning up the corpses
and tossing them outside. I also remember her sitting on my lap. And then
the alcohol starting to flow freely. On the house, for services rendered.
That's where my memory gets hazy. There are some vague images I remember.
At one point I was holding Vaerus' waist long black hair back as he vomited
into a barrel. The usual braid undone by a serving girl. I also remember
riding around my dreadwood staff like a witches broom. And perhaps even
using it to violate a newly open keg hole. But wait, was I using the
dreadwood staff or my own staff at that point? It's pretty hazy.
I definitely work up with urine All over myself. I can't remember if it was
from laughing so hard. Or being unable to undo my trousers in time before I
had to pee. Maybe both?
Best part of the night? The black and red purse was mine.
Writer: Ayrora
Date Fri Sep 16 12:39:18 2016
To Verminasia All Roleplay Storyline Immortal
Subject Time in Gateville
Rora was off and running again as she gathered the guards to head to
Gateville. Life had gotten a bit busy with the lack of a Steward for
Sacnoth but it did not phase her. She mounted Braedan and decided Gateville
will be their next stop. She wished to check the bridge between Markon,
Sacnoth, and Iagothal to make sure it was taken care of properly.
Upon their arrival, she greeted the owner of the management company and
proceeded to inspect the bridge. She found a few things that had gone
unnoticed, a crack needed tending to and a few things replaced, but they
went over everything and proceeded to the locks. Everything seemed in order
and All the manifests up to date so she was quite happy with the trip
overall.
They returned to Sacnoth without incident and she tended to Braedan as she
always did. A warm bran mash, a wash down, a blanket to cover him, and some
fresh hay. She was glad the stable boy mucked the stall while they were out
so it made her day go much nicer. She returned to the Manor to bathe and
redress then left to Verminasia on the horse drawn carraige.
It would be a great day!
Writer: Ayrora
Date Fri Sep 16 14:09:24 2016
To Verminasia All Ezek Roleplay storyline Immortal
Subject Assisting in Itholasia
Ayrora entered Ithalosia as the Captain of the guard greeted her, "We
have been expecting you. " She offered him a slight smile as she entered
the gates. "We were instructed to let you have the lead as the workers are
starting to clear some brush. " She nodded to him as they continued up the
path leading to where the workers were. "Here you go, Lady Tenneal. " He
nodded as he introduced her to the team leader and left to start his rounds
of the lands.
Braedan was quite impatient being on new lands, stomping the ground as she
tried to speak. "Greetings, I am here to assist in All I can. The area
seems quite nice for the next greenhouse. " He smiled at her as she
dismounted from the stallion. "A few more trees and we will have enough
land. " She showed him the dimensions of the greenhouse as he informed his
men where to go.
She spent most of the day in Itholasia. Quite a beautiful snow covered
land. She smiled as she observed how far they had come by the end of the
day. At this rate they would be able to build a greenhouse by beginning of
the next fortnight. She was used to hard work but was quite tired by the
time they had finished surveying the lands. She was quite satisfied once
they had finished and All was set.
Rora took Braedan's reins and mounted the stallion. "I shall return in the
beginning of the next fortnight and shall order the materials sent as soon
as possible. " She looked down at the team leader offering him a small
smile. They both said their farewells as she rode off towards home.
Writer: Hrentun
Date Fri Sep 16 16:34:36 2016
To All Ganth Mencius Imm RP
Subject The Stygian Guard
Hrentun stood on Ganth's battlements overlooking his life's
accomplishment. Behind him the city rested quietly, the large temple to the
Minotaur patron Gods looming over the quiet city center. In stark contrast,
the scene below him buzzed with energy.
South of the main road, just south of the main gate, the field had been
completely leveled. An army of tents had sprung up around a chaotic
construction site. Since his ministry had begun, Mencian followers of all
races and backgrounds had made their way to hear the priest speak.
Frequently they stayed, forming an impromptu community between massive city
walls and the beginning of the Cathedral's construction.
Cook fires dotted the field surrounded by goblins, humans, minotaur and
representatives of All the races. Some shared their stories of loss and
mistreatment as they helped themselves to the simmering concotions of boiled
meat and vegetables. Others, too isolated even to find kindred spirits
among their own kind, sulked in silence. Each was here because the world
owed them something. The world had gifted countless blessings to others,
strength, wealth, success, while witholding it from them. Hrentun was
teaching them to channel their rage. To declare their worth through
strength of arms and strength of purpose.
Beyond the sea of tents, haphazard formations armed with training swords and
farming equipment participated in wargames. Two units of beggars, thieves,
fourth sons, farms and bandits circled each other slowly, gaps appearing at
too regular misteps and hesitations. But Hrentun recognized they were
improving from where they had been and allowed himself a moment of
satisfaction.
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Sep 16 17:08:51 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Sep 16 17:13:05 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Sep 16 17:16:05 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Fri Sep 16 17:20:09 2016
Writer: Ashbie
Date Sat Sep 17 06:36:59 2016
To Verminasia All Aybel Ayrora Immortal Storyline Roleplay
Subject A Disturbance 02
Ashbie sat back in her chair.
The wooden chair was almost like a throne in its decadence. The
headboard was a ship, molded expertly so that, even though it was
certainly ostentatious, it was not tacky. The back and seat of the
chair were padded with velvet and lined with silk.
The desk was clearly an old captain's desk from a ship. Like such a
desk, it had been secured firmly to the floor, even though Ashbie's
office in Tenneal Manor was unlikely to move very much.
On the other side of the desk was a Gnome. A tinker Gnome to be
precise.
"Thereisa huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge demandforchocolate, maam. We would
liketohelp yougetitup andoperational asquicklyaspossible." Even
though the Gnome was seated, his rapid chattering made Ashbie feel
like she was running to keep up with him while they talked. It was
exhausting.
"And the bill for your services?" Ashbie asked.
The Gnome smiled slyly. Gnomes were cute, but they weren't Kender,
they were far more likely to be savvy in business. He passed over a
rolled parchment to Ashbie. She unrolled it and began to read.
"Youwillsee thatthesumisverymodest. Wewillmostly makemoneyoffof
thefactoryonceitisfixed."
Ashbie could see that. She could have paid for the charges out of
her own pocket, without needing to use funds from Sacnoth. But the
contract also included a hefty royalty fee for profits from the
factory.
Standing up, Ashbie smiled. "This is a lovely contract. I'll sign
it after at least /some/ proof that you can do what you're
promising. What will it cost for you to take a look, give an
estimate, and show me that you can get it running again?"
The Gnome looked slightly dismayed. Clearly he thought that Ashbie
would be an easy negotiator. The wealthy were so often such soft
targets.
The problem was, even spoiled as Ashbie had been when she was
younger, her parents had earned their wealth, and their title. The
only way Ashbie could understand where they came from had been to
run away. In that time, she learned what it was like to have nothing,
to have to negotiate in back alleyways. She'd been burned on many a
deal, and not just because she ended up paying more than something
was worth.
Ashbie closed her eyes for a moment, her smile faltering.
"I- well, it'smostunusual butIthinkwecancometoan agreement!" The
Gnome replied suddenly.
Opening her eyes, Ashbie saw that the Gnome had shifted from dismay
to outright fear. She must have let her composure slip enough to
show the Gnome her disquiet at... past memories. While it had been
unintentional, it had helped with her negotations.
Flashing one of her smiles, Ashbie put the Gnome at ease. "And how
much will that cost?"
The Gnome began to calculate on his hands.
----------------------------A DISTURBANCE--------------------------02
Writer: Ashbie
Date Sat Sep 17 06:44:20 2016
To Verminasia All Aybel Ayrora Immortal Storyline Roleplay
Subject A Disturbance 03
One thing always seemed to lead to another.
Pelwin hadn't shut up. Not in the slightest. The door being locked
was only a small barrier to getting inside. It was easy enough to
break one of the first-floor windows. Since the factory wasn't in
active use, there were no security features in place.
Ethan had suggested they go let the commander know. He was no coward,
but he hadn't survived being in the guard for as long as he had by
making rash decisions. Then again, the unit commander was younger
than him, maybe he didn't make enough rash decisions.
It was useless to protest, Pelwin had already cleared the remaining
glass and crawled in. Ethan had followed in after. It hadn't taken
them long to find the Gnomes.
Startled, the Gnomes All pulled out weapons, one of them running
over to a gun... a gun that looked as though it were some sort of
multi-barreled small-canon. Except, the barrels were far too small
for canonballs.
"Stop!" Pelwin had shouted, "In the name of the Tenneal family,
Lords and Ladies of Sacnoth."
One of the gnomed had laughed. LAUGHED. Ethan had never trusted
Gnomes, he had tried getting Pelwin to calm down. "It's fine, we'll
just tell the commander, right?" He had said, but Pelwin never
listened.
"We're herebyorderof MissTenneal" the Gnome behind the odd gun
said. He stepped down from behind it, holding out a hand.
"It's Viscountess Tenneal" Pelwin said, narrowing his eyes. He did
not take the Gnome's hand. "You have a note of writ?"
The Gnome had blinked. Ethan remembered that distinctly, because that
confusion told him there was something very wrong.
"Sorry to disturb you, we'll just head back now." Ethan had tried to
say, but he hadn't got past 'disturbed' before Pelwin had cut him
off.
"Note of writ?" Pelwin demanded.
"Whatnote?" The Gnome still seemed confused.
"A signed and sealed contract would suffice." Pelwin had said. Ethan
had to hand it to the young man, he knew his law.
"Oh, wellwehaveacontra-" the Gnome stopped mid sentence. Ethan could
remember it clearly. Why hadn't Pelwin just let it go? Surely there
was a misunderstanding. "Oh, right." The Gnome had clucked his
tongue. Why? "Surelyyoucanask MissTenneal?"
"Viscountess Tenneal, Gnome." Pelwin had responded, "You and your
men must stand down. After your arrest, we can send for the
Viscountess to vouch for you." Ethan had to admit, Pelwin's stance
had been reasonable, but being placed under arrest in a foreign
country doesn't really look very reasonable to a foreigner.
"Wehavedonenothingwrong." The Gnome said, stepping back behind the
strange gun. "Youcangoask MissTen- the Viscountesswhateveryouwantto
callher. Wehavework todo."
Pelwin had drawn his blade. Why? Why had he done that? Ethan had
already retreated in the other direction. Self-preservation had kept
him alive before, and it would now.
"Where are you going!?" Pelwin had shouted, hesitating for a moment,
and then he screamed.
The small, multi-barreled "mini-cannon" gun roared into life, shot
coming out of each barrel faster than a man could load and reload a
gun. It was like a machine...
Now Ethan stood before the commander, who frowned. "Why did you
run?"
"They had- they had- .... are you crazy?" Ethan couldn't believe the
question.
The commander shook his head. "You're under arrest for dereliction
of duty."
"We attack at dawn." The Commander instructed his men.
Dawn came and went. The Commander had returned, but half of his men
did not. "We cleared the infestation." He said simply.
A week later, Ethan hanged for abandoning his fellow soldier
Curiously, after the raid, blueprints for restoring the factory had
been recovered.
----------------------------A DISTURBANCE--------------------------03
Writer: Vaerus
Date Sat Sep 17 22:50:19 2016
To All Bloodlust Chaos Garrett Kyri Alasdair (Imm Rp) Malachive
Subject Amateur hour (The Blade and the Bard)
'Sir, please stop, you are hurting me! ' The panic in her voice, that
sweet sound, made only by those who were truly afriad, was what reached
Vaerus first. He and Garrett were deep into their game, and to any
observers, deeper still into their cups. That tortured scream from the Bar
Matron though, that dragged both of their attention to the scene playing
out. Slave traders. He knew them instantly. Scum. Doomed, just like the
False-Gods who were his most hated of enemies. One of their group had his
hands on the Matron's wrists, pulling, tugging, forcing her closer. 'Stop!
Please! '
The Blade and The Bard looked from the commotion, then to one another,
wordless, and for the briefest of moments. As one they rose from their
seats. The Blade making his way around the gathered crowds, using them as
cover, to flank the scene and the doomed. The Bard took his mug, half empty
though it was, and the candle with its flickering flame from their table.
He made his way towards the Matron and her tormentor, his movements a bit of
booze-fueled swagger to them.
He wasn't entirely sure his signal, the one intended to relay that he was in
position, and ready, had been caught. 'Come now, Sir. Leave the poor woman
alone. ' Garrett slurred, his words hanging in the air while he took a deep
pull from his mug. With a crooked tooth grin, the ruffian accosting the
Matron turned towards Garrett. Deceptive, was the speed with which Garrett
moved, lifting the candle to his face and, taking care to not hurt the
Matron, spitting his mouth full of drink at the man's eyes in, what Vaerus
would never admit if asked, was one of the move impressive, and inventive
things ever witnessed.
Accepting the unspoken challenge of one upsmanship, Vaerus grabbed the scalp
of the fool accoster. In what was a smooth, fluid motion, he slammed the
man's head into the bar even as, with his right hand, he brought his dagger
down with precision, and malice, into the man's neck. Taking the time, more
so even than it had taken to cause this, He looked into the widened eyes,
'Delicious. ' he couldn't help but say aloud, quite obviously enjoying the
fading light only he was near enough to see.
Gentle, and with the greatest of care, Garrett pushed the Matron into the
arms of one of the serving girls. Her safety, at least for the time being,
assured, Vaerus and he turned. Away from the corpse. Away from the bar.
Away from the girls. And towards the remaining Slaver company. That
unlucky group, who just happened to pick the wrong place on the wrong night.
They stood as a group, the language of their posture telling of their deadly
serious intent.
Poised on the balls of his feet, the comforting, and deadly, feel of a
dagger in either hand Vaerus stood silent, letting the man beside him, put
words to what they both were thinking. 'Come at us. '
Writer: Vaerus
Date Sun Sep 18 01:26:59 2016
To All Bloodlust Chaos Garrett Kyri Alasdair (Imm Rp) Malachive
Subject Legend of the Drunken Bastards (The Blade and the Bard)
Truthfully? The fighting I remember with absolute clarity. Garrett was
in the rarest of forms. I even remember a few of the lines he'd sung, to
incense that group of Slavers. To get them to chase him around the room. I
can even recall how it felt when I'd stabbed them, using Garrett's clever
ploy to strike from their blindspots and fell them one by one. Eventually
they realized what was going on. At that point, it was two on two. Some
more stabbing, a few of Garrett's signature roundhouses, and it was over.
The Matron and her girls, as well as a few of the other patrons, I can
recall cleaning up the mess. Seemed happy, even, as they tossed the corpses
outside. I can remember too the sight of her, the Matron, sitting upon
Garrett's lap. Remember the serving girls bringing us a bottle of the
house's special reserve. An obscenely expensive drink, one few knew of, let
along got to try. There was also more food, and, of course, even more
alcohol. It flowed freely, a gift, on the house, for services rendered.
It may have been the alcohol, the adrenaline, the urging of Garrett and the
girls, or some combination, but I gave in. Garrett managed what no other
had before. He got me to sing. To try to at least. I believe it is called
a duet. At least that is what one of the girls called it. Garrett, of
course, started us off.
'The Bards witty banter kept the eyes of their foes turned away. The Blade
and his daggers went hunting, flanking the prey. The unlikely heroes, this
is their tale. Gentlemen, Bastards, fueled mostly by ale! '
'Listen you vermin! And listen up well!'
'Yes, listen to Garrett while I send you to hell!'
'Come now, come swiftly, kill me if you can!'
'And I'll drop the whole lot of you, down to a man!'
At that point, my memory grows fuzzy. Bits and pieces of images I can bring
to my mind's eye. One of the serving girls, the redhead, undoing my braid
and toying with my hair. Garrett riding around on his dreadwood staff.
Throwing up in a barrel, gentle, caring hands holding my hair back....
Writer: A'zrapi
Date Mon Sep 19 10:30:38 2016
To Arkane All Imm RP
Subject Stay Awake
Sleep was as always, a large room growing smaller and smaller as tendrils
of silken darkness worked over the floors, walls and closing in from the
ceilings. She tried to twist away from it. She tried to turn as the black
nothing pushed against her face trying to suffocate her, quell that spark of
life within her. Pressing, the sweat beaded over her forehead, trickling s
trail of tickling fear down her temple to her chin.
She awoke, gasping, clothing clinging to her, hot and sticky. There was no
sleep. There was only nightmares, only those demons that chased her over
generations and time, those devilish spirits that haunted only in dreaming.
She shivered herself, trying to focus on the moment, this moment.
After a while, she regained her even breathing and slowed the furious beat
of her heart. She moved across the temples floor and used her magic to see
beyond the room.
Nothing. She was safe.
Writer: Betha
Date Mon Sep 19 16:07:09 2016
To All Wargar Thaxanos Immortal Religion
Subject Death of a Hero
Silence surrounded the mountain.
It was a quiet that the dwarves had observed many times but it never got
easier. It was thick and choking, like a deep darkness that would block the
sun and still the air. Each grief has it's own imprint, as distinctive and
as unique as the dwarf who bears it. Some dwarves turn to their faith,
speaking of honor to Raije and being able to spend eternity beside Cliath.
Others turn to their memories. Some express understanding while others will
experience anger.
The grief is real because the loss is real.
Irmli was a hero on the Mountain, in Wargar and in Thaxanos. Not just for
his ability to fight but for his teachings, his training help and his
friendship. Many dwarves would feel his loss. Some owed him their lives,
some owed him for what they had become. Many would look up to him as they
trained, hoping to become as he had become. Seeing him die at the hands of
one who called himself friend to the mountain was devastating.
He was her Protector. He was her confidant. He was Betha's friend.
Betha never took the death of a comrade easily but this one would be much
harder. She owed him her life, many times over. They had fought side by
side through many wars, over many years. She understood the agreement of
the fight. She felt helpless when she heard what Irmli might lose and not
return to the mountain. She couldn't face that, so she would assume Irmli
would win or his opponent would find it in his heart to spare the dwarf, his
friend.
Betha was wrong.
Irmli would be remembered. Thoughts of him will surface in the gleam of a
newly sharpened axe, or in the shine of freshly cleaned armor. The twinkle
in his eyes after a good mug of ale will now join the bright stars in the
darkest night sky. Irmli's voice would be heard mixed in the joyous yells
of victory and his presence would help comfort when the losses occurred.
His memory would remain and be called up in many toasts in the taverns. The
dwarves would march on.
Eventually, acceptance will occur.
Writer: Vaerus
Date Tue Sep 20 02:11:49 2016
To All Chaos Erebaal Her (Imm Rp) Malachive
Subject Be the broken or the breaker
'Wordbearer. You've received my reports? ' Vaerus inquired. 'I have.
' Erebaal replies, nodding in the other's direction. Vaerus went on,
filling in the gaps between the reports and now. '.. Glory to him, that
has brought' A smile forms on his face as he names her. '.. Back to me. '
Another nod from the Everchosen followed by what Vaerus would later look
back on as being, potentially at least, more dangerous.. More painful, than
any of the weapons arrayed on the walking armory standing before him. Or
any weapon he'd ever seen: His words. 'This, I have noticed. You will be
charged with bringing her to the fold, or else becoming her executioner. '
Every muscle in his body tensed. His eyes, normally the lifeless color of
frozen sea water on a moonless night, lit up with the promise of cruelty.
Even his voice changed, the tone becoming harsh. Whether Erebaal noticed or
not, he gave no indication. 'Ernngh. She.. Vaerus pauses a moment,
taking in a deep breath. 'She is... We... Are naught but ash in the end.
Conciously or not, as he finishes speaking, his left hand strays to the
hilt of the dagger at his waist.
For a moment, seconds in actuality, but feeling an eternity to Vaerus, the
only response he gets is the flexing of an iron gauntlet. 'We are all
condemned to the flame, but our end is one of our own choosing. We have
earned that right to decide. All others merely abide by the consequences of
our choices. '
Vaerus tilts his head forward, inclining the angle of his face ever so
slightly. The tips of his fingers tap a soundless rhythm on the grip of the
blade. 'She made her choice long ago. Even if circumstance has kept her
from my ar-'He clears his throat, catching his mistake, perhaps too late,
and continues, 'from our side.. ' Erebaal flashes his teeth in a
short-lived snarl, 'We are not victims of circumstance. Fate is a lie.
There are merely the consequences of choices made by better souls. She will
become one of those souls or she will be cast aside in favor of another. '
A few seconds of peaceful silence, as though passing through the eye of the
storm, before the onslaught continues. 'You shall master your wearisome
heart, Sicarii, or it will be your undoing. You have no need for such
paltry sentimentality. I have no need for those whose hearts bleed more
readily than their bodies. '
Vaerus nods twice, the motion causing the few stray strands of hair freed of
the oppressive braid to pendulum infront of his face. 'Words... Anything I
could say, would prove little, and less. You will see, as I have, her
actions will ring out, to us, a blessing, to those damned, a curse. You
will hear them, as I have, and they will sound out: Death to the
False-Pantheon. ' Nodding once emphatically, the bulk of his armor rasping
as Erebaal shifts in restlessness, 'Let it be so, and vindicate your
judgment. I have made my will known, and now you shall carry it out in
this. Ascension or destruction; there are no other options.. '
'There never was...'
Writer: Zola
Date Tue Sep 20 03:03:51 2016
Writer: Ryim
Date Tue Sep 20 09:36:48 2016
Writer: Gomda
Date Tue Sep 20 15:28:20 2016
To All Chaos Vaerus Dragoth Malachive ( Imm RP )
Subject Gomda am reborn
Gomda awoke to the trickle of stale water underneath the Mountain known
as Darkonin. It had been some time since he left his spears and snakes
behind him in the Dungeon and looked for a new path. Strength he was
looking for, and strength he would find. But the story of how he became a
Barbarian was not what was on his mind today, no.
{uGomda am want be feared.
His voice, gravelly and deep, surprised even him. Gomda growled and set
about wandering around Darkonin. Goblins everywhere. Gomda had grown tired
of goblins, and fought the strong urge to pick one up and break its neck.
{uNo, goblin not problem.
Quite right, goblins were not the problem. Something greater was bothering
him. Something that had been growing in the depths of his gut, in the
depths of his admittedly stunted brain.
{uGomda am slave. WE AM ALL SLAVES! He roared, sending a few nearby goblin
children scattering. Two guards meandered over towards Gomda with weapons
raised and Gomda snarled.
{uNot worry goblins. Gomda am leaving.
And so he did. With Darkonin behind him, Gomda set off into the wilderness
to start a fire and to think. Give him time to process these thoughts, and
you may hear more of his tale.
Writer: Euterah
Date Tue Sep 20 16:20:25 2016
To All Darkonin Gomda Imm RP
Subject Slogging Forward
The Witch went to the underground, the lower levels, though it churned
her stomach to see her kith and kin reveling in such filth. The Witch
sighed, there were many things to change, but the path was filled with
adversary. She stepped over a stream a debris, making her way to the
disturbance her guard alerted her to. Something about food, always some
food shortage, or weapon shortage or coin shortage or warrior shortage,
shortages the Witch Queen understood. Not that she sympathized with the
complaint, inwardly she seethed, All the Mountain had to deal with
shortages.
The giant Ogre guards met her and led the way to some corrals, the Witch
loathed
Yes? She practically hissed at the guard in charge. The giant Ogre set to
the tale, an beast of a animal took it in his head to charge off, like a
bull full of the lusts he tore through the guards and common folk like they
were fodder for his steps. She listened once, twice to the tale and looked
over the rest of the herd. How she despised the Ogres food sourcing.
"Follow up with a report. If you cannot care for your herd, they shall be
let go and you and your people can hunt once more for food.
She turned and stalked out of the lower caverns, every step forward she
achieved was pulled back three steps in muck.
The Witch fumed.
Writer: Gomda
Date Tue Sep 20 16:58:08 2016
To All Chaos Vaerus Dragoth Malachive ( Imm RP )
Subject The Suffering
You will Suffer
That is what the man had told Gomda. For a long time, Gomda felt he had
been suffering already. Boredom, frustration, inflicted by the stirrings of
apathy his mind could translate. He looked at All the creatures he had
known. The strong, the weak, always delighting in servitude, in dedication
to a divine cause.
{uAm think dem All slaves. Gomda slave. MAKES GOMDA ANGRY! He roared to no
one in particular.
{uThem All use each other. Gods use servants, servants try to make new
servants. All slaves.
In truth, Gomda did not think he hated Dragoth. The poisons and plagues he
utilized while exploring the arts of shamanic lore pleased Gomda. But the
more Gomda thought, the more he began to question the world.
{uWhat am Gomda doing? What am any of us doing? We am making world for
Necrucifer? For happy peace in light? For keep balance? While dem gods
watch us serve them and die for them and fear them? And dem just want leg
up on other gods!
Gomda grumbled and stoked his fire, scratching idly at his spiky hair.
Gomda wanted freedom.
You will Suffer
Gomda shrugged, remembering the voice. What was life but constant suffering
in the name of hope for whatever world a particular ethos demanded?
{uDem will spit on Gomda. Am not care. Am show them what freedom really is.
Gomda growled and rose to his feet, staring into the sky.
{uDRAGOTH! GOMDA NOT SLAVE! RELEASE GOMDA!
He shouted until his voice was hoarse and his fire was but a few coals dying
in the wind. As he settled under a pile of animal furs for rest, the mans
voice echoed in his head once more.
Suffer well
Writer: Corron
Date Tue Sep 20 21:58:41 2016
To All Abaddon Bloodlust Garrett Tayira Ruwen Gragos Alasdair ( RP )
Subject Forging Allies ( Part 1 of 2 )
A steady, rhythmic tapping echoed down Depravity lane, disturbing the
almost oppressive shroud of silence that hung over the area. The sound
spilled out of the open double doors of the crafting lodge along with faint,
warm light from the banked coals of the smelting furnace. Corron stood
beside one of the larger anvils with a doming hammer in one hand and a
medium gauge sheet of steel in the other. With some minor degree of
proficiency, he moved the metal around the curving horn of the anvil. Each
strike of the hammer helped to form the metal around the curve, guiding it
into a shape suitable for a pauldron.
It still amazed him to find himself working with metal. The majority of his
time had been in a shipyard where his main occupation was manipulating
lumber. Stripping branches and bark from felled trees that were hauled into
the port, working the great saws to section out beams, running the lathes
for drawing out boards and planks, steaming the timber under pressure to
form shapes- All of that was intimately familiar to him. Now, whenever his
duties allowed, Corron found his days centered on learning how to shape
metal bars and tanned skins into an astonishing variety of forms. If there
were fewer than twenty unique types of hammers, each with a specific
function, he would be surprised.
Bringing the back of his hand across his forehead to keep the beading sweat
from falling into his eyes, careful with the angle of the hammer he held so
as to not club himself in the movement, Corron glanced around the cluttered
interior of the hall. In many ways, the crafting hall reminded him of a
barn with its long design and great vaulted stone and timber ceiling to keep
the fumes from the furnaces from growing too thick.
The tanning vats with their pungent chemical stew, drying racks and work
tables stood off to one side of the space. Much of the central space and
back wall was dominated by the massive furnace with its huge bellows, bins
of coal, and multiple outlets for the slag and refined metals to be disposed
of or poured into molds. The impressive mechanism of the enchanted sawmill
framed much of the side side of the lodge. An intricate blending of the
arcane and mechanical gears allowed one person to hew timbers of All sizes
into boards in considerably less time than a team with ordinary tools and
muscle could achieve.
The remaining floor space was largely occupied by a series of anvils in
varying sizes, more work benches, a few smaller forges for heating lesser
tools and quenching tubs to quickly cool and temper the metal. The walls
and corners were decorated with a remarkable array of tools and implements
for most any task. Saws, axes, drawblades, hammers, chisels, files, tongs,
mandrels, rasps, brushes, awls, clamps, hooks, gloves, and aprons. More
than a few of the pieces were beyond his fathoming for their use.
It was rare to find himself alone as he was this evening. The fires of
industry in the kingdom of Abaddon had been stoked high in recent days.
Many citizens, from the highest to the low, had taken up various trades and
established a reasonably coordinated and concerted effort to grow the
resources of the Bloodlands. No small part of that recent upswing in trade
and new artisans was due to the ever strengthening ties with the Dungeon.
The crafting lodge was refurbished and bustled with activity.
Tools were kept sharpened and repaired. He had actually assisted in
remortaring some of the stones of the furnace troughs. Taking up a
different hammer, Corron moved the sheet of metal onto the step of the anvil
and began using the edge to cut a groove for segmenting this piece into the
next. His thoughts turned to an earlier encountered with the formalized
Ambassador of the Dungeon to Abaddon, the Bard, Garrett Locke.
Writer: Corron
Date Tue Sep 20 22:02:22 2016
To All Abaddon Bloodlust [51] Garrett Tayira Ruwen Gragos Alasdair ( RP )
Subject Forging Allies ( Part 2 of 2 )
The call had come unexpectedly, drawing Corron from his present task of
digging a fresh grave. Swiftly making his way to the Abaddon Vault, still
splattered in mud, he was surprised to find the Bard in idle conversation
with the Minister Ruwen Miete and Executioner Tayira S'tarst. Not that the
Ambassador was an uncommon figure in the streets of late. In fact, the man
had been instrumental in the rapid advancements of most of the artisans with
his steady supply of raw materials.
A faint prickling of the flesh along the sides of Corron's neck at the
briefly caught snatch of conversation between the gathered trio made Corron
glad he had not heard the whole of the dialogue. Letting his grey-green
eyes fall over the Bard whose seemingly indolent stance belied a guileful
nature, he briefly wondered if there was not some ulterior motivation
beneath the banner of cooperation. There was no denying that the benefits
for the kingdom at large were real.
Though Corron was not aware of the particulars of the arrangement, an
impossibly favorable accord had been struck between the two powers and the
Dungeon's representative had been facilitating the recent influx in
production. Over the last few weeks, hundreds of bales tanned hides, untold
tons of ore, carts of metal bars, and thousands of boards of All type had
flown from the seemingly infinite stockpiles of the Ambassador into the
waiting hands and work stations of Abaddon's burgeoning ranks of artisans.
Even if a rough estimate of the value in goods could be calculated it was
only multiplied by the future benefits of having a near legion of trained
workers. It seemed the spirit of assistance for mutual gain was cementing
into something more. The profferance of aid had not been limited to raw
goods and materials. The Bard had also offered valuable information to some
of Abaddon's objectives, as well as aid to the citizenry at large.
Meeting the verdant gaze of the Ambassador, Corron soon found himself to be
the recipient of a staggering amount of wooden boards courtesy of Garrett's
work at the sawmill. The boon came at fortuitous time in his own work at
mastering the basic skills of an armorer. Though it did come with the
necessary task of manually hauling a few cartloads worth of timber.
Thankfully, carrying and stacking came more naturally to him than trying to
set metal studs into leather without compromising the integrity of the
armor.
Drawing his thoughts back to the task at hand, Corron took up a triangular
headed chisel and lined up the pauldron with the pritchel hole of the anvil
and began hammering out holes for the rivets and chains that would affix
this piece into the larger whole of the suit. Working with the leather and
the plates was still more challenging than it should be. At the least, he
seemed to have a talent for drawing the metal strips around the mandrel,
working it into small interconnecting rings and long chains without the need
to cut and heat each individual link. A sound from the doorway drew his
attention as another worker came in to resume their labors. With the aid of
their ally the Dungeon, the Bloodlands of Abaddon grew stronger.
Writer: Vaerus
Date Tue Sep 20 23:29:26 2016
To All Chaos Gomda Erebaal (Imm Rp) Malachive
Subject The birth of Suffering
He sat tending to his weapons. Cleaning blood and other fluids from his
daggers. Chunks of brain, bits of bone, and other things from his precious
flails. Not because he cared about their appearance. No. This was more
practical. A dirty dagger, for instance, can get stuck in its sheath.
Could, perhaps worse, make a sound as he drew it, alerting a victim to what
was coming. Which simply would not do. So Vaerus sat there, within the
Warp, taking care that when the time came, his weapons, so very much an
extension of himself, would be as ready as he himself was.
'Human talk to Gomda? ' Came the voice. One which Vaerus did not
recognize. One to which he responded, if simply out of boredom. After all,
he'd tended to his weapons enough times he could do it in his sleep. If he
ever really slept that is. So he spoke with the Troll. The one known as
Gomda, only half bothering to pay attention.
'Am see everyone be slaves... '
That got his attention. Completely. It was not everyday, and Vaerus made
sure to tell the troll this, that one recognized they were enslaved. 'Rarer
still for them to admit it not just to themselves, but to another.. ' They
continued conversing for a time, speaking mostly about Slavery, Freedom and,
amongst other things, Fear.
'Am not want save the world. Am want.. ' The troll's words brought the
faint hint of emotion to Vaerus's face. Even though it didn't completely
form, or come near to touching his eyes, it was there. Lurking...
Waiting...
'There is no hope. There never was...... Shatter your chains.. '
'Gomda ready.. '
Seizing its moment, the ghost that'd been lingering manifested itself. It
took form, whole and complete. Absolute in its posession: Vaerus smiled.
'Then Suffer well.'
Writer: Vaerus
Date Wed Sep 21 01:16:43 2016
To All Chaos Erebaal Her (Imm Rp) Malachive
Subject Crushed 'neath the gait of her dance
It was an odd sound. The only one, infact, to fill the air. All else
was silence within the Warp. All others sleeping, or tending to other
duties elsewhere. This sound, one few would ever know, one he himself
rarely made, were of his footfalls. Of each step the one known as Vaerus
Sicarii took, pacing with feral madness, randomly changing direction.
"Her executioner. " Again and again he heard it repetaed in his head. The
words, the malicious spectre of a discussion. One with the Wordbearer. One
about her. It was at least hours that had passed, though possibly days
since it had happened, yet still, it tore at him. Gnawed at him on the
inside. Filled him with confusion. With uncertainty. For even he himself
didn't know. Was it really her? Had she truly returned to him? So he
paced. One foot in front of the other, lost in his head. Not paying much
attention to where he was going.
His path took him almost dead center of the main hall. Almost directly into
the Wordbearer, who he hadn't even noticed return. Somehow, at the last
possible second, he deftly shifts his weight to avoid collision. One that
would've been painful. Not for Erebaal, who was so spike-and-blade laden as
to be more a danger for any other soul in his proximity. Painful, rather,
for Vaerus, who spares a nod in the direction of the monstrous other man.
Back and forth. Back and forth. He continues to pace.
'Speak, Sicarii. You will sooner or later regardless. ' The sound like
that of stones grinding. Reaching the end of his trajectory, he swivels
upon his heel and heads now in the opposite direction. Save for a few feet
off the center line he'd previously took. He mentions the girl from
Althainia. Speaks her name. '.. Gone for so long, then appears, out of
thin air... I.. ' He shakes his head dismissively, All while continuing to
pace.
Erebaal responds with a grunt and the dragging of the armored claw of his
hand over something, splitting the erstwhile silence with a loud rasp.
'Your heart is still vulnerable for one who claims to have bled so much.
Family means nothing. Lovers mean nothing. We are cinders bound in
man-form, fit to burn bright or else merely fizzle in the heart of the
inferno. You hold too tightly to these attachments, and they shall
undermine you at the moment of choice. '
A slight twitch and the squinting of his eyes are the only betrayal Vaerus
gives of being affected by the rasp. 'You misunderstand. It is not my
heart that troubles me. It's my mind. I cannot be certain it was actually
her... That we'd actually met up... That I wasn't drugged or dreaming. '
'If it was she, then it shall go as we have spoken. If it was merely an
idle fancy of a fragile mind... '
'.. Then your long journey has cost you more than most. '
Writer: Vaerus
Date Wed Sep 21 12:40:22 2016
To All Chaos Gomda Erebaal (Imm Rp) Malachive
Subject Gallows humor
End over end the dagger spun. Blackened as it was, it was barely
visible. It mattered little to the man sitting, a parchment before him.
End over end. The lethal kiss promised by its blade slicing through the air
before being snatched from the air and, with a quick flick of Vaerus' wrist,
launched above him once again. As if in answer to the blades promise, his
left hand works a quill meticuously, carving out crimson upon the page
before him.
'Wordbearer' He writes, starting the report as he always does. Scratch.
Snatch. Toss. Scratch. Snatch. Toss. On it goes, the dagger and quill
always in motion. 'The one known as Gomda.. ' Scratch. Snatch. Toss. On
and on, the only change the feeding of the quill from the vial of scarlet.
Scratch. Snatch. Toss.
'.. Cast them off.... Or be strung up and hung by them.. ' Scratch.
Snatch. Toss.
Laughter.
Writer: Gomda
Date Wed Sep 21 15:11:11 2016
To All Euterah Vaerus Darkonin Chaos Dragoth Malachive ( Imm RP )
Subject Waiting
It is hard to describe the smell of a place such as this if you are
speaking to someone who has never been there before. There are those who
serve in wartime, surrounded by rotting corpses and limbs growing flush with
gangrene. They may have the inklings of a concept of the smells inherent in
The temple of Dragoth in Darkonin. But once you have been, you do not
forget.
Gomda sat in the temple, surrounded by rotting corpses and decaying flesh.
The air, thick with locusts, seemed to grow more humid and oppressive,
declaring visiting life unwelcome. Gomda would be staying, would be
returning, until Dragoth heard his words.
'{uDRAGOTH! GOMDA NOT SLAVE! RELEASE GOMDA! '
The thunder in his voice sent roaches scattering and a cloud of locusts
swerving to one of the darkened corners. The noise had attracted several
guards, one of whom Gomda recognized as speaking to him when he left. The
ogre had a defiant look on his face as he approached the troll.
'Queen not happy you left. '
Gomda grunted and beckoned the ogre closer.
'{uCome join Gomda if want. Am think is Darkonin, Queen welcome to. Queen
come talk to Gomda if Queen want. '
The ogre looked surprised but moreso exhibited the telltale signs of a visit
overstayed at this particular temple. He puffed up his chest and turned to
leave, grumbling something under his breath.
Gomda watched him go and then turned back to the statue and the swarm of
flies surrounding it.
'{uDRAGOTH! GOMDA NOT SLAVE! RELEASE GOMDA!'
Writer: Gomda
Date Wed Sep 21 15:45:09 2016
To All Vaerus Chaos Dragoth Malachive ( Imm RP )
Subject FREEDOM
Gomda stood stoic in the temple, flies and locusts buzzing past his face.
Suddenly, there was movement. Ooze from the bowl lashed out in two
tendrils, wrapping tightly about his wrists. Gomda grunted as the grip
tightened, but did not struggle against the ooze.
Pain begins to radiate through the tendrils, slowly spreading up the troll's
arms. As he tries to keep quiet, a wave of agony crosses his features until
he cannot bear it anymore and lets out a brief howl. Slowly, the flesh
beneath the ooze begins to rot, a vile stench filling the temple.
Gomda alternates between screams and deep laughter, breathing in deeply.
A voice echoes through his head. 'Your flesh is mine, your body shall rot
in the end and you will know you are mine. '
'{uAlllll... Rots. Not make all.... Yours. '
The troll flexes his muscles against the tendrils, only resulting in the
pain amplifying throughout his body.
'{uPAIN IS LIFE! '
'All rot in the end. '
With those words, Gomda felt an abrupt split, a vast emptiness filling up as
the rush of water over cliffs.
'{uGomda will rot. But will make world rot with him. '
The tendrils release their hold on Gomda's wrists, leaving behind partially
rotting flesh bands. Gomda hisses audibly, staring at his wrists. The
suffering had begun.
Writer: Euterah
Date Wed Sep 21 20:17:23 2016
To All Darkonin Gomda Dragoth Imm RP
Subject Freedom being
The word came several guards later that the escaped food had been seen in
the temples, no word that they tried to recapture or detain the- whatever it
was. She did not have time to address Humbers complaint of lost food, nor
did she want to think further on it. The sustenance by flesh was one thing
the Witch could not abide. She had no understanding of what her Ogrekin
found so appealing of taking a sentient being and rendering it into back
straps, roasts and steaks. Ignorance? Show of power? Tradition?
Consumption, consumers, perhaps, the Witchs mind pondered over All this as
she sat at her desk in palace library. The long tapered fingers tip-tapped
over the wood, dark eyes focusing on nothing for a long.
So much to do and now this, perhaps she should ride the Mountains energy and
try to seek this thing out. The Witch paused. Being, she corrected
herself, person. She stood suddenly, wrapping herself in her ice wolf cloak
and tearing out of the library as if the Cat was herself.
She ran to palaver with a certain person, now such a bright spark on
ethereal plane. Out of the palace she stopped, extended her aura and tried
to feel for the seeming tangle of mind, emotion and rage. She gave a sigh,
the Fathers temple. She screwed her courage and made her way there. There
could be nothing wrong in palaver.
Writer: Euterah
Date Wed Sep 21 21:03:33 2016
To All Darkonin Gomda Dragoth IMM RP
Subject On Being
In the temple she waited amid the putrid corpses, almost bubbling with
pus and the ever present fountain over flowing with clods of stringy slime.
The Witch did not mind in the least, she had seen Dragoths vision before,
gaining enlightenment into the hallowed god. She sat amidst the decay and
putrescence, letting her aura spark to life, concentrating on what happened
here in the Fathers house. She took a deep breath, inhaling the motes that
held All sorts of deadly detriments to those of Fathers displeasure. Yet,
the Witch was Gobliness first most, always, her skin might have been
permanently paled by the Deep where she was raised she still had lovely
sharp teeth and a bite that sickened even the staunchest of warriors.
She exhaled and listened and prayed.
Father, give me words of wisdom to speak and a mighty hand to quell the
anger. You made a wonder of me, let All in the Mountain be yet blessed.
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Sep 22 00:53:29 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Sep 22 00:56:11 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Sep 22 00:58:11 2016
Writer: Catroina
Date Thu Sep 22 09:26:43 2016
Writer: Xhyr'ryhx
Date Thu Sep 22 19:38:54 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Sep 22 22:45:26 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Thu Sep 22 22:47:55 2016
Writer: Zola
Date Sat Sep 24 20:30:10 2016
To All Abaddon Bloodlust Verminasia Darkonin Immortals Fatale
Subject X Bloodstains X
Sweeping into the Dungeon past the sentries at the gate, Zola made his
way to the hollowed chamber and prepared to kneel down before the statue of
the Lord of Murder, giving proper homage as he always did following a trip
to the battlefield. However, before he could do so, he paused as something
came to his attention.
He was absolutely filthy. His dark robes, not quite black, were stained
crimson. How much of it was his own blood and how much of it had been
spilled by his enemies, Zola couldn't fathom. In either case, he was in no
condition to appear before his dread lord. He needed a moment to clean
himself off and change his robes.
Red would have been a much better color for someone constantly covered in
blood, but black was better for the sort of work he conducted under cover of
darkness. And as it was, he was due soon enough to add some red to his
vestments. He simply needed to be patient.
Writer: Corron
Date Sat Sep 24 21:36:22 2016
To All Abaddon Forsaken RP
Subject Who Guards the Guardian? ( Part 1 of 7 )
An impenetrable wall of fog masked the terrain to All sides and limited
his vision to a few scant feet in any direction. The muddy ground, covered
with moss and fringes of algae, grabbed at his feet with every step, trying
to wrench off his boots. Corron wove a careful path along the border of the
trackless swamp, keeping his step on the rocks and mossy ground as much as
possible. At any time, the ground could prove less solid than it appeared
and sink beneath his weight, pulling him into a miring pit.
The stagnant pools of water that streaked and dotted the terrain was even
more treacherous. Shallow enough to barely reach his ankles at one step,
the next could find him hip deep in the dark water. The submerged ground
might abruptly crumble or slide out from under him and send him plunging
into deep pools whose bottom he had no interest in gauging. Thankfully, the
phenomenon of quicksand seemed to be one natural threat that was lacking
here. Either that, or he had been fortunate enough to not come anywhere
near to such a pitfall. Not yet, his thoughts echoed in warning.
Without any obvious diminishment, the fog bank simply fell away with his
next step. Corron emerged from the heavy mists to find himself moved far
from the swamp's edge into the heart of the fetid wetlands. The air was
heavy with moisture and trapped heat, a cloying sweat-inducing humidity that
only amplified the heat of the afternoon sun that radiated through the hazy
sky. Swamp fumes, the results of the decaying vegetation and wildlife,
trapped beneath the muddy waters bubbled to the surface in both noxious
bursts and steady burbling as nature reclaimed itself. The low buzzing of
insects was a constant companion when journeying through the bogs and
marshes. Stinging, biting pests of All sort were always ready to infest any
traveler.
Without the cover provided by the fog, Corron moved with greater care.
Moving in small, quick bursts, hunkering low to the spongy ground as he
attempted to make use of the available cover, scant as it was. Except for a
few stubborn copses of bald cypress, this stretch had little growth or
underbrush. He was still adapting to moving through such challenging
terrain. Beneath the verdant shroud of a true forest or in the back alleys
and rooftops of a city, Corron was fairly confident in his ability to move
covertly. In the swamp lands, the trick seemed to be to hope one's quarry
was more concerned with their own passage than watching for pursuit.
Drawing up hard against the moss covered trunk of a cypress, he surveyed the
immediate vicinity. The bogs were opening up to waterways and channels
between the stands of trees with fewer closed pools the further he
progressed. Corron knew from previous excursions that a river was not far
off. Taking a moment to plot his relative position against the reported
incident that had drawn him out in the first place. The scar over the left
side of his lips stood out sharply as his mouth drew into brief frown. It
would help if he knew exactly what he was hunting.
All of his efforts at stealth would be wasted if an animal was the culprit.
The swamp was home to more than its fair share of predators. Beasts that
could catch his scent even behind a veil of invisibility. Reptiles that
could feel the vibrations of even the quietest step. At any given moment,
the water could erupt as some hunter waited just beneath the surface of any
pool saw an opportunity to strike. Any sentient being that chose to make
its home in such an environment would have to possess an uncommon degree of
cunning or power.
Writer: Corron
Date Sat Sep 24 21:40:02 2016
To All Abaddon Forsaken RP
Subject Who Guards the Guardian? ( Part 2 of 7 )
Resuming his careful advance, Corron drew near to the location he had
been given- a stretch of the road that wound a curving trail through the
marshes. "Road" was a more than generous appellation. Even in the forest
beyond the dark river, the beaten path could not be called a road. Scarcely
wide enough for a single wagon, the trail was a rutted track of dirt packed
just hard enough to prevent it from being washed away in the next rain.
He could have saved considerable time if he had followed the road from its
terminating point instead of cutting cross country as he did. However,
Corron did not think it wise to take the same course as the waylaid merchant
convoy. Only one man had limped into town to relate the tale. His small
team of drovers had been attacked by something. The merchant was not even
certain what, his recounting a torrent of exaggerated guesses and vague
generalizations.
Something had risen out of the swamp, or the swamp itself had attacked them,
except it had huge claws and tusks, it had dragged off the horses, or eaten
them whole. Neither a dram of bourbon nor a few ringing slaps had cleared
the delirium from the fellow's mind. Conversely, when asked about the
contents of the wagons and the transports themselves, the man had been
explicit to the last spindle of thread and ounce of grain. Merchants.
And so the westering sun found Corron tramping through the inhospitable
landscape with little idea of what he faced. Only a child's description of
a nightmare and a categorical ledger of lost merchandise that would make any
money lender proud. The fate of the other teamsters and guards hired for
the trek seemed unimportant to the man. Corron had gotten only rough
descriptions of them. Not that he expected to return any survivors to the
city. Fleeing blindly into the swamp tended to leave one either in a
bottomless bog or in the stomach of one of the ever-hungry predators. That
was assuming that the perpetrator of the attack had allowed them to flee.
Corron's nose twitched as a new scent filtered into the tepid air. The
coppery tang of blood not long spilled and the gory odor of spilled bowels
and viscera. The air grew deathly still, heavy with the reside of violence.
His grey-green eyes rapidly flickering for any potential threat, Corron came
upon the scene of the ambush. Two wagons, of markedly worse quality than
described, lay overturned and broken on a stretch of the road that was
partially submerged in shallow puddles.
The ground was torn, mossy divots scattered, deep sweeping troughs hewn out
of the mud. Blood and entrails darkened the ground, already drying into a
crusted brown. Two bodies, dressed in simple home-spun clothing befitting
low-heeled traders, lay across the road, swarmed with flies and already
beginning to bloat in the heat.
For a few minutes, Corron remained crouched beside a cypress knee,
committing the scene to memory, studying every detail for any clue of
lingering danger. With a hand on the hilt of a blade, he descended the low
rise and sloshed through the standing water to the road. He begin a slow
inspection. What remained of the bodies matched the description of the two
drovers.
Whatever had befallen the caravan had come from the west, roughly the
direction of the heart of the swamp. The swath of destruction began from
that side of the road. Judging from the muddy tracks, one horse had bolted
into the marshes to the east. Another had been dragged away. A single pair
of booted feet had fled down the road towards the distant city. Of the two
hired guards there was no sign.
Writer: Corron
Date Sat Sep 24 21:43:59 2016
To All Abaddon Forsaken RP
Subject Who Guards the Guardian? ( Part 3 of 7 )
Several things bothered him about the scene. A cursory glance suggested
some sort of swamp fiend had brazenly attacked the caravan, sent the guards
and head merchant fleeing in terror, killed those that could not escape and
drug off a horse to devour. However, a second glance revealed the glaring
fact that not a single crate of cargo remained. Wild beasts did not lug
boxes.
Then there was the matter of the bodies. The evisceration had All the
appearance of being gored by an animal, but apart from some gnawing of the
faces, the bodies and entrails were largely in tact. Notably, no scavengers
had yet dared approach the free offering of food.
With nothing left to glean and no cargo to salvage, Corron set himself to
the task of retrieving the bodies. It promised to be tediously unpleasant
and laborious. Perhaps if he could find that escaped horse and repair one
of the carts sufficiently...
* * * * * *
Hours later, two of the moons cast wavering reflections across the brackish
water as Corron waded hip deep through the swamp. All of his senses were
turned outward as he tried to sense anything else in the water with him.
Leeches were a foregone conclusion, as were the snakes. Should his passage
invite the attention of anything larger though...
The meeting with Abaddon's head mortician had not gone well. Befitting his
profession, the man looked half a corpse himself and was prone to making far
too many culinary jokes while elbow deep in cadavers. The trip had been of
some benefit, thankfully. As suspected, the merchants were not the first to
die to similar wounds in recent days. The noxious saliva that had fouled
the flesh also explained the lack of scavengers. Now he had some idea of
what he was facing. That, if nothing else, had made the addition steps of
the journey worthwhile beyond the fulfillment of his duties.
On the other hand, Corron would much preferred to not revisit the swamp in
the dead of night. Most of the wetland predators were nocturnal. A few
miles back, he had found the remains of the other horse. The head, hooves
and little else. The trail had not been easier to follow. Corron was no
ranger and out of his element besides. Intuition and instinct had been his
guides for most of the trek as the signs of passage were few and far
between. While he might be only a middling tracker, Corron knew the pattern
of covert attack and the mindset of raiders.
Low hills rose out of the quagmire this deep into the wetlands. Elms and
ash pushed aside the cypress on the firmer ground and tangles of briar
bushes made moving over the dry ground as irksome as slogging through the
muddy waters. The night thrummed with the croak of frogs and chirping of
insects. Not as far away as Corron would have liked, an alligator's raspy
bellow sounded, signaling the hunter was on the move.
Through a break in the underbrush, he sighted his destination ahead.
Partially hidden beneath hanging moss and exposed tree roots, the mouth of a
cave opened into the side of one of the low hills, descending at a sharp
angle into the ground. Rancid, oily smoke thinly streamed from the entrance
above the flickering light of a fire deeper inside. While Corron was
studying the entrance for how to best set an ambush- and avoid one himself-
part of the hill moved. A hulking mass of vines and dirt simply seemed to
separate itself from obscuring part of the cave's mouth.
Writer: Sierus
Date Sun Sep 25 12:54:27 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Sep 25 14:12:54 2016
To All Abaddon Forsaken RP
Subject Who Guards the Guardian? ( Part 4 of 7 )
Or so it appeared. A crease formed between Corron's eyebrows as he
narrowed his gaze in study. The form was covered in such a way to make it
appear far larger than it truly was. The true shape was indeed large,
easily cresting seven feet tall and almost half again as wide. Garbed with
confusing layers filthy skins with vines draped around it and the tusks of a
boar lashed around its underslung jaw, the bugbear made a convincing swamp
beast. Easily strong enough to carry off a horse and rend the ground
appropriately to mask the attack, it seemed Corron had found his quarry.
Except, the detail of the planning and the depth of the disguising natural
materials did not fit. Bugbears were undeniably cunning, but this
arrangement seemed too clever.
As he contemplated the discrepancy, a large wolf emerged from the cave,
heeling close behind the bugbear. A throaty call came from deeper inside
the hole, to which the goblinoid responded with a rude gesture thrown over
its shoulder. A glint in the gaze of the wolf caught Corron's attention.
The look was far too intelligent as it surveyed the swamp around its
apparent master. Clearly it was not just a pet... A companion or a
familiar? Whatever the case, an animal sentry vastly complicated his
chance of a stealthy approach.
* * * * * *
The night was almost over at the point when Corron, laying flat out on his
stomach, inched through the sere grass to look over the edge of the hill
that housed the cave. As he had hoped, the bushy tail of the wolf was
disappearing into a stand of trees, lured by the scent of fresh blood from
the bird Corron had downed and left as bait. With any luck, the blood and
entrails would conceal the scent of the poison he had laced into the
carcass.
There was no time for further planning. The bugbear was just about to pass
beneath him. Counting the seconds against his racing pulse, Corron drew
both blades as he rose, the motion turning into a leap. As he descended,
his whole body snapped forward, slamming his weapons into the side of the
neck and down into the shoulder of the huge goblinoid as he dropped onto its
back. The resounding roar of pain shook the night, stilling the sounds of
nature in the vicinity.
Huge hands swatted at him in his untenable position on the bugbear's back.
Wrenching his blades free of the flesh of his foe, Corron slid further down
its back, stabbing repeatedly as he went. He had no inclination to face
this foe directly and suffer the bite of those broken, jagged teeth. Just
as he was preparing to leap clear, a large hand enveloped his right arm.
Corron found himself yanked viciously around, his back slammed into the side
of the hill and his arm nearly wrenched from its socket. Spots danced
before his eyes and his lungs were temporarily unable to draw in breath from
the numbing impact along his spine. Corron's free arm looped around,
stabbing a blade through the wrist of the paw that held him up.
Sinking to the ground on unsteady, wobbling feet, the only warning was a
husky growl and vague blur of motion in the corner of his vision. Falling,
as much as dropping, Corron sank into a crouch and rolled forward, passing
beneath the jaws of the leaping wolf. Beast and master tumbled together in
a confused heap. Bloody froth leaked from the wolf's mouth, pain and fury
making it near feral, biting at random. The bugbear was faring little
better, dark blood bubbling freely from the numerous holes and tears down
its back. More blood flowed steadily from its mouth. Despite the severity
of the injuries, there was far too much fight left in both of them.
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Sep 25 14:17:53 2016
To All Abaddon Forsaken RP
Subject Who Guards the Guardian? ( Part 5 of 7 )
Mastering fine control of his extremities again, lungs heaving in deep
gulps of air, Corron drew a pair of small ceramic orbs from his sash.
Cracking them together in his palm, he let the volatile contents seep
together, mixing with each other and the air. With a precise count, he
flung both orbs into the jumbled pile of his foes.
A brief sucking of air heralded the sudden spiking jet of flame that spilled
over both wolf and bugbear, searing flames and an obscuring billow of smoke
covering the combatants. Setting himself to flee and find a more
advantageous standing, the lack of movement within the smoke gave Corron
pause. As the smoke cleared, both bodies lay quite still, flames spreading
over the matted fur of the wolf and the hides worn by the bugbear. Well, I
won't have to bury these two at the least. The spreading frames revealed a
peculiar detail. The bugbear was female.
Briefly wondering whether other bugbears he had seen had also been female
without him noticing, Corron crouched by the cave's mouth to see whether the
sounds of conflict might draw anyone else out in his waiting blades. When
no one appeared to investigate, he quietly slipped beneath the hanging moss
and into the dimly lit tunnel. Working the feeling back into his arm and
shoulder, Corron descended the slopping throat of the cave, picking his way
over a trench of water that reeked of excrement. The passage rose again on
the other side of the water. The light of the fire increased as did the
pungent smoke.
Crates lines the entrance of the chamber ahead. Some precariously stacked,
others split open with contents scattered haphazardly. A few seemed to have
been flung against the wall in frustration. Centering the roughly circular
room was a rust covered cauldron boiling away, stewing some vile concoction
over the dung and peat fueled flames. Dressed in a moth-eaten patchwork of
cloth and leather, a smallish hobgoblin rattled clay pots in a corner,
muttering to himself.
Corron's first instinct was to use the element of surprise and make a
peremptory strike. Trade was critical at this time in Abaddon's growth with
new artisans advancing their crafts and supplies more needed than ever. The
road had to be kept clear. Any threat had to be answered harshly. On the
other hand, perhaps this could be turned to their advantage. Having a set
of eyes and ears in the swamp, someone intimately familiar with the terrain,
could prove beneficial for passing along information. Still, it never hurt
to enter a negotiation from a point of strength.
Drawing his diamond shaped kunai dagger into his left hand, Corron emerged
from the shadows behind the crates, letting a pair of shuriken fall into his
palm from their sheath on his forearm. The broad planes of his face turned
into a stolid mask as he launched the jagged metal stars. One tore across
the back of the hobgoblin's hand and the other embedded shallowly just
beneath a shoulder blade. Hollowing in pain as a jar fell from the stung
hand to shatter on the floor, the goblinoid turned a hateful glare at the
half elf striding towards him. The light of the cook fire glinting off the
silver-edged blade held loosely in Corron's hand and his eyes were hard
beneath his headguard.
"Yuz not Gruellecka!"
The hobgoblin howled while bringing his bleeding hand to his mouth, stringy
saliva coating the wound.
"I fear your associate met with an untimely accident and will not be joining
us. I offer you one chance to parlay and walk away from this in one piece."
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Sep 25 14:23:21 2016
To All Abaddon Forsaken RP
Subject Who Guards the Guardian? ( Part 6 of 7 )
Corron's hand came up in a rapid twitch, on the verge of loosing another
attack as the hobgoblin made a fumbling reach for something on the other
side of the cauldron. The sudden flash of darksteel made him think worse of
the notion and jerk to a stop. Licking cracked lips, the hobgoblin
answered.
"Yuz kill her... What yuz want?"
Something passed through the jaundiced gaze of the goblinoid, a brief
convulsion of his scabrous features. Corron suddenly realized he had slain
the mate of this one. Loyalty was not a vaunted trait in many species, but
that could potentially make this much more difficult. Well, there is no
unringing that particular bell. His objective remained unchanged. Exact an
arrangement or sever the threat.
"You are hunting within the demesne of the Bloodlands. Rather than take
your life, I offer you a deal. Do not harry the merchants that pass
through. Keep a watch over who comes and goes in the swamps. In exchange,
I will pay you for the information, far more than you could ever earn with
brigandry."
Body tensed to snap into motion at the first sign of reluctance, Corron
began edging around the cauldron. The hobgoblin chewed on its lip, a long
yellow fingernail clawing at one of the many scabs over its body.
"Yuz no kill, Mez look an' yuz give eggers?"
Close enough, Corron decided. Without taking his eyes off the goblinoid,
Corron turned his head and spat into his right hand, extending it to seal
the arrangement. That seemed to tickle the hobgoblin, bringing forth a
riotous bout of laughter. Corron narrowed his gaze, expecting to receive a
wad of spit in his eyes at any moment, his dagger angling up at his side as
he was close enough to strike now.
Entertaining the idea himself, or merely toying with Corron, the hobgoblin
rolled his mouth and only at the last moment spat down into his own hand
instead of forward. Grasping the half elf's hand in a surprisingly strong
grip, the hobgoblin began to shake only to suddenly jerk forward and bring
up his free hand that suddenly held a gourd which he promptly smashed across
the restricted arm. The thin shell shattered and sliced through Corron's
tekko bracers, cutting gouges into his arms into which the contents of the
gourd quickly seeped.
"Yuz kill Gruellecka!"
Growling, more at himself for his botched attempt at diplomacy than at his
adversary, Corron kicked the hobgoblin in the knee, jarring it with a faint
crunching sound as the leg hyperextended against the direction of the joint.
Before the first syllable of a howl could slip from the hobgoblin, Corron's
dagger flashed forward, stabbing into his gut, piercing flesh and fabric
with ease. As the hobgoblin began to double over from the pain of the stab,
Corron's forehead snapped down, colliding heavily with the descending face
of his taller foe, breaking the hold on his arm and buying him some space as
the goblinoid dropped down to a knee.
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Sep 25 14:29:54 2016
To All Abaddon Forsaken RP
Subject Who Guards the Guardian? ( Part 7 of 7 )
The threat ended for the moment, Corron turned his attention to his
bleeding forearm. Whatever had been in the gourd had coated his arm and the
jagged cuts. He was loosing feeling in the fingers of his right hand. No
stranger to a variety of toxins, he knew he had been poisoned. Seizing the
hobgoblin by the back of the head, Corron drew his kneeling foe's head
painfully back to look up at him.
"Where is the anti-venom?"
With a wheezing laugh, the hobgoblin lifted hands stained with blood from
trying to staunch the tear in his gut.
"Yuz dumb. Wez no need'um. Poisuns make'um stronger. It be mother's
milk."
Tossing the hobgoblin aside, Corron began rummaging in the stores of jars
and pots lining the back wall of the cave. The deep gut wound would give
the fool the long and agonizing death he had earned. Corron needed to find
a sample of the venom, or else find a truly gifted healer, very soon. The
vision in his right eye was starting to fog. Containers crashed to the
floor without care as his movements grew slurred and his search careless.
Wait. His eyes tracked back to a small jar of leaded glass that had rough
goblinoid script for milk on it. In another situation, he would have
laughed. Naturally.
A shambling sound drew Corron's attention. He whipped around, hurling his
dagger into the departing back of the hobgoblin as he tried to make a break
for it a damaged leg with both hands pushed hard to his gut. The blade sank
hilt deep into the goblinoid's back. At the same moment that the hobgoblin
spun around to the ground, wheezing out blood with each ragged breath from
the puncture in his lung, Corron also sank to the ground, All the strength
going out of his legs.
He could not even feel the jar that he clutched in his hand. The whole of
the right side of his body was trying to clench in a paralyzing rictus as
the venom attacked his nerves. Through his torn armor, Corron could see the
blood vessels in his arm turning black, the torn flesh looking on the verge
of festering already.
Dragging his gaze up, Corron's grey-green eyes met the sickly orange gaze of
the hobgoblin who lay crumpled on his side, slowly drowning in his own
blood. A glimmer of understanding passed between the pair. They both
shared a laugh. The sound was equal parts mirth and madness. {nThe laugh of
the dying...
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Sep 25 21:27:28 2016
Writer: Corron
Date Sun Sep 25 21:30:03 2016
Writer: Aliera
Date Mon Sep 26 10:48:59 2016
Writer: Ryim
Date Mon Sep 26 18:31:01 2016
To Marauders Verminasia All ( Tashio )
Subject Ryim's Raid
This might have been a bad idea. The words flew through Ryim's mind as
he ducked behind a tree and narrowly avoiding an arrow. Catching the eye of
one of his squad members, a grey bearded veteran, he signalled "Wait for my
lead". In return a grimace and a rude gesture. A wry smile on Ryim's lips,
such behaviour would be unthinkable in the Fort and amongst most Marauders.
But these were Blades, a bit more leeway was accepted for those who had to
operate behind enemy lines or amongst the enemy. And these eight men had
served with him for more years than he could remember, from back when the
Blades were a battalion, from when he led them.
Rounding them up and convincing them for a trip inside Verminasian borders
had been easy. Despite having been spread out amongst the other battalions,
then old soldiers tended to keep to old habits, in this case specific bars.
Not that many of "his" old soldiers remained, but a handful were still keen
to get into trouble despite the silver creeping into their hair. Nearly to
a man they had remarked jokingly that it'd get them killed but had then
drunk to that.
Now it seemed a bit more prophetic. Two had been killed and a third was
bleeding out with life rapidly leaving his eyes. And it has begun so
promising with scouting near the coastal villages and cities, gaining
valuable information of the area. But whether rusty skills or bad luck, his
group had been discovered by a patrol. It had been the first death with the
Blade soldier on watch having gotten complacent and been too late in hiding
himself from the chance patrol coming across him. From there on the squad
had been in full retreat, making their way through woods as much as possible
to make it difficult for the pursuing patrol on horses.
Again Ryim's fingers flashed the other Blade his instructions, this time
receiving a terse nod. Counting to three under his breath to then fling the
flash bomb that he'd been holding onto, waiting until the patrol had come
close enough. Distraction and signal in one action, blinding the nearby
pursuers while giving his remaining squad a chance to scatter in different
directions.
His own hasty escape led to the coast but with little respite as the patrol
had picked up his trail. Eyeing a fishing village and quickly deciding that
his best option would be to take to the sea. A wry grin appearing on his
face as he made that life and death run for the village, the sound of hooves
thundering closer.
Knocking over a fisherman and giving him a jab in the neck wasted precious
seconds as the hunters loaded their bows, having realized that he was about
to slip out into the ocean. The small sail is raised as the first few
arrows hit the water, a single arrow managing to hit the boat. Hardly the
most experienced of sailors, he still managed to get the vessel sailing away
from danger.
That is until the leader of the patrol brought about their bow. Ryim's eyes
narrowed as he tried to make out the figure, watching as the arrow was
readied and aim was taken at him. A gust of wind caused the sail to
momentarily flap between him and the figure on the beach.. Then an arrow
cut through the sail and into him.
Exhaustion and Pain soon replaced by darkness as the riders on the beach
watch the boat drift out to sea.
Writer: Paxx
Date Tue Sep 27 11:04:07 2016
Writer: Paxx
Date Tue Sep 27 11:15:42 2016
Writer: Paxx
Date Tue Sep 27 11:32:37 2016
Writer: Talrenvor
Date Tue Sep 27 15:38:15 2016
Writer: Talrenvor
Date Tue Sep 27 15:42:35 2016
Writer: Ryim
Date Tue Sep 27 17:01:58 2016
Writer: Sierus
Date Tue Sep 27 20:56:58 2016
Writer: Sierus
Date Tue Sep 27 20:59:57 2016
Writer: Sierus
Date Tue Sep 27 21:00:10 2016
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