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Updated art in last post - tomorrow I'll address current plans and update portraits in first post because I'm a little behind!
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Nov 26, 2017 07:28
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Dog Kisser posted:Under Starn’s stern, somewhat manic, guidance (building walls is just the other half of SIEGING) the Horde managed so slap together a half-decent perimeter around their wagons. From within, they’d be able to repulse attacks on their equipment from without, and make counterattacks from the safety of their enclosure. And all they’d have to do is remove a few pegs here and there, cut a guy wire, and the thing would spring apart, allowing their wagons a free exit! You could probably even tighten the wire here and there a little extra to make perimetre walls, like, explode when you cut them. Man, the baddies would regret trying to get in h- 
Lux Anima fucked around with this message at 09:16 on Nov 26, 2017 |
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Nov 26, 2017 08:16
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I love you.
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Nov 26, 2017 09:05
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     N̻̩ͬ̉̃a̫̭̣̼̹ͮm̠̥̱̥͚e̯͕͡: Hob HP͝: 1/1 G̀ͪ́ͥl͑̎́ory҉̶̛̤͍̼: 10 Ri͞t̲͠ua͚̝̹͉̟͇l Glory : 5 Skill: Bee keeping(used), Contortion(used), Ş̀̕̕͜i̷n̢g̸̵̨i̸̧͜ņ̢̨͝g̛(cooldown) D̵̻o̼̦̜̗͕o̧̭̻̭̤͕̺m ͓̖͚͎̟̮͠counter: 1 The Lord of Hats posted:"You're going to live, okay? I'm not just saying that. Qwäg and Trinh are doing just fine, and you will, too. It's going to be different, but you're going to live, and you're going to be the best drat friendigo in the entire Horde, you got that?" Hob's Wendigo worries slipped away. Maybe Noggins was right? Maybe he was too focused on fitting in to a story, dying at the right time for... What? This wasn't one of his mentor's stories, this was real life. And with friends like this, life was worth living. Noggins flinched from the heat, Hob hadn't realised, another effect of the wendigo core. Pulling away from the hug Hob said "..." No, not said, he kept Ş̀̕̕͜i̷n̢g̸̵̨i̸̧͜ņ̢̨͝g̛ while he spoke. A smile would do for now. WereGoat fucked around with this message at 22:13 on Nov 26, 2017 |
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Nov 26, 2017 15:59
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  Pythag HP: (3) of (3) Skill: Math Equipment: Armor (+5), Iron Shield Glory: 3 Pythag's shaky hands help investigate the strange mechanics. Action: Investigate Vile Mechanism: 1d100+3 = 30
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Nov 26, 2017 18:26
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Dog Kisser posted:She hit the ground on suddenly elongated arms, her neck craning out to survey her surroundings with strange new senses. She gasped in alarm and was surprised at the flanging effect her two airways produced. She lifted herself back up, her eyes meeting Grimper's. He looked her up and down and nodded, gesturing that she continue in the task she'd been assigned.  Gawp posted:Gawp wondered if she'd still be beautiful, even after the changes had torn her features apart.
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Nov 27, 2017 11:06
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    Bully Skills: Oratory (in use), Climbing (cooldown) HP:3 Glory: 19 Bully returns to town as quickly as possible to brief the rest of the horde on the strategic insights he has gleaned, and to encourage them to gird themselves for the battle to come and the importance of striking the foe before they can reach Fostis. Comrades, heed my words!: 1d100+28=80
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Nov 27, 2017 12:23
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If I had to hazard a guess based on the sketch on the outside of the vault and this new diagram, perhaps this is a machine to transfer something (Glory? Skills? Life? Esprit?) from the group at the table to whoever is holding the ring. Maybe the mask needs to be worn too assuming it's not ritualistic in nature. I haven't been down there yet so this is OOC and will be brought up after the battle. Either that or it's an elaborate Old Guy goatse drawing.
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Nov 27, 2017 12:48
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So apparently windows 10 comes with 3dpaint.
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Nov 27, 2017 13:30
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Potrait:  Naim: Mason Skillz: Mason Hootin' an' Hollerin' Mason Masonry HeeP: Mason Mason Mason Glury: Masonx13 -> 14 "Y-yoo wunt mai boomsteak?" Mason asks as Vist tries to explain the very complex and big word sounding plan they had to attack the other group. Now Mason may be dumb, but he's not stupid. That big armored guy down there reminds him of Grimper, and Mason knows enough not to try and attack a Grimper like dude with his own horde without the Original Grimper. That's just DUM. "Hear yoo go, et's yer furinal!" as Mason tosses the boomstick to Vist while slowly backing away. "CHEEZE ET, ETS DA PHUZZ!" Mason yelps as he starts running back to the rest of the Horde! Mason GTFO: 2d100+14 60 Mason gives Vist the dynamite! HiHo ChiRho fucked around with this message at 13:59 on Nov 27, 2017 |
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Nov 27, 2017 13:39
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Edited my last post to include the BOOM
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Nov 27, 2017 15:13
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 [Inside The Vault] The vault explorers tried to be casual about their interest in the priceless relics they’d just found, but that only lasted so long. While the Horde was clearly paramount and everything they all did was for its advancement… the prospect of loot of their own was irresistible. They dove for the table, making drat well certain not to touch any of the hooked palm-prints, and came away with their individual prizes. Pythag the Mathematician claimed A Mask, swiftly but carefully snatching it and walking away. It had an unusual texture, like wood or bone or flesh, but it yielded gently to the touch before springing back. The rear of the mask was slick and unpleasantly organic looking, but when he rubbed his fingers against it they came back dry. Unusual. Noggins the Carpenter claimed A Hammer unopposed - because naturally a carpenter should have a hammer. She could feel it thrumming with an energy that made her teeth chatter, and she found it tough to hold onto. Still, it was perfectly balanced. Snödis the Poet claimed the strangely bent spool of Wire and was alarmed when it retracted at her touch. She couldn’t pull it back out from the coil, couldn’t even pry the end away from where it touched the rest of the wire. Despite this, she really, really did not want to let it go. She felt nauseous merely thinking of it! Sucy the Mushroom Farmer claimed A Ring and tried to slip in on her finger instinctively. It slid off, slightly oversized for her, but in the instant she had it on she went blind and deaf, and it terrified her. Who could possibly want something like this? She pocketed it for the moment, then set off for the surface - if opening this Vault had somehow set off an alarm, she hadn’t felt or heard it, but someone needed to get the villagers out of the way. They’d be annoying at best and dangerous at worst, so she’d go tidy them up. The others hardly noticed her leave. With the items removed, the table felt somewhat stark and empty, like it knew it was useless without something to hold. Indeed, it started to curl in on itself, pinching and twisting into a concave helix - leaving only the ten palm prints in place, like harsh petals around an alien flower. They’d get back to that later; they had an ominous feeling about them, though admittedly that could have been coloured by Grimper calling them ‘Vile Mechanisms’ instead of something like ‘Pleasant Machinery’. Gado the Digger took a whack at the Olivite gate with his pick. It struck a spark, but like most interactions with the strange metal it was the offending instrument that was wounded rather than the target. For Gado’s part, he felt a strangely muted shudder on contact, like he’d been swinging it through clay rather than air and it had merely come to a stop. Behind him, those who remained were busily puzzling at the Vile Mechanisms. It was plainly obvious from the iconography and the set up that they were expected to sit, ten of them, and place their hands on the pads. But come now, they weren’t quite THAT dumb! First they tried to puzzle out anything they could without actually touching them. The chairs looked like they were just particularly uncomfortable chairs. They didn’t look like they’d suddenly fold in half and crush people, or swivel around, or explode… but then again, the table hadn’t looked like it could fold up. The hand prints were just strangely symmetrical (stylized or designed for non-Töans) hand shaped divots full of a grid of tiny hooked needles. They pulsed dimly with a teal green light, brightening when people approached. Finally, Snödis opted to gingerly plunk herself into one of the chairs. The others held their breath… but nothing happened. The Poet Captain shrugged and stood b- er, no, she didn’t. She wasn’t stuck, but her legs weren’t working. In fact, she couldn’t feel them at all. The associated palm tablet tilted to face her, glowing brighter, and the other tablets began emitting a low tone.
    (You learn pretty much all that’s obvious from your examinations, but this is decidedly an Excession scenario - the tech(?) here is so far beyond you that you can only guess at what it does. Snödis takes no damage, she simply cannot stand up unaided - if she tries to push herself out of the chair, her arms go numb until she stops. The Vile Mechanisms made a try for you, but they’ve gone quiet now. Who knows if they’ll try again?) --- But Grimper wasn’t there anymore. He was already on his way back up, carrying Zapanda under one arm and the Ritual Enchiridion under the other. He couldn't read Old Guy Algorhythms very well, but he knew enough to tell that the Ritual within would give his forces the edge. Sure, there'd be a cost, but there was always a cost for power. “She's going to stop you, you know.” “Shut up.” “I've heard of you, you know. Weren't you the one who-” “Shut UP, or I'll drag you behind me!” “-what an embarrassment! And she'll do it to you again if you don't call this off! I have an 'in’ with the government, and-” Grimper squeezed her against the wall with his hip, silencing her and breaking her glasses. What a pain she was. Why had they brought her down here anyhow? Better than leaving her up there to stir up trouble, he supposed. She coughed and spat. “... Your men don't know, to do they?” He frowned, then covered her flapping mouth with one massive finger. He'd have to deal with this later, but at the moment he had bigger problems. He could feel one of them out there. Not her, but one of those red bastards. With the Vault opened, however, that meant he himself would be hard to detect.  Who could see anything under all that light? [Fostis]] The Nägelite doctor had a head start on them, and evidently a talent for escaping…. But he was still one man. The wagons having been thoroughly fortified, a contingent of the Horde went after him, whooping and hollering and ordering townspeople to “stop that Fröman!” But the fellow was tenacious and quick, and the lumbering crowds couldn’t touch him. It seemed as though his escape was certain - but for the butterflies. A trail of them flooded into the sky, wandering aimlessly, or so it seemed.
(Too bad, nerd! He doesn’t escape or spill any vital secrets (unless he wrote a really quick note before getting tackled?), and your healing crew is back up to 10d100-10… unless you choose to execute him for his resistance? Grimper definitely won’t hold that against you, and it’ll reduce the chance of further rebellion… for at least a little while. It will, however, drop the healing crew’s efficiency permanently.) --- Now was not an excellent time for this, Doc reflected, what with the enemy at the gates, but then again the distraction provided the perfect cover for her crime. Well, ‘crime’ was dramatic - this was a simple reallocation of resources. Her vision blurry from the earlier blow, she tracked her quarry by the copious blood from the flesh wound she'd inflicted. If only he'd STAYED STILL, all of this could have been avoided! There - he was leaning against the wall to catch his breath. Out of sight of the others. Nothing personal…
 …but she needed it more. Cornbread slumped to the floor and she did her business quickly and efficiently, carving through the connective tissue and crystalline wiring with dogged determination. Her Hordemate managed a few whimpered utterances of “Cornbread…”, but he was too far gone to fight her off. No matter - she hadn't touched his original core, so he ought to be fine with some time. She clapped him on the shoulder and assured him it was better this way. He pitched sideways unmoving, and she froze. Strange, she hadn't hit any vital organs. Some complication? She'd have to improve her technique for next time. (Doc acquires Bonegineering! Cornbread unfortunately perishes in the attempt, but think of the advances in medical science! Her Sharp Knife changes slightly too in the course of the operation. How strange!  In less good news, she's killed a Hordemate and she now has an inconvenient body to deal with! Also the body still has the poo poo Chucking Skillcore, which, yuck.) --- Grumbus the Ill had just finished coughing on the last batch of villagers and sent them marching towards the front when Sucy appeared and asked him what the hell he was doing. ‘Spreading infection’ was not a good enough answer, and his plan made no drat sense. The civilians would be in the way, would not be able to infect the enemy forces fast enough and - oh yeah - would first have to pass through a gauntlet of hidden traps on their way out! A snap and a strangled cry punctuated her remarks, then she sighed and went to tell the remaining villagers to go home and wait for further instructions. Sucy and Grumbus’ plans are opposed, and Sucy rolled higher. Villagers will be confined to quarters for the battle. The scatter of coughing, itchy infected that have already gone out are unaccounted for.) [Fostis Outskirts] Gawp’s unsettling corpse was found by the others, who gingerly extracted his (thankfully-not-tainted) Skillcores and repurposed them, even as they stripped him of equipment. He certainly didn’t need it now. They hid his body for now - maybe they’d bury it if they had time, whatever Grimper said - then made their way back to town. Bully the Orator prepared a speech as he walked, considering how best to goad the others to face the enemy on their own terms. It was clear to him that allowing them to advance to Fostis before engaging was a fool’s strategy, one that would see them forced into the mines and starved out. No, they should press onwards, only falling back behind the traps if they needed to. They would always have the option to move backwards afterwards, but they needed to bring the Unexpected right to their foes! Yes, that ought to work. He clapped a dejected Patsy the Baker on the back, and they quick-marched their way back towards the others. (Poor dead Gawp is stripped of stuff, however we want to justify that. Verika gets his shield and Perception, and Gazing goes to a Mook. Poor Patsy gets nothing for being [Fostis]] As the explorers returned to town, they couldn’t help but notice the huge variety of traps that had been left behind. ‘Traps’ was perhaps a misnomer, where perhaps ‘obstacle’ would be more accurate, but Bully noticed more complex instances using springs and blades and even explosives. He managed to notice many of them on his way back to town, but his group had a few close calls. They made sure to memorize their positions, all the better to retreat past them should they need to. He took a step into Fostis proper…
Splut the Bluffer and Hat the Milliner had their own plan to draw any last bits of information from the Fostisians. He didn’t think they were lying, but he did think they were concealing crucial information. He also knew that they were excited that the Fröman forces were coming to rescue them, insofar as the Nail would allow them. He would go among them dressed as an infiltrating advance unit and convince them he was legitimately on their side, and see if their relief would weaken their resolve. While many of his fellow interrogators opted to march out to fight, a small crew led by him - and speedily garbed by Hat’s magnificent threadwork - would squeeze out their last few drops of information (and hope).
(Unlocked access to Escape Tunnels! Which, uh, might be used as the opposite by the enemy forces?) [Fostis Outskirts Outskirts] The iron Colossus kept marching and the drummers kept drumming. Not once did the Fröman forces stumble or break synchronization, moving with an eerie grace even in armor. They also kept to the road, even where cutting across the field would be faster. Foolishness, arrogance… or supreme confidence? Either way, they were coming. Mason the *TWEET*  quote:"Holy poo poo! Wait till the boss hears about this!"
The arrows sang pure tones as they soared through the air, unerringly falling towards the fleeing Ringo… who cartwheeled, letting his cloak fly wild behind him. The arrows punctured the tough hide, but skittered off his armored plates - and then he was off, laughing, even as another arrow flew through his flattened topknot. Inspired by his
The drumming began again, faster now, and now pipes were playing, and those stringed weapon-instruments. Bearers came and returned the great piece of armor from the burning wreckage before slipping it back onto their leader’s arm. The great armored thing clapped its hands once, then all who could move were back on their feet and quick-marching towards them. The last thing they could bear to watch was the thing looking DIRECTLY at them and reaching up to remove its helmet.  They didn’t stick around to watch more. [Fostis Outskirts] The various regiments of the Unexpectables collided in between Fostis and their enemy. They quickly ran through the various plans, traps, concerns and reconnaisance they’d gathered and prepared to make their stand. They heard a massive thump behind them and froze in superstitious terror, only to hear the strangely soothing voice of their Warlord. “Prepare yourself, my Horde. A Commander comes for us - for me - and we must crush them here or else be lost.” They quickly filled him in on what they’d learned, guessing at the identity of the Commander. Jaune the Wall seemed most likely, but Grimper barked a laugh. “Ha, this isn’t her style. With the drumming and the synchronicity, it seems more likely that it’s…” A massive figure crested the horizon, followed shortly by bloodied, angry faces marching in perfect lockstep, some playing instruments and others merely swaying to the beat. The giant tapped his feet and spread his arms wide, causing the music to rise into a deafening crescendo. Frozen in confusion, the Unexpectables watched him take a step to the side, mirrored by his army, then throw one arm down towards the floor. His gauntlet tore free, slamming into the floor like a pillar of iron. Free of the weight, the arm fluttered with an easy grace and swept forwards, guiding a portion of his army into the field. The matched his motions with practised ease, and more and more armor tore free, studding the battlefield with obstacles that his men took cover behind. With a final spin, his chest plate broke free and scattered, leaving behind a freakishly tall, lanky figure. “Well, that’s just great. It’s..”  The Fröman commander bowed sarcastically to Grimper, then spoke up. “A five, six, seven, eight!” The music swelled, and the army advanced, dancing. The Unexpectables had a split second more of heavy confusion and disgust before the fighting began in earnest!
--- [Fostis] Safely ensconced in her fortified wagon, Magda waited. She wasn’t all that concerned about the conflict outside the city. If the Horde won, excellent. If they lost, well, she’d just drive a Nail through her brain. Simple as that. She certainly wasn’t getting captured again. She patted the cover of the Enchiridion with leathery hand, then cracked it open. Her eyes glazed as she read the ancient Algorhythms. They hurt to read. The shapes weren’t right, and they did things to her mind when she gazed upon them. Unwelcome things. But she was a Nailsmith, and she was used to such discomforts. She translated the name of the Ritual as best she could. “One Million Drops Of Boiling Blood. Very pleasant.” She flipped through the documents. It was an accurate name, at least. She took a drink of the hardest booze she could find, placed a leather wrapped wooden plank between her teeth, and set to reading in earnest, wiping away the blood tearing from her eyes periodically. (The new Ritual, available next Downtime, is called One Million Drops Of Boiling Blood. When active, an individual member of the Horde can sacrifice one HP to roll an additional 1d100. You can do this multiple times if you want, though naturally it’s not quite sustainable, and it will leave a stigma on your body. Mooks CAN use this, but they are generally inclined not to. It costs 70 Glory) Dog Kisser fucked around with this message at 19:27 on Nov 28, 2017 |
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Nov 28, 2017 17:29
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    Gado!!! Skill: Digging (+20, used this turn), Mining (+10 available next turn) HP: 3/3 Glory: 3->4 Gado shakes the weird sluggish feeling out of his hands after striking at the door "A shield made of this stuff would be amazing..." His thought process is interrupted when Grimper makes an exit, when the warlord doesn't return after a time Gado takes that as a cue that they're meant to leave. Down in the field Gado takes Grimper's prodding to heart, diving into the soil he puts his skill core to work, a combination of his arms and the occasional swipe of his pick to clear a stubborn rock, he quickly propels himself across the battlefield and bursts out from the ground among the archers. Surrounded by the enemy he's not quite sure this was the best plan, but hey! He was here and the Bone Tö Pick could use a chance to dig into some blue bloods instead of more Töan innards. Reckless Assault vs the Archers- 45
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Nov 28, 2017 18:23
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 Pythag HP: (3) of (3) Skill: Equipment: Armor (+5), Iron Shield Glory: 4 It was now. A real enemy horde, face to face on this battlefield. If there was ever a time to find courage, this was it. And yet... looking around the vault some more might be.. no! Just before leaving the vault fully, Pythag stared at the mask in his hands. He imagined the mask, the armor, the shield - all of it as someone else. Not him. Not a coward. He lifted the mask toward his face, and before he could countenance a second thought, put it on, tying the straps around his head. "Shield and Ranged hordelings, to me! The Archers, they fire to a melody, to a rhythm! Look at the pattern, we can use that to our advantage. Let's go!" Action: Close Distance With The String-Slayers: 1d100+14 = 23 Barbed Tongues fucked around with this message at 20:47 on Nov 29, 2017 |
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Nov 28, 2017 18:40
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        Name: Stårn Additional skills: Butterfly Beastmaster HP: 3 Glory: 22 -> 23 It was no proper siege, to be sure. No true walls, no battlements. But some tenets of sieging held true regardless. Such as the old adage of the Sieger: Bigger weapons equal better. And none had a bigger weapon than him. With a smirk and a mad cackle, Stårn set alight the fuse on his Bamsticks and let them loose towards the enemy archers with his portapult. Let them see who had the superior missiles to offer. Portapulting some Bamsticks at the enemy archers: 1d100+72=74
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Nov 28, 2017 19:21
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    Noggins Skillcores: Carpentry, Precision HP: 3 Glory: 23->24 Ritual Glory: 2 The hammer felt… strange. It was hard to hold on to, but Noggins steeled herself against the urge to drop it. It was too valuable to let go, too well-balanced… no, she corrected as herself as she engaged her Precision core… it was perfectly balanced, the weight distributed absolutely evenly, not even a fraction off. If it took some discomfort to have a weapon like that, it would be well worth it. And with time, she was going to figure out just what all that energy was for. Her thoughts were interrupted as one of the tablets suddenly snaked out at her hand, but a reflexive swing knocked it away with a dull thud. That… echoed? No, that wasn’t the hammer blow echoing in the mineshaft, it was… drums? They’re here A mad dash to the surface later, and Noggins was with the rest of the Horde, staring at the enemy Warlord in awe. She’d always thought that all Warlords were going to be like Grimper—dour and solid and strong, but Agenou was something else entirely. She tightened her grip on the hammer, and stepped to face him, but stopped herself. ”No… don’t let the Glory do the thinking. Think like… Think like Pythag did, back at Nägel… the threat isn’t just the obvious one…” Her eyes scanned the battlefield, trying to make sense of it. “The drumline!” she shouted, pointing her weapon at the foe. “Their beat is holding them together! Smash them, and the whole thing will crumble!” She charged forward, eyes fixed on one figure in particular at the front of the lines, wearing a tall hat and waving his arms sharply, not just following the beat but leading[i] it. She barreled into him, bringing her hammer around at his head in a mighty swing. What was it that Dovetail had always said? “When you have a hammer, any problem can be a nail if you try hard enough?” Hm. [i]Nailbreaker, she thought as she swung again. [i]That’s a good name. Recklessly Assault the Drumline Commander!: 1d100+38 87
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Nov 28, 2017 19:45
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Potrait: Naim: Mason Skillz: Mason Hootin' an' Hollerin' Mason Masonry HeeP: Mason Mason Mason Glury: Masonx14 -> 15 It was band geeks. Mason HATED band geeks. It was a disastrous, humiliating affair known only by the rest of the Horde as "The Goat Incident". The outcomes however, were well known from Mason's various rants during camp: multiple deaths, fires that lasted days, and charges of crimes against nature that caused Mason to be expelled from elementary school. Mason never forgave or forgot the schools band geeks for the role they played and how they got away scot-free. Now it was time for payback. Mason charges the drummers, Hootin' an' Hollerin' all the way! Mason Hollerin' at the band geeks!: 1d100+25 106
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Nov 28, 2017 20:20
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  Skills:Spreading Disease [CD], Cursing HP: 2/3 Glory: 12 Grumbus appraised the situation. Band nerds. Which means there was a good chance they were afflicted with the most insidious disease of all: low self esteem. Grumbus cupped his hands and began shouting at the drummers. "YOU IDIOTS loving SUCK! I'VE HAD NO SENSE OF RHYTHM EVER SINCE THE GODDAMN PLAGUE OF '43 AND EVEN I CAN CARRY A BEAT BETTER! DID YOU ONLY JOIN THE loving DRUM CORPS TO DRESS LIKE DIPSHITS AND TELL YOUR MORON PARENTS THAT YOU HIT THINGS FOR A GODDAMN LIVING? gently caress OFF BACK TO BAND CAMP YOU FAILURES!!!" Let's hurt some band nerds' feelings with Cursing: 1d100+10+12+1 = 102
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Nov 28, 2017 20:23
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   Name: Bamboo HP: 3/3 Glory: 21 + 1 (Action Glory) > 22 Skill: Basket Weaving [COOL DOWN] -[ Fostis Outskirts]- Bamboo would have fallen into yet another bout of despondent despair at having lost another ‘grab’ for loot, if the call-to-arms didn’t sound for The Unexpectables. Once again, it was time to spill blood. She didn’t even think about it anymore; the call would come, and she would kill. It was becoming increasingly easy to transition into that blank, homicidal persona. Time compressed and expanded; she ran and ran and ran until she saw the enemy in front of her. They looked organized. Well trained. Lethal. Perhaps one of Fröman can finally put her down. Pulling out her garrote, she launched herself at the Archer Commander with abandon. As arrows flew, she closed her eyes even as momentum carried her forward. "Really Bamboo? Is this how far you’ve fallen?" Action > Reckless Assault at the String-Slayers Commander: 1d100+21+1 68 [1d100=46]
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Nov 28, 2017 20:34
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  Name: Gryph HP: 3 Glory: 8 -> 9 Skill: Bandaging/Medicine The triumphant squad returned, bearing the escape artist between them. His teeth had been shattered, and a small string of blood drooled from his lips as they pushed him back inside. But Gryph followed him. "That jaw looks bad. Lemme take a look." As he stepped up and began winding a bandage around the would-be escapees head, Gryph's eyes flashed across each of the captives faces. "You'll be drinking through a straw for a while." Half a face makes a good intimidation tool. "I've just about had it with you lot. I know you didn't ask for this, but you. Owe. Us. If Grimper had his way, you'd all be dead, brain or otherwise. Now I know he can slip his bonds, and I bet he could escape again if he did. But if you do..." Gryph tightened the bandage across the jaw, drawing a whimper, "I'll grab my friends, track you down, break both of your hands, and give you to Grimper." He tied of the bandage with bow across the throat and smiled grimly at the others. "There we go. All fixed." And then the doors shut, and the boards used to secure it were nailed back in. "Does anyone hear... drumming?" Here came the Frö. Dancing and drumming and firing as they went. Pythag posted:"Shield and Ranged hordelings, to me! The Archers, they fire to a melody, to a rhythm! Look at the pattern, we can use that to our advantage. Let's go!" Pythag, the Hero of Nagel. He'd been in the Vault. But he was calling for others, shields, ranged units, anyone to take on archers. Not Gryph. Not yet. The rythmic drumming of the advancing army rose up through the ground and shook Gryph, his skin and bones crawling. The last time he had heard a sound this powerful was fighting three Wendigos, and Gryph hated it even more. Noggins posted:“The drumline!” she shouted, pointing her weapon at the foe. “Their beat is holding them together! Smash them, and the whole thing will crumble!” Noggins, another of the Horde to have earned notoriety. He'd seen her making coffins for the members who had already fallen, making anything she could with wood to help. And he'd seen her fight, put herself in front of everything to keep her friends alive. The last battle had probably cost her more than she wanted and yet she was throwing herself at the drumline commander with a fury unmatched. "Welp, can't let her get all the glory. Let's Beat us some Drummers, lads!" Attacking the Drumline: 1d100+8 46 (Glory Count Mismatch: going by Spreadsheet.) Torchlighter fucked around with this message at 21:15 on Nov 28, 2017 |
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Nov 28, 2017 20:46
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  Name: Börk Skills: Kissing (cooldown), Listening (using) HP: 3 Glory: 3 -> 4 By the lake Börk waited until Verika had turned away, then scuttled off back towards town. It didn't seem pertinent to his health to stick around any longer. On the battle lines The cacophony was almost overwhelming. There were so many of them! Börk felt the drumbeat reverberating in his chest, and felt a little woozy. Grimper's own booming voice didn't help - but it did at least explain what he felt: the drums would disorientate the horde if left unchecked. Brandishing his dagger, fearless in exposing his soft blue flesh to the enemy, and with floppy fringe bobbing before his eyes, Börk charged the drummers. With any rhythm section, there would be some instrumentalists slightly out of time, or not beating as hard as the others, or having drums with looser skin dampening their effect. The difference would be miniscule, but Börk's ears were special. As he ran, he listened hard to try to single out the Frö's best drummer boys, and made them his priority. Attack the war-drummers: 1d100+10(listening)+1(dagger)+3(glory) = 46 Unfortunately, that builder fellow who was running alongside him, screaming his head off, didn't make things any easier. But before Börk could complain to his companion, he was upon the enemy, and had no choice but to get stuck in. Running raw dice stats: 3 rolls; min 12; max 32; median 19; mean 21 Historical glory: 4 simplefish fucked around with this message at 21:04 on Nov 28, 2017 |
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Nov 28, 2017 20:53
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  Name: Doc HP: 2 Glory: 7 Skill: Surgery (Resonated. +15), Bonegineering That was more like it! She'd fix her eye later. For now there were enemies attacking, and something needed to be done about this body. Luckily with her new skillcore, she might be able to solve two problems at once. Those drummers might have a hard time doing their job with bonegineered spears in their guts. And what luck, she had a pile of bones nobody was using right here! Thanks for the weapons, cornguy: 1d100+19 = 85
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Nov 28, 2017 21:43
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   Name: Portha Skills: Rummaging (in use), Cleaning, Imagining (cooldown) HP: 2/3 Glory: 12 Portha had just finished deploying the last of the Totally Random Anti-Personnel Systems when the enemy came to town. Since she was already deep inside the T.R.A.P.S., the most prudent course of action would be to try and lure some of the enemy forces away from the battle. Trying to rummage around, she discovered there wasn't much out in the woods that could be thrown to distract the enemy. Pinecones, rocks, some inexplicable deathtrap she'd "invented" - a jar filled with gunpowder and glued to a bear trap - that was light enough to throw, more rocks, the skull of some Fröman who'd been dumped out there after the invasion, sticks, just the usual forest garbage. Unfortunately, the enemy were too focused on the music to notice her distraction, so Portha decided to join up with the group charging the drummers and see if shutting them up would help. Grabbing the most damaging things she'd found, she ran to catch up. Find things to throw at the enemy super sweet best pal fucked around with this message at 11:37 on Nov 30, 2017 |
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Nov 28, 2017 21:58
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    Extra Skillcore: Sitting Quietly HP: 3 Glory: 17-18 Ritual Glory: 5ish? 7? I have no idea "Aha, just as I thought! It is a chair that doesn't instantly kill you. Now, if someone could please give me a hand out of this thing, Qwäg, would you be a dear? Thank you. At any rate, I think Noggins has the right idea of things, so lets not let the others hog all the Glory, eh?" --- / some time later / --- The rythm. It reminded her of her past. Of the all-musical battlegrounds where she first met Tö-Päin, her beloved rival and target of her many failed and (un)lethal plots. It enraptured the passion that dwelled inside her, urged her forward. "Qwäg! You see the drummers? Cut them down at your leisure, rip them limb from limb! We will follow behind and make sure they cannot rettaliate!" "Hob! I know your change is coming, I can feel it in the air, will you lend me your swansong to disrupt their lines? Just give me a melody, a beat that will give wings to my words and we will see their subourned wills falter!" "Dack! As swift as they come, stick to the mountain and come at them from the sides, try to time your charge with Noggins and Qwäg." "Trinh, We should have the drumline covered, could you make sure those archers don't perforate us on the way?" "Gawp! Where is gawp? Did he not return? Nevermind, then, we shall have to worry about that later." - Orders given, Snödis took her pet Sonicore and rhymed to it, (hopefully accompanied by Hobs intruding melody) trusting that the Whistling Stone would do what it was supposed to do, completely unaware that she may misinterpreted things entierly. Disapproving Poetry to channel an attack song at the enemy Rythm!: 1d100+17+15 = 93 Swedish Thaumocracy fucked around with this message at 23:29 on Nov 28, 2017 |
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Nov 28, 2017 22:14
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  HP:3 Glory:22 Lying Ritual Glory:1 The battle was nigh. He handed off the new intel they'd gained to Grimper when the horde coalesced, but for now it was time to deliver a show-stopping performance. He sized up the opposition, the serried ranks dance-fighting, musical bowmen with his colleagues drilling down and besieging from a distance to silence their strings, but behind it all, underpinning the full unit was the incessant, all-drowning rhythm. It needed to be disrupted, set against itself, and for that his deceptive skillset was just the thing. He advanced swiftly, sword cane sword drawn, the scabbard held firmly in his off hand. He aimed for a drummer at the end of a rank, looking to murder the one just inside him as he yelled in his face, "No, no, no! On the downbeat, not the upbeat! You're getting it all wrong, and that means the enemy is winning! Drop your tempo!" He punctuated his lies with offhand taps with his cane scabbard on the surface of the drum, to disrupt and to distort the rhythm, sowing discord as best he could. Reckless assault! Attacking the drum line, Lying to an enemy drummer to introduce discord and chaos: 106 AJ_Impy fucked around with this message at 22:37 on Nov 28, 2017 |
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Nov 28, 2017 22:23
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    Name: Verika HP: 3/3 Skills: Accuracy (cooling), Perception (active) Equipment: Fröman Cuirass (+1), Sharp Stick (+0), Shield Glory: 1 -> 2 Ritual Chits: 15 -> 17 (artwork bonus) Battle of Fostis (part 1): With a quick glance from behind cover, Verika surveyed the enemy army amassed below, marching uphill and veritably surging to the constant beat of their war drums. They had better arms, better armor, better organization, and worst of all: better range. Despite having the high ground, the Unexpectable Horde was going to going to have a hard time getting in close enough to deal any significant combat damage to their well-guarded ranks. At this dire moment - in that waning, precious lull before the chaos of battle truly began - Verika wished that she had stolen her father's ancient hunting bow and brought it with her when she had joined the army. What she would have given to have a trusty weapon like that by her side, now... She eyed the stringed war-instruments of the distant enemy with apparent desire. A voice from the Horde rang out from behind her: an intimidating, masked presence in a full suit of armor. Pythag posted:"Shield and Ranged hordelings, to me! The Archers, they fire to a melody, to a rhythm! Look at the pattern, we can use that to our advantage. Let's go!" Verika hadn't made eye contact with the armored warrior but she knew deep down what he expected from her. Verika looked down to the brand new shield firmly grasped in her hand and cursed under her breath. Easy come easy go, she thought. The others were putting their trust in her, now. She raised her own spirits with an exultant battle cry: "Everyone who's got the health to spare - to arms! Follow my lead and DON'T GET HIT!" With her protective shield held high, Verika waded into the battlefield with the rest of the moving shield wall. Using her newfound Perception skills, Verika timed her movements to the drum beat accordingly, waiting for the sound the String-Slayers made when they loosed their arrows all at once. If she advanced at the right moments and approached the archers' lines in a zigzagging, almost haphazard fashion, she could dodge between the waves of arrows and throw her enemies off their aim. Close the Distance on the String-Slayers: 1d100+11 21 Whether she willed it to or not, this was likely going to hurt. Lux Anima fucked around with this message at 04:32 on Nov 30, 2017 |
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Nov 28, 2017 22:26
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   Skill 2: Amputation HP: 1/1 Glory 15 Ritual Glory 1 As the horde deploys to battle, Qwäg scowls impatiently at her floppy Captain. "N͏Ó̡̢ ̛͏T̴͘͠I̡͡M̨͢͢E ͝͝TO ͘R͘ÉLA̵͟X̵͡,͏̶ ̶͏C͘Á̛̕P̶̨̡T͞͝AI͏̷N," she mutters, and simply reaches out with her massive tentacular arm to pluck Snödis from the chair. The wendigo glances up with most of her eyes, seemingly at nothing, then peels lips back from the sawmill that is her mouth. "O̴̡͡UR̡̕ ͡͠S̶̛̀K̡̡I҉LL̸͡S̢̕͝ ̀͘Ą͏RE ͞Ń͟͞E̴̵ED́͢E͝D̵̕ ̛̀E̵L͢͠S͞EW̨H̀E̡RE̴͞.." Shortly, outside of Fostis... The pounding of the drums strikes Qwäg like a physical blow, her entire chest vibrating with every beat. The even, martial insistence of it fillsher twisted heart with disgust. "ÒU̡̕͞R̕҉ ̴̨̢RI̛͜S̴̢̕K̴͝ ̛́͡S҉̸͞C͡R̸E̡A̵͢͜Ḿ̴S̴ U̡N͏D̀͞E̸R ̵͜T̛͠HE͢͜S̸̕͝E ͟DRU̢M̵̷̷Ş̨," she hisses to Snödis, pointing with her good hand at the drummers and the dancers. "C̷͝H̡A͏I̕N̛͏̛S̷̨ ͟͞O͞F͏̶͞ ̵ST̸R͏̷E̛͘N͞͡G̴̨͟TH̡ ̨͠AǸD̀͘ ̷W͘͡EA͠K҉̷̷N͜E̴SS̛..̴̶.҉̵ẂE͝ ͏҉W̷̧̕ÍL̷͠͏L S̷͠E̵͏V̸̕͠E̵͏́Ŗ̧ ̢̨T͠Ḩ̴ĘI̶R̢ ̨͘F̨̨ƠR̷̴͡C̴͢E͝ M̴̶̢U̧͜LT̴͡I̴͡Ṕ̢͞L̢͏I̸E̸͡R͢S ͏̢́A̡N҉D҉ ͏S̶͏EI̷̸͘Z͝E͜ V̛́I͠C͡T͜O̷҉͢Ŗ̛̕Y̵ ҉͏F͏҉͞R̷O͘͡M ̕͢ŃU̸̧͟M̢͝ER͢Í̢́C̵̡A͝Ĺ ͘D̸Ą̢̧RK̸҉N̶ES̀͝S͘.̢ ." Her many eyes blink in staggered arrythmia, as if in protest of the regular beats of the drums, and she sketches out actuary tables in the air with her finger, inked with luminous tracers her Captain cannot see. "A̶͠R̷̛M̨̛͝S̵̵͡," she growls, cutting her eyes conspiritorially to the exotic monster Trinh beside her. "A̴̛͞RM̛͜S͏̷̀ ̵͞A͜R̸̢͘E͞ ̨ŖE̸Q̷̡U̸̡IŖ̡E̸D̶̡̛ ̡̧̛F̴҉O͘R ͝D̴R҉̢͘U̷̢MM̸̧ĮN̷͘G͠." Her Bad Right Arm writhes in agitation, spined tendrils slapping against the ground. With a terrifying lack of noise, Qwäg leaps forward into the fray, bounding from one statistically-optimal point to another, great serrated Bōnsaw flashing as it whirls on the ends of her great grasping, whipping appendage. Not until her limbs are slick with foeblood does she speak; she begins to howl, deep and mournfully, the fuschia glow of her tainted power casting stark shadows over her massed foes. "F̵̸̕͜A̶͜C̢̢̕È̴̷̛̕ TÖ ̡̛͠ ̸̶҉B̷̨͞͞L̶̢̨O͞͞Ǫ̸҉̛D̸̶͡S̕̕͟͡H͏̵͢͟͟E͢҉͝͏D̸̛͟͠͝ ." RECKLESS ATTACK against the Drummers: 1d500+75 431
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Nov 28, 2017 22:29
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 , Dubstep  Name: Gabber Skill: Mimicry (using), Listening (+15), Night Vision HP: 2/3 Glory: 6 - > 7 Picking himself back up after the resounding explosion of the wagon, Gabber risked a glance back towards the enemy. The wagon had done some damage, enough that hopefully Grimper would feel they'd done their part - but the damage wasn't what he had expected. Had it rolled off course at the last second? As the horrible cacophony of the marching...band? swept back into motion, he noticed the enemy Commander's gauntlet being brought back to him, having been found pristine among the smoldering wreckage. Could he fire pieces of his armor like a projectile?! As the giant began taking his helmet off, Gabber had determined he'd had enough fun for one day, and resumed his run back towards Fostis with all haste. Off to one side he noticed Vist running now as well alongside all the others, which he was very happy to see. Better than clamped to my arm charging headlong into battle, he thought. Catching her gaze briefly, Gabber flashed a big smile and gave her a thumbs up. He'd hoped the warrior wouldn't make any mention of his earlier attempt to flee when they got back to camp; hopefully Mason having been able to successfully flee caught her ire more than his failed attempt... ~~--Several Miles Later, Outside Fostis---~~~ Hunched over and breathing heavily, he'd barely had time to catch his breath after reconvening with the Horde before the enemy crested the hill towards Fostis. drat they were fast, and in such perfect order! He'd heard rumors while at T.R.A.M.P.S. of a Frö Commander who'd attempted to synchronize the arts with battle, but he'd assumed it was just that; rumor. To see such a display here today filled him with awe at the achievement, though that awe was quickly replaced by creeping dread at the fact he found himself at the receiving end of it. Several various shouts went up. Pythag called for those with shields to charge the back line; Grumbus began spewing vile hatred out of every orifice; Noggins called for a rally against the drumline, leading the reckless charge herself and not waiting to see if any joined her. Gabber....Gabber hesitated, as was his wont to do. He watched, unsheathing his sword and shield. The motions of the dance-fighters, the beat of the drumline, the archers all in a line with their stringed slayers - there was a beautiful pattern to it all, as their Commander led the deadly orchestra upon them. Maybe the best way to avoid the wrath of the battle was not to rage against the symphony, but to become a part of it? Experimentally, Gabber took a step, then brought it back. Another step, then brought it back. He watched Warlord Agenou's mouth as he conducted, mouthing the time out loud. One, two three, four, five, six, seven, eight; one, two, three, four, five six, seven eight; one two three four five six seven eight- now! Suddenly, he was in motion. He knew Pythag had called for the shields to rally to the back, but he felt the Drummers were the bigger threat. Leaping forth to the beat of the drums, he attempted to close the distance between himself and the War-Drummers, aligning his own motions with that of the enemy dancers. He swayed to the beat of the music, weaving his way through the approaching fighters, and two stepped towards the ones keeping the whole beat going. In his own mind he was the dopest trip. Mimic the Deadly Symphony - Dance Fight the War-Drummers!: 1d100+17 31  It.....it was a work in progress. A Beautiful Disaster, if he was being kind. Task Manager fucked around with this message at 14:52 on Nov 30, 2017 |
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Nov 28, 2017 22:35
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 Name: Dack Skills: Athletics (Using), Ą̀͠c̵̢͡͠͏r̴̸̛͝͡o͘͢͜͡b͜à̵̡̕t̷̢̀͜i̸̸͞c͘͟s̀͜͟ (Used last round) HP: 1 Glory: 12>13 Doom Clock: One round remains That was so much more painful than Dack thought it would be! It felt like all of his sense were burned out, only for them to suddenly erupt to life again. The over-stimulation was so much it took him a bit to realize the Captain was giving out orders. Swedish Thaumocracy posted:
This wasn't the time to worry about how painful his Brand was, this was his chance to prove he isn't useless! Already Qwag was hurling herself at the enemy line, and while Dack wasn't a full Wendigo yet, he still felt a rush of exhilaration as he sprinted towards the drummers in the way only a true Töan Athlete could. Which, admittedly, absolutely did not hold up to a frenzied Wendigo's speed in anyway whatsoever, but it was still really good for a regular (for now) Töan. Reckless Assault, sprinting full-pelt at the drumline: 109.
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Nov 28, 2017 23:12
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N̻̩ͬ̉̃a̫̭̣̼̹ͮm̠̥̱̥͚e̯͕͡: Hob HP͝: 1/1 G̀ͪ́ͥl͑̎́ory҉̶̛̤͍̼: 10≥11 Ri͞t̲͠ua͚̝̹͉̟͇l Glory : 5 Skill: Bee keeping(cooldown), Contortion(cooldown), Ş̀̕̕͜i̷n̢g̸̵̨i̸̧͜ņ̢̨͝g̛(used) D̵̻o̼̦̜̗͕o̧̭̻̭̤͕̺m ͓̖͚͎̟̮͠counter: 1≥0 Leaving the vault behind, Hob joined the others running back to the village. There was not going to be any time to pass his bow along to Verika, to offer his sword to Dack. He had chatted to Noggins at least. A smile crept over his face in spite of himself. None of that mattered anymore! He wasn't marked for death, he was going to survive. Maybe as a Wendigo thing? But the others seemed to be looking good, doing great! Swedish Thaumocracy posted:
Swansong? No Hobbs song would go on! Hob started up a Ş̀̕̕͜on̢g̸̵̨, a discordant tune that drew on the sounds of the horde, the yelling up front, the screaming shouts. All were drawn in. Smiling, Hob drew his bow string back, it Ş̀̕̕͜un̢g̸̵̨ along with him. The arrows, once dead sticks, wiggled in his grip. He let them fly, Ş̀̕̕͜i̷n̢g̸̵̨i̸̧͜ņ̢̨͝g̛ through the air. They thudded into the ranks of the drummers, each one emitting it's own notes to add to the disruptive tunes. He kept launching the Ş̀̕̕͜i̷n̢g̸̵̨i̸̧͜ņ̢̨͝g̛ slivers of wood until his voice was raw. S͑̑̉̓̚wͪ͐̏a̢̽ͯ͑n̛̈̀͌̇̅s̶oͫ̋̏̆n͢g̸̾͂ ̐ͤ̊thͫ͑͏i̒̈́͞sͧ̂ͤ!͊̓͊: 1d100+10+10+3+50 89 He felt so alive! The song flowed through him, he could go on like this forever. "T̙̗͔̪͈h̷̞͖̪i͇̫͓͘s̘͠ ̭̳i̘̖̩͈̱s͏̲ ̝̻͔̼̟́g̩͟r͏̻̠̙è͔ͅ~" He hadnt noticed the steaming heat roling off him, the ice in his chest, as soon as the S̼̪̹ͅO̜Ṋ̱̩̫̗̬G̶͈̜̪̦̲͖̮ stopped, it gripped him. He fell to his knees, clutched his chest. "Ń͉̖̤̘-̶̭̝̤̘̳̠N̦͙o̰̺" WereGoat fucked around with this message at 00:03 on Nov 29, 2017 |
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Nov 28, 2017 23:50
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  Name: Harlee Skill: Clowning (Used this turn) HP: 3/3 Equipment: Really Puffy Yellow Collar (Armor +1) Glory: 5 Ringmaster This could not be allowed. People always think that the Ringmaster is the head of the circus. It's easy to see where they got that impression. They come out and introduce the acts, after all. But no. Who really runs the circus? Clowns Think about it. Who entertains the rubes lining up to pay for tickets and keep everything moving smoothly? Clowns Who comes out at the start of the show to make sure the rubes are paying attention and settled down? Clowns Who provide the comedy? Clowns Who ride the large creatures with the stablemaster and provoke the LiÖns for the LiÖntamer? Clowns Who distracts the rubes while acts rotate in and out? Clowns Clowns, clowns, clowns. Clowns were the stars of the show. The head of the circus. The ultimate circus act. And this--- this back up dancer was trying to steal the show! This could not be allowed! ---------------- Harlee stomped across the battlefield towards the enemy warlord. None dared touch her or her sqeauky shoes, because they could tell she was on a mission. "Hey, tapdancer," she pointed at the warlord and honked her nose. "How dare you try to steal my show. I challenge you to the ancient rites of entertainment battle. We dance to the death" She prepared herself and got into position. There was only one Great Clowning that could defeat this foe. Only one Great Clowning good enough to steal back the show. The Great Clowning devised by the ancient Clownish hero ClÖÖwn. The chicken dance. "Show me your moves!" Attack the Warlord 1d100+15: 101 [1d100=86] This would be the performance of her lifetime! Slaan fucked around with this message at 00:15 on Nov 29, 2017 |
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Nov 29, 2017 00:12
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 Skill: Sleuthing (using), Science (used) HP: 3/3 Glory: 6 ----> 7 Once the Frömen had been subdued, Humbug quickly hauled the Escapist to the As the armies arrayed themselves before one another Humbug considered the match-up. One unruly mob - one ordered harmony. There lay the contrast and danger - preparedness. The Frömen clearly had it, while in the Unexpectables it was mostly every Tö for themselves, or following their favorite iconic figure. The Unexpectables had managed to build themselves up - impressively so, from their humble beginnings - by being sneaky and clever, and attacking targets of opportunity, but Agenou the Dancer's Horde would be their first lethal grindstone of a test. A real enemy. Himself jailed unfairly, conscripted unwillingly, far from his beloved Capitol, Humbug suspected that he was meant to die in a battle just like this one. Even so, he was too patriotic to consider running. Though, what was he to do in a straight fight? He'd not managed to procure a weapon yet - barring the pick he'd thrown to someone more worthy of it. Perhaps he could have analyzed the tune and seen the patterns of enemy movement, if he hadn't exhausted his science core. No, he was left to his old tricks to start off with. Except... what were alley knocks and disarming techniques any good for in actual war and dance? He was a Sleuth. He solved crimes and mysteries by walking the mean streets of the Capitol, not rushing across battlefields. He could defend himself, but he'd discarded his polearm the day he'd quit the Watch. He was truly uncertain how he'd use his greatest strengths in a savage melee. He was no Splut, suave and conniving enough to convince the enemy to turn their own weapons against them. He was no Noggins, smashing skulls and sawing bones with her new Warpenter combat style. He couldn't even cut it as well as Doc, scalpel ready and red-bloody, running in with a bundle of extra spears. A tingling in the back of his mind alerted him to what he had just glossed over and the detective did a double-take. Doc, looking wounded and bloody - red blood. Hers? Had battle taken place within the township itself? Wait, were those freshly made bonegineered spears? Humbug couldn't help but notice the smug gleam in her un-punched eye, and swore under his breath even as numerous Töans roared and charged towards the enemy, leaving him standing alone, still and stunned. "drat it, Doc. What have you done?" he muttered, recognizing the signs for what they were. It was a classic motive. MSE - Murderous Skillcore Envy. He knew Doc had wanted Graxxon's bonegineering core, as it had been far more valuable to one of her calling. Of course she'd been displeased when Cornbread had snatched it away from her. But killing her fellow Horde-mate for it and possibly turning his bones into weapons?! That was beyond the pale, truly shockingly so. It placed Doc squarely into the Bad camp - and Humbug would never feel comfortable around her again. Not that it mattered right now - not in the middle of Glorious war. Hell, Grimper might even end up approving, if she survived and proved herself this battle. Cornbread the poo poo-Chucker had not inspired much love among the Töans, despite that he'd been integral to conquering Fostis, as he was a smelly nuisance and had claimed something he hadn't even known how to make proper use of. Odds were, Doc might get away with murder, precisely for those reasons. Better to have a dedicated, skilled, and effective battle-surgeon than a stinking menace. He'd be considered a fool to even accuse her, perhaps even a hypocrite due to his support of sparing the Frömen scientists. This was it. This was the kind of callous crap that had made him quit the Watch and start on his own. Not that he could quit the Horde. He slumped, dejected. Ruthless or brave, it seemed either would prosper in the Unexpectables - in Glorious war. While those who asked the wrong questions would merely find themselves on the front line as fodder. Raising his arms, he cautiously approached the dance-fighters, trying to figure out their gimmick and lashing out with his fists to perhaps knock one or two as off balance as he felt. Humbug puts two and two together, gets a whodunnit. Is disappoint. Taking out Sleuth-inspired frustrations on Dancers: 1d100+16 23
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Nov 29, 2017 00:39
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 Name: Trinh Skills: taxidermy(+50, corrupted), jumping(used this turn) HP: 1+1/1 Glory: 4 -> 5 Ritual Glory: 1 At the vault quote:"Trinh. Let me be the first to welcome you back to the world of the living. We mere baseline Neötypes are humbled in your presence, and those without our endowments, well, they must be quaking in fear or sweating with lust. You and Qwäg represent the best of us, and I for one could not be happier." Trinh reached for her tools, the knife was smaller than she remembered but should get the skin off easily enough. Sawdust would do for filling. If only she could recall where she had left it. Wait, that thing was the captain wasn't it? It was nice to have her support but she was making mountains out of mölehills, Trinh was still feeling mostly normal. In fact, other than for the distracting headache she was feeling perfectly f̴̰͊͐̉̎͌̿i̴̧͎͚̬͖̅n̸̡̨̛̮̣̩̺̠͍̝̣̜͉̲̺̓͐̈̓̈́̌̏̓̎̀e̸̢̧̡͖̹̯̳̣̠̤͔̙̜͋̉̉́̀̇̇͆̋̉̇̃̾̀. She finally turned to really look at Qwäq for the first time since the march. Barely changed. How lucky they had been to both have gotten off with minor monsterism. - At the battlefield quote:"Trinh, We should have the drumline covered, could you make sure those archers don't perforate us on the way?" quote:"A̶͠R̷̛M̨̛͝S̵̵͡," she growls, cutting her eyes conspiritorially to the exotic monster Trinh beside her. "A̴̛͞RM̛͜S͏̷̀ ̵͞A͜R̸̢͘E͞ ̨ŖE̸Q̷̡U̸̡IŖ̡E̸D̶̡̛ ̡̧̛F̴҉O͘R ͝D̴R҉̢͘U̷̢MM̸̧ĮN̷͘G͠." Her Bad Right Arm writhes in agitation, spined tendrils slapping against the ground. "À̷͉̘͇̀̉̐̌̇̽̇̎̈́̋̽͛͘y̴̡̲̮̭̘͈̿̉̔̋͊̊̀̓̅̚̕͝͝͝ȩ̶̛̛̹̣͖͕͉̲̮̭͎̝̣̽̈͂͒̑̏́̉̾́̈̃̕ͅ.̵̹̗̭̲̌̍͆̄̀̆͠͝" Trinh grabbed a small tree, and took it with her. Coming from here, the enemy would expect her to hit the front liners with Qwäq. She instead somersaults over enemy soldiers to the side where a group is making for the archers. With the tree held in front it's foliage would break the their line of sight and hopefully catch most of the arrows. Approaching archers: 1d500+10+10+4+1 413 Jvie fucked around with this message at 01:12 on Nov 29, 2017 |
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Nov 29, 2017 01:07
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   Name: Hat Skills: HP: 3/3 Equipment: Spear (+1), Leather Armour (+1), Sikatris Scarf Glory: 21 Ritual Glory: 1 Hat was happy. The knowledge of the escape tunnels was sure to please Grimper, as would the identity of the nearest enemy Commander, Agenou. Once Splut had carefully removed his disguise (it might come in handy in the next town), they set off for the Vault to find the Warlord and tell him what they knew. But it was not to be: the entire Horde was assembling in the grass a short distance from the mountain city. A Frö force - A Frö Commander! - had been spotted by the reconnaissance units. Easily three times the size of the average Töan soldier, knowing his name did little to calm the fear in Hat's heart. She listened closely to Grimper's battle analysis, trying to ignore the incessant drumbeat that was slowly, steadily advancing upon them all. The enemy was divided into three groups; dancers, drummers and archers. The archers would be at the rear of the formation, so geting to them might take some time. Verika made the case that only the healthiest Hordemates should attempt it, and Hat, having fully recovered from the attack by the Ugly Wendigo, fitted the bill. And so, Hat waited for the order to attack, ready to lay waste to the enemy's ranged attackers. Hopefully some of their bows would still be usuable after the battle; the Horde could use more than one magic-enhanced bow and a portapult. And you could use a shield, Hat thought to herself, looking at her fellow soldiers with a little envy. A roar went up and the Horde charged. Orders were shouted and battle joined. Hat followed Verika for a few meters then, seeing the first wave of arrows flying through the air, backflipped up into the sky, trying to knock aside with her spear as many arrows as she could. If nothing else, all this jumping would make her harder to hit, right? Using Backflips to distract/get close to the archers: 1d100+21+10 96 
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Nov 29, 2017 01:08
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   Name: Ringo! HP: 2/2 (Crippled) Glory: 12>13 Skill: Lockpicking, Ventriloquism (using now), Whistling (cooldown) As arrows whistled by him, Ringo couldn't help but smile. If only Chufty could see him now. Chufty...maybe they'd meet back up someday. ~~~ "You're a madman, you know that right, Ringo?" Chufty crossed his arms. "Trying to knock over the mayor's house in broad daylight? It's suicide." Ringo shook his head. "And if you're wrong - which you are - we'll be immortal!" ~~~ "Ringo, Ringo talk to me!" Chufty looked over Ringo's battered unconscious body in the town stockade. "Ah jeez...Look. I'm getting out. I can't do this anymore. The thrill-seeking crime thing. I'm out. I'm sorry!" Ringo couldn't move, but he heard it all. ~~~ Ringo snapped out of his reverie. There were enemies right there. Plenty of time to reminisce about glory days after they all made it out on the other side. He gripped his Wendigoad tightly, and wheeled back around to the battle lines, dashing straight for the ranks of Dance-fighters, waving furiously for attention from his own comrades. "C'mon you mooks! You wanna live forever!?" He aimed straight for the first neck he saw, pinning (even if briefly) the Fröman in his grasp. All the while, he was throwing his voice into the ears of any dancers he could manage, trying to throw them off step. Attack The Dance-Fighters (lemme whisper in ya ear): 1d100+12+10+2 89
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Nov 29, 2017 01:10
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   Name: Neebs Skill(s): Sales (+10) (on cooldown), Drinking (+10) (used this turn) HP: 3/3 Glory: 5 -> 6 Neebs beat the snot out of the escapee when she caught up to him. Only stopping when Humbug told her to lay off. She sauntered back to the wagons with the rest of the chasers and picked up a new drink, planning to guard the wagons once more; but Grimper exited the mines and summoned everyone to go meet the approaching army in the field. She followed. She didn't quite know what to make of the other horde; so, she simply fortified herself for battle by taking a few good, stiff drinks and joined the Attack on the War Drummers: 1d100+5+10+1 33 with some of her fellows.
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Nov 29, 2017 03:11
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  HP: 3 Glory: 5 -> 6 Skill: Jousting+15 (being used), Guarding+10 As the dust from Ringo's escape cleared, Vist finally noticed just how glorious, how HUGE, the enemy commander's armor was. It was magnificent, eye slits intimidatingly slanted, glowing; helm massive and terrifying; spaulders akimbo, looming and threatening. One of his gauntleted hands rose towards her and her team, and she nearly swooned in ecstasy. Then the boomstick went off. The concussion knocked her to the ground, far away as she was, and it was a moment before she regained her senses and her feet. The enemy army was swarming and disorganized, bloodied and dazed by the impact, but the commander showed no hesitation. His thrown - launched? - gauntlet had seemingly knocked the wagon off course, and diverted the worst of the explosion away from himself and his drummers. Incredible. She goggled in amazement as his attendants retrieved the heavy armor and slipped it onto his raised arm. Only then, as he turned to look at Vist and her party, did she turn to flee. For a single sweet instant, she turned as she ran, and saw the warlord begin to remove his helm. Then she was gone, trees blocking her vision, with only the glimpse of his face to send her heart racing. Even Gabber's weak smile and thumbs up did little to distract her - she knew, however much she might have admired his prowess earlier, that he was at heart a coward. Especially now that she had come face-to-face with the very incarnation of grace, strength, and...even more than Grimper...HUGENESS. She shivered, and had to hug herself as she ran. Returning to her Warlord was like dunking her head into a barrel of ice cold water. He was her true commander - no, Commander - and she would follow his lead to the ends of the earth. Though the enemy warlord still occupied her thoughts, she steeled herself with the rest of her adopted horde and got ready to face this strange enemy. As the other army danced toward their position, Vist began to daydream. It was very unlike her. In her mind's eye, the Long pierced the heavens. As she followed its glittering length into the clouds, so did her heart rise with the infinite pole. In the omniscient vision of her dreams, generations of monks climbed and fell, climbed and fell, dying to the uncaring, unending length of the Long. Including her father. He clambered further than any of them, but he too inevitably tumbled from its scintillent, slick surface. Her all-seeing eye was even able to catch his demise, the inorganic moment of impact as his body tilted with the ground, the final Joust of his life. The uncaring earth won. This was something she had not witnessed in life, but she saw it even so, now, in this moment of pure clarity. Grimper's voice echoed in her ears. Your horde will thank you! She understood what she had seen now, what the uncannily timed marching had meant, what purpose the armor had served, what strategems lurked in the heart of the enemy commander. Even as she understood, she wept - for the love that was bursting her heart asunder, for the lust that shook her limbs, for the achingly lovely point of impact to come. With unerring grace, she swept her feet in a dance toward the enemy, echoing the timing of her foe. His attention was focused on the clown, or maybe on his army - it mattered not. Vist had to hope that he didn't see her, though a part of her screamed at him to do so. At the last instant, she leapt into the air, iron lance aimed for Agenou's exposed neck. He would live and see the destruction of her horde, or he would die regretting the abandonment of his HUGE armor. She would live and see her first true love laid low, or she would die defending her friends - sacrificing herself to distract the conductor from his symphony. Everything came down to that one point, that one single instant, that one infinite moment. The competition. The clash. The joust. The Impact.  But...Vist did not leap high enough. She came down among the dance-fighters, swinging wildly, attempting to reach the love of her life, the enemy she had chosen to die in battle against. Reckless Attack on the Dance-Fighters!: 1d100+15+5 36 gowb fucked around with this message at 05:36 on Nov 30, 2017 |
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Nov 29, 2017 04:07
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RIP Vist. Here's holding out some small hope he rolls really low.
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Nov 29, 2017 06:48
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Cause HP 3 Glory 2 > 3  archeology (on CD) Cause had been really hoping to get a whip before any epic battles occurred. He looked around, desperate he not go into this punching. Overall feeling really bad about this, Cause advanced on the drummers, considering them the least likely opponents to put sharp things in him. He cursed that great limitation of skillcores, the cooldown, knowing that punching was basically 14% of all archeology. Attacking the drummers https://orokos.com/roll/572684 1d100+2=68 vorebane fucked around with this message at 20:00 on Nov 29, 2017 |
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Nov 29, 2017 07:46
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| # ? Apr 28, 2024 23:39 |
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  Name: Patsy Skill: Baking Skillcores: Regeneration HP: 2 Self-Esteem: -1 Glory: 4 A hordemate had died in the woods, while Patsy wandered around lost... and now the enemy was here. The drum beats pounded into Patsy's soul, each percussion line reinforcing his uselessness, his failures, his inability to even do the one thing he loved in life... Patsy drew himself together as much as he could. He might be a failure, even possibly cursed, but the horde was fighting out there, and he could at least be present this time. Nobody would die alone. Fear No Loaf would see it's first use not in the kitchen, but in war. Patsy would mourn that fact later, if he survived. Attack the War Drummers: 1d100+5 = 63
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Nov 29, 2017 07:55
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