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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant takes in the sons of Egil, in an instant he has come to terms with them, one being of purpose able to grasp another of his breed naturally. As he looks at what they have accomplished, they gain the Sovereign's respect, for he can truly appreciate what they have carved out and what caused them to do it. Because of this, he decides he will not insult them by holding back, he will throw all his presence and power into winning them to his cause, they deserve nothing less. So it is, not in the Blessed Isle or Gem or any of the great cities, but rather in the nameless wastes at the entrance to a humble yet deeply proud homestead that the Glorious Tyrant throws aside his cloak revealing his gleaming moon-silver armor, the orichalchium daiklave strapped to his back. It is not to magisters or gods he speaks, his majesty flowing off him in oppressive waves and the words leaving his mouth formed with the perfection only a scion of the King of Creation can wield, but to men that have far greater values in the Tyrant's eyes. His anima alights as holy essence flows through him strengthening his exertion, surrounding him with a still green aura. “I’m here to lift a curse off of all of Creation, for too long it has existed without it’s king and I intend to set that right. To that end, I came to the north because, though the Haslan and hardy and strong, far too many hold within an inner weakness exacerbated by their lack of proper rule. This northern country called to me because it is the land of the greatest potential, and for now that potential is all too often wasted and destroyed. In order to correct Haslan and eventually all of Creation, I will need the aid of strong and driven subjects. I have seen the life and pride you have carved out of the unforgiving land, and I am impressed, which is a rare and precious thing. That is why I wish to use you as a base and an example of what Haslan can be. The Haslanti need a true king, a king who commands not only their bodies, but their hearts and souls as well. You came to this place to show the land and sky the power and pride of your clan, join with me become true subjects with loyalty to me as ferocious and complete as the loyalty to your land and families. Do this, and I will ensure it is not just the land and sky here who know of your clan, I will grant you a far wider canvas on which to work. Once I am done, your clan’s name will be ever on the lips of all of Creation. They will sing epic ballads of your people’s strength and foresight, they will call you the foundation of the world.” The sovereign's speech rises to a fever pitch, the power of his glory blinding those in his presence to the less worthy, his voice carries more than just words, but the sound impresses the divine will behind those words upon the souls of those who listen, “So become that foundation! Swear fealty to me, promise me the eternal and unreserved loyalty of you and your clan down to the last generation and I will give you the chance to show all of Haslan, all of Creation, your pride and determination!” Offering the Sons of Egil a chance to truly carve a place in the world.: 22d10x7+5 12 + Stunt successes Oh, and thanks to the rebuy of USF this speech is treated as UMI.
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Jan 25, 2013 10:11
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Logistics Sufficient time had passed for Vestin DiLanno to regain some sense of normalcy. This was a lie. But as an expert in the field, he knows a lie that's near enough the truth can sometimes take its place. You just have to work for it. And there is indeed, work to do. The unique nature of present situation proved rife with pressing questions of all sorts. His new off-colour Anathemic are they allowed to call them that, or is some other term preferred? overlord has claimed sovereignty over everything and radiates an unnatural and irrational certainty that his wish will be quite granted. And yet, he who would be the state of all the world has done naught but make his presence known and issue a scant three scarcely defined titles. One could find more rule of law in children's schoolyard games than in the nation thus far presented by the returning King. Knowing no way to express such concerns in a manner which would not insult, or at very least bore The Tyrant Must he be called that every time? Has he a name? Vestin has instead asserted his duties as 'aide' shall extend into the void beneath this new crown. The effort of drafting from nothing the inner workings of a system of governance is one to likely never end. He hopes such minutia shall be a constant companion through whatever fate awaits him. Supposing one of the King's... compatriots? does not inflict a sudden, drastic, and violent change of situation. The least alarming, and so most often considered of these possibilities is the young northern perhaps-a-sorcerer who, aside from an abundance of enthusiasm and according famine of restraint, has appeared the least malicious and most productive of the other four. The work around the work of tradesman is familiar ground, and the management of working time for a means of production possessing such broad potential is a case not often faced by mortal men. In selecting materials to purchase for this outing he discovered a most interesting relationship by which to compare the choices of raw or worked goods to be wrought into finished products, against such things to be set down in sacrifice to fuel creative magics. As the watch has noted the arrival of Mister Kavik, he has prepared a most elegant summary of this for consid-“So become that foundation! Swear fealty to me, promise me the eternal and unreserved loyalty of you and your clan down to the last generation and I will give you the chance to show all of Haslan, all of Creation, your pride and determination!” IS HE GOING TO DO THAT EVERY loving TIME-deration and opinion on the relevant variant factors and their dependencies, such that an accurate assessment may be presented to the King. Such that he may better organize- Perhaps he must draft the structure of a religion as well. There is ample work to do. You all have a little base of operations now - Egilsfield. Rendezvous already.
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Jan 29, 2013 01:01
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The Glorious Tyrant "Vestin, come here," the sovereign calls out once he has received the oaths of loyalty from the sons of Egil. As the ex-guilder approaches, the northerner's bristle, until the Tyrant's disapproving glare falls upon them. "This is Vestin, My Aide, once of the Guild but now servant to none but Me. You will need to work closely with him, so aim not any animosity you might have had at his former masters and not him." The Tyrant's tone made it clear that he will not accept any protest on this issue, and fully expects to be obeyed. "This homestead is to serve as My base in this place, eventually something of great value will rise in Stump and we will need a place from which to defend it. Vestin, this place is proud in spirit but humble in substance. I leave its fortification and supply in your capable hands, work closely with the sons of Egil for their spirit has impressed me greatly, and they know this place better than any other." "However, I will not leave you unprepared to manage this task and your existing duties. No, those who serve me well shall be rewarded, made more than they are." The Glorious Tyrant then places a hand on Vestin's shoulder and focused his will on forcing his holy essence into the human's body, his already glowing anima exploding into a bonfire of green as once more those in his presence were blind to all but him. Soon, the green flame the engulfs the man standing before the sovereign is matched with a flame burning within his soul as well. "Now, consider asking for Tarn's aid, he is a master of construction and you would be well served by his advice." Once Vestin's investiture was complete, the Tyrant approached Stien, "It seems you know much of the maleficence of the gods since their great betrayal ages ago, tell me more." Putting Vestin in charge of organizing the fortification and supply of Egilsfield, to help in the task he's getting Right Hand Ascension-ed off the Tyrant's Urge 5m periph, 1wp which sets off KoB again. Then asking Stien to elaborate on his thoughts about religion.
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Jan 29, 2013 05:35
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Tarn Kavik - Egilsfield "...and so, by His royal decree, it is to be that Egilsfield shall become the first outpost of His empire, and that it be developed and supplied accordingly. It was, ah, very strongly suggested that I seek your council in this matter." <Is he saying we need to build stuff? Because we're really really good at that!> Tarn scratches his chin as he surveys the expanse of landscape within the crater. "Well, it's a good location," he agrees. "Fertile ground, highly defensible. If it were only us here, I'd say it wouldn't need much more than it already has, but...hmm..." He turns to the Tyrant's seneschal. "What's the greatest logistical burden involved in lodging more people here?" "Food," Vestin replies promptly. "Shelter may also be an issue -" <Ooh! Ooh! Pick us! Pick us!> "- but I believe we can manage, given time." <Awww...> "The Egilsfields have set aside enough to last them through mid-Water, and we can hunt and forage for more, but even so, it will be a hardship." <But I thought food grew from the ground in Creation! Can't you just grow more?> <At any other time of the year, we could. But it's the height of Air, and the cold would quickly kill any crops we planted.> "Sir?" "Hmm? Sorry, just thinking. The land has good soil and water retention, and the locals clearly understand the basics of crop rotation. There's certainly room for expansion; it's just a shame that we arrived at the wrong time of year for it to do any good...unless..." "Unless?" <Unless?> "Why are there no indoor farms?" "Sunlight," the former Guildsman answers. "Even with the right soil, water, prayers, and climate, plants will wither and die without it." A grin splits the Defiler's face. "But what if," he muses, "we were to build a sheltered area for farming...out of glass?" Vestin's jaw drops as he considers the implications. "Yes, that would...I don't see why it couldn't work, but...can you even make that much glass in such time as we have?" "I don't see why not," Tarn says triumphantly. Offhandedly, he points at at a granite boulder buried halfway in the soil, which promptly erupts with brilliant white flames. "Bam. Glass." The mystical fire dissipates, revealing the same boulder, now transmuted to an immense lump of glass. Specifically, a lump of jet-black obsidian. As they watch, the boulder cracks under the twin stresses of its sudden conversion and its own weight, splintering into a dozen fragments and countless tiny shards of razor-edged volcanic glass. <Coooooool!> Vestin coughs. "Ahem. Mister Kavik..." "This...may be a bit more complicated than I thought." Day 1 Now having had the benefit of a formal introduction, the Infernals' hosts see much to gain from, and little reason to object to, a means of having fresh food year-round. Some slight concerns are raised over the time it would take, but Tarn assures them that it can be done inside of a week. The mortals stand around and marvel at his miniature, a glass dome six inches across and a scale model of the greenhouse-to-be. Tarn soon finds, however, that what works in miniature does not necessarily scale well to a larger scope. No sooner does the first pane of gently-curved glass come off the imaginary kiln than tiny cracks begin to appear in its structure. Much of the rest of the day is spent experimenting with different additives and proportions, while the most able-bodied of the crew and the homesteaders chop lumber for the building's frame. Day 2 In the small hours of the morning, Tarn hits upon a seemingly-ideal formulation for his glazing. "Mainly refined sand," he explains to a panting Rutherford, "and of course quicklime, but adding a little soda drastically cuts the heat needed to vitrify the sand. Throw in some dolomite (the excess of which makes a fine additive to topsoil), a tiny quantity of precious alumina for strengthening, a pinch of salt to cleanse impurities-" <Ewww, salt? Vitriol would be way better!> "How would vitriol aid in glassmaking." <See you take all the panes you make, and you dip 'em in a big vat of vitriol! The weak and unworthy ones dissolve, while the best are purified and strengthened! It's trial by fire! Or vitriol!> "But we don't have any vitriol." <Can't you just zap some water?> "Not yet." By noon, he has a number of serviceable panes. Small use, however, without a frame to hold them. Tarn's afternoon and evening are spent inspecting the lumber, splitting it into beams, bending the beams into supports for a hemispherical structure, treating them to prevent further warping or rot, and giving them a nice coat of lacquer to keep them watertight. By the time he goes to sleep, the greenhouse is finished. In the sense that all the pieces are finished, and ready to be assembled like a jigsaw puzzle. Which is basically finished. ... ...shut up. Day 3 While his helpers clear debris away from the existing garden and trace a perfect circle around it to mark the area for laying the foundation, Tarn heads to the storeroom to retrieve the first plate of glass, the seed around which this marvelous crystal shall be grow-OH, FOR gently caress'S SAKE! It would appear that even this superior glass is highly particular about the conditions of its storage; laid neatly into stacks, the curves have begin to settle and deform. <I'm telling you, dude: vitriol!> Swearing loudly, Tarn resigns himself to another day of doing his work over... <Couldn't you crush these and reforge them? Like you did at the party with the drinks?> <Actually...yes, yes I could. These shouldn't be totally beyond salvage, but it'll take quite a lot of heat to mend these cracks.> Projections of force lift one of the panes from its pallet while occult energies heat it through, warming it until it glows white-hot. Tarn's just about ready to quench it when a commotion begins outside. Careful not to drop his handiwork (brainiwork?), the Defiler reaches for the doorknob...then jumps back as the door crashes open. Nothing serious; a bit too much mead, words a bit too heated, and the usual stresses that come with working at the height of winter. After taking the time to thoroughly bitch the offenders out and patch them up, Tarn returns to his work...and marvels. Given the time to slowly anneal rather than rapidly quench, the glass is not only free of cracks, but feels different somehow. Sifting through its microstructure reveals that it has been utterly scoured of stress points and imperfections. A quick battery of tests confirms that when the stuff does break, it shatters into massive, razor-sharp fragments, but if anything's hitting hard enough to damage it, the homesteaders probably have bigger concerns than what's happening to their garden. Day 4 The fourth day passes largely without incident. A nice, peaceful day spent digging out a trench around the back acre and laying the foundations; luckily, during his experimentation with the glass, Tarn discovered by chance that lime mixed with rock aggregate makes a wonderful building material. Transmuting that much dirt, however, would be a nightmare. Luckily, Gentle Snow is more than able to provide a solution (not that anyone appreciates him for it, oh no) through the use of his Hearthstone, rendering the solid bedrock as soft and pliable as clay. For once, Tarn finds himself not doing the bulk of the labor; rather, he provides instructions for mixing the concrete, and lets the mortals take care of the rest. His contribution is limited to walking around the perimeter of the set foundations and auguring postholes. Day 5 On the fifth day, Tarn begin carving rocks. Hewn from the native boulders of the land, they are cut, polished, leveled, judiciously sorted, and meticulously arranged. With them, Tarn builds five separate cobblestone paths winding around and through the construction site, each comprised of a different type of stone. Where they intersect, the varieties blend into interlocking chevrons, wrapped around a central mandala of all five. Five is, after all, the most auspicious of numbers. Five magical materials, five cardinal directions, five elements, five castes for most exalt types, five days into the work...it augurs well, and serves to harmonize the structure's geomancy with the Essence flows of the surrounding landscape. Tarn takes a number of cues from Aursholm's elegant construction; although this is no manse, geomantic resonance is a hazard too oft forgotten in this day and age. The last thing anyone wants is for a giant cage made of heavy glass to explode (or worse, implode) because somebody left their dining chair at an awkward angle. The mortal workers, for their part, are bewildered by their foreman's eccentricities. They are not, however, given to complain; after yesterday's backbreaking work, they're all glad for the chance to rest. Day 6 Today's labor, in contrast to the elegant indulgence of yesterday, is all by-the-numbers busywork. Taking the unused scraps of lumber from the building's skeleton, Tarn, the crew of the Bloom, and the Egilsfields fashion scaffolding. Tiered like an amphitheater, the woodwork allows access to virtually all points of elevation along the interior-to-be of the dome. It takes the better part of the day, and it's not pretty or glamorous, but it'll do. Day 7 It's time. Tarn paces the perimeter of the construction site, looking each workman in the eye in turn. It's been a long week, and everyone's been running themselves ragged...but now it's time for it to all pay off. The Egilsfields don't know how he'll do it. He promised them a glass garden inside of a week; he has about 16 hours to deliver, and he hasn't even raise the first timber. Not that they'd begrudge him a slight exaggeration, but Tarn seems determined to make good on his word. They don't know his secret. Smiling, the Defiler takes the first step onto the scaffolding. He checks the position of the sun overhead, and nods. He's got this. The lumber and windows are arranged in neat clusters around the edge. At Tarn's bidding, the first beam rises. This is nothing new. They've seen him work his magic before. They haven't seen anything yet. The timber sets on its mooring as rivets drive themselves into the wood and its neighbor begins to move alongside...and then, without warning, everything speeds up. The second beam is up in half the time, panes of glass rising to slot themselves into their sockets. The next one is up in half that. Tarn moves like a hummingbird, streamers of white light swirling about him as he drives the universe into the shape he demands. All nature, all existence is borne out by the laws laid down in an age before ages, and time is but one of those edicts; rightly, it bows before its master. The worksite becomes a shining whirlwind of wood and steel and glass, and within an hour, Tarn has walked the full perimeter of the bounded acre. The structure's base in place, the work crew ceases its gawking and rushes in to help as another tier begins to assemble itself, then another, then another... The sun set and the moon risen in the sky, Tarn sweats and strains alongside a dozen burly men, even their brawn and his brains struggling under the weight of the greenhouse's crowning dome. Inch by inch, they carry it along the topmost layer of scaffolding to the very center of the edifice. Gentle though they try to be, they set it down just a bit too hard, and a ringing chime sounds out across the taiga. Midnight. Day 8 Exhausted, most of the work force sleeps in. Rising around noon, filing out of the house and tents in ones and twos, they stand and marvel as the fruit of their labor (and Snow's, but does anyone remember that? Nooooo...) catches the rays of the midday sun, a shining tribute to what teamwork and cooperation can accomplish. Tentatively, one of them dares to ask Tarn: How? "Well," he begins, considering his answer very loving carefully, "the real secret is...study and hard work?" *BZZZZZT!* Wrong answer. Tarn knows it's the wrong answer, and more importantly feels that it's the wrong answer as the silent giggling of Adorjan begins to non-echo in his mind. Her less-than-gentle caress is followed by the voice of his coadjutor. <Taaaaarn, no! You know I hate it when I have to do this!> Total dice for project: 26 (5 Craft + 3 Per + 2 Coad bonus + 1 Dragon's Tear Tiara + 3 Architecture specialty + 8 Excellency + 1 TTC workshop bonus - 4 large-scale structure + 7 competent help), plus one sux at each interval for WP that I automatically get back from Cult. 11 sux and 16 sux: gentlemen, we have a dome. Also, a point of limit for not spreading the glory of Hell.
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Jan 30, 2013 00:19
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The Glorious Tyrant Later on, the Tyrant approached Tarn, "I see My Aide has sought your aid in preparing this place for our purposes. Now that a base is secure, what is needed for your machine?"
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Feb 2, 2013 23:17
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Tarn Kavik - Egilsfield Tarn thinks on the Tyrant's question a moment before answering. "Information," he replies. "Although I've worked out the gross function of the luck-siphoning mechanism, we sorely want for observational data. Factors, variables, calculations...there's a good ways yet between planning and execution. Furthermore, if we are to use elves, I'll need a way to get the curse to recognize them as valid targets, and to interact with them. I may, with the right tools, be able to cut off the leeching altogether, but not without triggering any alarms Piànzi may have set." He considers the situation, then makes an addendum. "However, given its utility in manipulating Fate, I think it's safe to say that no matter which approach we end up taking, it'll be helpful to have some Starmetal on hand."
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Feb 2, 2013 23:40
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant files away that bit of knowledge for later, "I shall inquire into potential sources of the metal when it becomes relevant." He was, however, concerned about the curse the god had laid upon the village, "You were raised here, if I recall, based on your existing experience what can you tell Me of the curse? Will we be able to resist the effects? What about our retainers?"
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Feb 2, 2013 23:45
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Silk and Silver Cloud Day One Cloud swoops in on his windblade, sans any elf friends. The fact makes him somewhat sad, but there's nothing to be done about that at the moment. He waves warmly at Snow and Tarn and Chukh and coldly at The Tyrant, and sets off to help however he can. "I hadn't thought of this before, but if you can identify a thing we could steal or destroy or alter to help this grand plan, I can definitely help out; as a side effect, Piánzi would have to take an awful lot of effort to even notice something is off." Day One, Five minutes later "I'm bored. Snow, Chukh, want to go hunt down a giant five-eyed monster?"
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Feb 3, 2013 05:02
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The Glorious Tyrant Overhearing Cloud's offer of a hunt, the Tyrant joins in, "I'd be interested in lending my blade to such an expedition." It turns out the thing other than being Loud the Tyrant is good at is hitting things, so he'd like to join your expedition to hit things?
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Feb 3, 2013 05:14
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Silk and Silver Cloud The Scourge's eyebrow lifts. "I bet you are." Normally a person would pause for dramatic effect, but the quarter of a second Cloud tried to wouldn't register to nearly anyone. "I suppose you probably won't find anyone to mind-rape along the way. Snow? Chukh? Ideally I'd like to leave in the next thirty seconds or so."
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Feb 3, 2013 05:19
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Tarn Kavik - Egilsfield Drawing from 15 years of anecdotes and observational data, Tarn relates the intricacies of the karmic misappropriation afflicting Stump as best he can. "Its ability to affect us should be diminished, but yes, any assistants we bring will need some form of protection." Reflecting momentarily, he adds: "If, however, we are found out by Piànzi...well, as horrible as he is, he really has no personal grudge against us. If we can find a substitute source of luck for him to steal, he may not care enough to stop us...until he realizes what we're really trying to do." Facts verified through various knowledge rolls: 1) The curse's ability to impact us is inversely proportionate to our permanent Essence scores. 2) It's a Shaping effect, and can be countered as such. 3) Piànzi isn't malicious so much as callous, and may even be willing to work with us (thereby giving him a convenient patsy should he be caught) up until the exact moment we stick that knife in his back. Shenanigans, ho! Also, totally down for going on a sidequest.
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Feb 3, 2013 05:21
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant ignores the jab from cloud. "I should be able to protect My subjects while they remain close to me. Now, we can continue this discussion as we walk, it's been too long since my blade has been put to use."
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Feb 3, 2013 05:31
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Gentle Snow Snow scratched his chin. "Anything to stretch myself," he replied. "But what monster did you manage to find in such a short time?" he asked, "And where have you been?"
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Feb 4, 2013 06:56
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The Glorious Tyrant "I'd imagine it's the Five-Eyed Maw. My Subjects regaled me with the local legends to entertain Me on the journey here. A beast that even the Cold Iron Brand has yet to finish, it should be a hunt fit for ones of our stature." "As to the other question, I'd like to know as well. You flew off with a Fair Folk as I recall, did it find it had bitten off more than it could chew when it went after your soul?"
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Feb 4, 2013 13:04
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Drunk on Bitter Fortunes - On The Road Again Chukh uncorks the booze, sniffs it, and takes a swig. <Huh. I'm impressed. She found the good stuff.> The spirit is earthy, slightly yellow, and smooth. Root tubers, winter grains and hints of woodsmoke and apple blend to produce a warming cascade down his throat and into his muscles and bones. The Slayer grins, speaking out loud instead of simply to his coadjutor. "It's a start." The Screwheads look at him in blind, stupid devotion and curiosity, awaiting their orders. Well. They might be screwheads, but they were HIS screwheads, now. Oh, yes. They would be useful. He scrawls a note in Old Realm, signing it (at Dissolution's insistence) with his nom de l'enfer, rather than his orthonym. Brass: Gone to find the rest of the chuckleheads. Taking the simps with me; will take care of them. Thanks for the assist. And the booze. Later, sweet-cheeks - Drunk on Bitter Fortunes Having done so, Chukh leaves the shelter of the cave, feeling good about himself. He focuses on his circlemates, feeling the power of Kimbery surge through his mind, pointing him in the right direction. The Screwheads obediently in tow, he sets off to Egilsfield, reaching it approximately the same time as Tarn completes his dome. The booze, by this point, is long gone, and Fortunes is grumpy about that. At least the Screwheads got enough use out of the soap to smell... Well. If not "presentable" than at least they didn't smell like a war crime. ~~~~~ Is This Gonna Be a Standup Fight, or Another Bughunt? "Five-eyed monster, you say? Lead on, says I!" The Slayer grins horribly, before frowning momentarily. "Erm. If I leave the Screwheads here, can we be sure they'll be safe? I mean, I'm not attached to them, or anything, but it seems like it'd be rude to borrow them and then let them get broken."
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Feb 6, 2013 17:46
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Northern Spirit "Invisible, untouchable, lookin' down from on high and expectin' to get paid dues for doin' what can't be told from doin' nothin' at all?" The man speaks quickly. There's a sort of odd poetry in the sharp and steady cadence used, letting him carry on at length without appearing to stop for breath. "I know we've not had a word said or a drop spilled for a half-damned one of 'em in four generations an' not an arm's work or a wink's rest lost for it." "You say you got one up past the horizon paddin' his purse off makin' a pile of poor sods the right kind of miserable? I say 'go on,' not a thing new about that since the sun first rose. Anyone'd knock the stars out of that? That's worth speakin' well of. That's earnin' a place on the mantle when folks go around countin' graces. That's more than you get out of any god." From this stormy sea of verbiage, The Tyrant draws a vaguely familiar awareness of the common practices of northern men. This is not a land which cowers before the petulant, heaping tribute to stave off their tantrums. Nor does it fawn over the vainglorious, bidding for the favour of their hollow vanity. Here, where one must fight to claim their future from the frigid wild day by bloody day there is no time what may one day be an age beyond. Here, respect is paid for deeds well done. Stien shows no lack of confidence that The Tyrant's got what it take to act on his ambitions. Once his legend starts to unfold, it will be told. The rest of the family respects his opinion on it. Local Fauna That "Monster Hunter" is seen a reasonable, if often short, career says quite a bit about the north. That it is more often talked about than carried out says more. What all these say about much of anything is no excuse for slaking off, so Tarn's careful consideration if their target find space between the rounds of mind-back-breaking effort building the agri-dome. A population of angry, nasty things each only a little like the rest in a less than civilized part of the world spells 'mutants' to him. Not in any language he yet knows, or may even exist, but his knowledge of what uncapped elements and the ravages of the wyld can do to things adds up to things like this. Things you'd call 'exotic' if you weren't from where they were. While the whole body of stories can only agree on the mouth and eyes, Tarn is willing to entertain some arguments. The notes on what he learned from Leif are sorted out for common elements. Ones with fangs, ones with claws, ones with lots of arms, or lots of arms, or none at all of either. Ones that slither, ones that leap or climb or fly. Pictures slowly form of a collection of potential creatures. Some resolve as other creatures, easily misidentified in panic and poor weather. They're pruned off of the list. Some are joined to stories of their deaths, confirmed in songs and trophies of credible slayers of beasts. They fall to the side. Now, Tarn is left with three. Three things, alike in more ways than the others, but not quite all the same. Each is a thin, wiry creature. Their bodies are composed of many articulate segments, wrapped in scales as hard and sharp as steel which can flare out and bite into their prey. Each moves very quickly, very lightly, in little skips and whips and sudden hops. All the stranger as each is quite large, never presenting itself as less than twice the size of an already rather large bear. They eat often, preferring flesh but they've been seen to dine on wood or stone at times. There ends their similarities. One is only seen near cliffs and caves - scaling walls and dangling from ceilings with long ropy limbs, carving caves as easily as footholds with its massive claws. One lurks on the plains - twisting through loose mud and soil in summer, and by winter through snow. A barbed serpent which entangles and dismembers with its crushing coils. The last is in the darkest woods - perched in treetops, ready to descend on anything it spies. Vast, leathery wings spread between its arms, to glide on still night air and enfold its victims. Tarn looks between each of these potential monsters and the regions in which they're thought to dwell. Around the lair of the five-eyed beasts, he finds land well suited to any of them. A_Raving_Loon fucked around with this message at 06:05 on Feb 9, 2013 |
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Feb 9, 2013 04:23
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Silk and Silver Cloud The Scourge's face falls as he hears just how long it would be before they would go on the hunt. An entire week? The very idea of it makes him want to... DofifteenjumpingjacksruninacirclepeelanappleeatittoodrawapictureofamanandhisdogonthegrounderaseitagainreciteanancientpoemputonawigflyinaloopdeloopaskTarntomakehimsomething-- Whoops. Noone could understand that last one, could they? Anyways, after that last burst of activity, he was feeling better for a bit at least. So at normal speed, he walks up to Tarn and asks very politely, "Tarn? I find myself using my staff more to help the needy in the villages, but I am finding it just isn't cutting it." He looks at the half-cracked crude staff he had found lying in a ditch a few weeks back. "I know you are good at making things...could you perhaps spare some time to make me another one? Either way, I'll see you in a week!" And with that, he is off again, twirling through the air like a bird. Maybe there was someone to help over the next hill!
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Feb 10, 2013 05:18
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Tarn Kavik - Egilsfield Evening of Day 1 "...so that's what we'll be hunting," Tarn concludes. "Judging from the terrain in the region rumored to hold its lair, it could be any or all of these; furthermore, I'm not discounting the chance that it isn't the last of its kind, whether because the Brand missed one or because it doesn't need a mate to reproduce." He blinks, and the force-construct representations of the beast hovering before the others crackle and vanish. "All the stories agree on 'big', 'fast', 'tough', and 'made of sharp edges', so close combat is likely inadvisable." The day's work is done and the sun long since set, but Tarn needs something to take his mind off the frustration of fruitless experiments and more than a few cuts and scrapes. "Although we'll need to ask the locals for better intel, my preliminary recommendation is to draw it from hiding, harry it with arrows and with strafing attacks from Cloud, and only close to finish it once it's injured and exhausted." He coughs. "That is, assuming it can even be exhausted and can't regenerate." Day 8 His labor ended and his dome complete, Tarn finds time to entertain other requests. First to be addressed is Cloud's - without the right weapon, hit-and-run will do little more than annoy the Maw, and Tarn has had a full year to learn the un-wisdom of annoying certain creatures. First step: raw materials. Picking over the leftovers from the construction project, the Defiler finds little other than a new appreciation for Northern abhorrence of waste. Of what remained, too much has been used for firewood to make anything worthwhile. As for the remains of the remains... A single tree trunk, a stout willow far too small for its advanced age, lies unmolested on the ground. The first axe to bite into it met nothing but rot and corruption; useless as it was for building, the Egilsfields felt it best to put it out of its misery and keep whatever it had from spreading. It's not much, but... <It's perfect!> <Hmm?> <Look!> Tarn looks, and sees the world through a demon's eyes. There before him lies a tree nearly dead, its small god ready to breathe its last. The spirit spreads throughout its domain like the tendrils of a fungus, its limbs blackened and withered. But its heart... And suddenly, Tarn understands. Vitriol. He has none of the hellish substance on hand, but with the power to will anything imaginable into being, however briefly, that can hardly be called a limitation. Carefully, tentatively, Tarn bleeds his Essence into the wood, delicately cocooning the suffering god in invisible filaments of power. And then, covering his face with his left hand, he raises his right and makes the Green Sun's Beneficence Mudra, the sign that Ligier makes at the start of every day that the denizens of hell may know his glory without withering before it. The wood erupts with white flame, emerald radiance shining forth from the fissures in the crumbling surface. Its unclean substance burns away under the blistering green light, Tarn's will alone protecting the small god from extinction as its being is purified and condensed within the heartwood. With a rumbling crack! the trunk splits along its length and disintegrates, scattered to the howling wind... When at last the hellish power recedes, Tarn uncovers his face, a new, healthy tan outlining the ghost-white silhouette of a hand. There before him is the staff he brought forth, the staff that had always been within the heart of the willow. Flame-hardened and supremely balanced, one end clubbed for striking, the other pointed like a chisel for punching through armor. Still wood, still thin and supple, but... Strengthened. Purified. A brief exertion of will on some crude ore, and the weapon's ends are capped in shining brass. Ready for presentation...except that something is still missing. It takes but a moment for it to come to Tarn. One more band of brass is wrapped around the center of the pole. On it, he neatly engraves the Old Realm characters for "Silk+Silver" and "Cloud". Tarn hesitates, and then, below that, adds in the angular script of Airtongue: GERT HELLAWAT Per+Craft+Ex+Misc Bonuses 21 = 11 sux, more than enough for a Perfect Staff. It adds three specialty dice to Called Shots.
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Feb 10, 2013 21:39
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Silk and Silver Cloud When he comes back, the Scourge eyes the staff appreciatively--until he gets the chance to heft it. "Uh, a bit heavier than I'm used to, isn't it?" Ah well, lugging around a large wolf might actually make me strong enough to use this without killing myself. Str-2, I suppose.
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Feb 11, 2013 00:45
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant found Stien's speech against the god's intriguing. Clearly they had fallen far without proper management, the hubristic gods betrayed their master and now languished in corruption. It was clearer than ever for the Sovereign that the so-called gods had no more ability to rule themselves than the mortals. He speaks to the senior-most Egilsfield his voice as assured and commanding as ever, "The first lesson you must learn is that the beings that call themselves gods do not deserve such a title, they are little more than over-important spirits. Know that when the True King of the Heavens regains his thrones the so-called gods will be remade so such neglect never occurs again." “Now, soon I will leave to hunt a great beast, one that has terrorized the northern crags. If you wish to observe the event, to see the glory of your god, so that when you are called to lead My faithful subjects in prayer and worship you may give yourself to that calling completely without even the smallest mote of doubt to corrode your words, then accompany me on the ice-ship. Vestin will soon have it freed of the supplies he needs to begin to make this land as proud in form as it is in spirit.” The Tyrant leaves Vestin to reflect on his words as he seeks out his fellows to arrange that all who desired should come upon the hunt. As his King sought out the others, Bjorn organized the removal of the fortress supplies Vestin would need to carry out the King’s plans for Egilsfield. He did this without waiting for the order because he knew without a doubt that this was what his King wanted done. Since he had been knighted he had felt it growing within him, the Tyrant’s divine will burned bright within him, but this was more than that. It was a connection, he was finding himself more and more in-tune with the Sovereign. The Tyrant approached Snow, Tarn, Chukh, and Cloud, “The hunt beckons, I assume those of us who cannot fly will require transport to the lair of this beast. I will be taking My ice-boat, any of those who wish to accompany me aboard are welcome. Tarn, I believe you have more construction to complete, I assume you will travel with Cloud as he can make the trip faster than any other mode of transport, even with a passenger. Now, preparations to set off are nearly complete, if you wish to accompany me do not dally.” With that, the Tyrant makes for the ice-ship to find that Bjorn has already prepared it to accommodate his presence. On deck, in a position of honor stands a throne, and the accommodations are, while not necessary worthy of the Tyrant, at least as worthy as they could possibly be with the materials at hand. As the sovereign steps aboard the ship, Bjorn falls into step behind him. To stand with his King, to bask in His glory, to be ever ready to carry out his order, it is where he belongs, he can feel it in his bones. Though he has completely become the Tyrant’s creature, he has not lost any of his gruff notherness. Without needing to hear the order he goes about informing the crew about the potential for esteemed passengers, informing the crew of the Tyrant’s order that the other infernals should be treated with deference, and informing Graves that the king's guards should be prepared to restrain themselves if any of their honored guests proved to be less than properly deferential to the King. The others should they come aboard would find the vessel most welcoming of them, a gesture of generosity from the Sovereign whose earthly kingdom has finally begun to coalesce. The last to come aboard was Stien, coming to take the Tyrant up on his offer, he would observe his new god ready to tell the tale upon the groups return. Spending 3 XP to buy Henchmen 1 to cover Bjorn, and as soon as the next post goes up and we get the next XP drip another 3XP to cover Vestin and Stien. Leaving only Graves and the bent old man's ex-bodyguards un-backgrounded. All aboard anyone who wants to join the Tyrant(accompanied by a reduced retinue though not without some royal guards and their captain), Bjorn, and Stien aboard the ice-ship.
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Feb 13, 2013 10:31
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About to leave work, want to post this under the assumption Cloud will say 'yes'. If he says 'no', then I will be building a Riding Manta, but keep most of the details the same Gentle Snow "Cloud," Snow began, and then caught himself. What was the point? He got a leg up on the Tyrants palanquin and leapt up onto Silk's little floating machine. It was a very strange experience, and he decided it would take some getting used to. "If you give me a ride, I can try to track down our beasties before everyone else arrives. Oh, I would appreciate it if you would stop just outside of town, before we get too far." This strange request made, he held on for dear life. When they finally arrived just outside the crater of the homestead, he gave three shrill whistles. The snow boiled and exploded into a veritable flurry as three-score white monsters erupted from the snowfall and raced over to attend to their summoner. Sixty beady eyes stared unblinking from within sixty giant manta-ray ray bodies, strange little fleshy legs beneath the broad, flat torsos. "Cloud, meet the White Rays." then, in Old Realm, "White Rays, meet Cloud." He switched tongues as he spoke to the monsters or to his fellow northman. "The Tyrant has his muscle, I have mine. Unlike the human followers the Tyrant so covets, my Claw of soldiers have little ability to care, and little desire to do much else than follow my orders. They serve for a spell, then return to the ocean depths to live their strange, Kimbery-tainted lives." He approached three of them and drew upon them with his hands. They were coated in a web of brilliant lacquer, and as it marked them, they changed. Their legs grew powerful, splitting into tentacles while their torsos broadened. Their snouts grew dozens of whiskers while their fronts sprouted little tufts of 'fur'. Once this was done he pricked himself on an arrow and let them sniff it. "You three, follow us as best you can. Meet wish us as soon as you are able, resting as you need to. The rest, follow behind the ice boat, keeping hidden safely back and eating as you go, resting only when they do." "Right, lets go find us a monster. One that isn't us." Enhancing three of my minions with Fast, letting them practically fly like squid behind us, and +3 Tracking. Tireless if needed. Once we get there, I will attempt to track our beastie to its lair, and also see if I can't find the true, big-bad Five Eyed Maw rather than a three-eyed minnow. Assistants Roll (2Perception, 1 survival, 3 specialty,x3): 10 successes Final Perception + Survival roll: 9 successes
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Feb 13, 2013 22:46
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Into the Wild What sets this land apart can be seen from some ways off. A small mountain rises from the Taiga, sporting a frozen lake within its peak and another on a broad plateau midway down. They drain one into the other, then to the lands below. By the way the woods part Snow can tell from here that in the spring the river feeds a sizable wetland. Dropped at the forest's edge Snows knows at once he is in the lands of a predator. The very air treads carefully, wary of what stalks its every breath. The sensation of it so suffuses Snow that Cloud has barely wished him luck before he's vanished into the wilderness, driven ever deeper by the thrill of the hunt. The ooze by in a haze. By the time the White Rays arrive Snow has become one with the forest, living and moving as one of its own. They fall into place aside their master and as pack scour the land in search of competition. He seeks, and oh does he find. They're out there. In here. With him. Snow wakes is a start. Hard of sight, short of breath, terribly sore. The rays sleep piled around him in the burrow he'd dug out for them all. Yes, he definitely did that. It's all a strange, painful, slightly nauseating blur, but with a bit of focus and a little hair of the dog he's able to start stitching together where he's been for the last week. Yes, definitely week. The others would be here soon and he had much to share. Tarn's research had proven accurate. The creatures, as described, were here. All three, sharing a stretch of territory which suits their shared tastes. No more than two are active at one time, prowling their preferred sections of the wilderness while the third rests at a common shelter buried far up and into the mountain. Yes, in, there were definitely many tunnels. The cave beast is quite industrious, doesn't hunt other animals so much as punish intruders for interrupting its work. Rarely leaves the mountainsides, always digging and scraping out spaces within spaces. It shares them with the others. A nice airy roost for the flyer, a bed of loose sand and gravel for the serpent, space to keep the catches they don't devour right away. All getting on quite nicely, no fuss, no struggle, hardly any sense of communication between them at all. Just living on, side by side, carrying on the hunt. And oh, to see them in motion. They move with so little weight, yet such great force, such speed. They could easily made themselves a plague upon the land, driving all they feed on to extinction before moving on to savage new horizons. But they will spare a creature here and there, content themselves to take as they need and let the rest run free. They let them free. Took their bait and let them free. The others! There are other men here. Watching, learning, planning their attack. Beyond the river, the camps of Iron Soldiers dot a few hills here and there. They send little raids, when the weather's good, to watch the creatures from afar. Just a few, here and there. No, not quite. There are more but they are far away. The scouts send sleds and runners, back and forth, to keep touch with some base of operations miles away where they prepare to move in force. In time. When the weather's good. Until they know how best to strike them dead. The beasts are strong indeed, and are rewarded. They want for little here, they catch and eat far more than they should need to live, though they don't seem to grow in response. Perhaps they'd rather not outgrow their scales. They do love to keep them closed tight in motion, in such a suit of armour which dare the world to pierce it. Even the light one, as it dives from the treetops and swoops back up with meal in hand. So many little plates in their neat little rows until the final moment when they flare. When they show the skin. kept open only long enough to bite, then close again. To keep them safe. Safe to journey home. Home to the mountain, into the many busy tunnels in the mountain. Deep into the tunnels, close and safe. Damp despite the seasons. Warm despite the season. Warm. Wet. Yes, there was a spring. More than one, warm springs deep in the mountain. Perhaps part of the same waters which feed into the lakes above. Warm and wet and comfortable. The perfect place for- He couldn't risk it. He'd the perfect time to enter, knew the patterns and the rhythms of the place, knew exactly how to go unseen but this was something more. There was no chance. No way. No possibility his presence could remain unknown if he had at that moment dared to tamper with- The nest. Carefree as the Breeze Eight. Days. Eight days of Tarn slaving away to make another big heavy thing to anchor to the earth. Eight days of the others dragging their way across the surface at rate that only glaciers would call 'speed'. Eight days is far more than enough time for Silk and Silver cloud to notice one of his namesake which hadn't budged in all that time. Not that other clouds don't rest in place to place from time to time, the lazy things they are, but in his quest to remain entertained while others re-position he'd passed this spot quite a few times. Passed it because it had just the sort favourable winds which should push even the slackest ball of fluff for miles. But this one's stayed right here. He's never passed it from the same side twice, but he's quite certain it's very same one. Falling into the same old habit of trying something new, this time he flies below it. He swoops low to swat the snow off a few treetops as he nears where the odd cloud's shadow falls. Driving on, he nearly stops as something catches from the corner of his eye. It takes a blink to bring it into focus, in which he narrowly avoids another - thread? Yes. Carefully circling twisting through the air he finds another and another and stops counting lest it interrupt his mood. Threads, so faint and thin as to barely exist yet strong enough he has no fear of accidentally cutting with his passage. They run from the treetops up to the cloud. Following closely, Cloud ascends. He breaches the edge and finds this wisp slightly more... substantial than the norm. Faintly thicker, firmer, having more weight than a cloud ought to. Which is any at all, really. The feeling soon intensifies as he moves in. Suddenly the air is positively snug. It does not impede his progress, yet it grips him. So warm, so tight, so cozy. The haze clears and Cloud emerges in a fluffy little hollow. A pit of hot coals sizzles under a vacant roasting spit, surrounded by an assortment of brightly coloured blankets and cushions. On one rests a lady, a little greyed a little wrinkled and a little plump, smiling warmly as he enters. Her eyes shine brightly as they meet his. Her eyes do not wander from her work. She knits and sews and weaves all manner of things, more hands at work then Cloud would like to count. Despite all this movement, he does not overlook the sight behind her. The vision of a faint and airy figure, tightly bound and sewn into the cloud-wall. It stares back at him in terror. Her eyes give it a stern look as she spares one hand wag a finger. Her eyes still greet Cloud brightly. Her eyes do not wander from her work. "Oh my, aren't you a dear little thing. So busy, all rushing about here and there, but you still find time to look at the sky. That's a good lad, gets a bright and early start on life. Too much that time can do to waste it laying about like some old hound." She slowly stands, not a single finger dropping a stitch as we shuffles over to the wall. A blanket reaches completion not a second before it leaves her hand to hang aside her captive. The hand wastes not a second drawing new thread from somewhere and setting off again. "Well I'll not keep you longer than you'll give, lad, no sense putting off a day just for my sake when the whole world's outside my door." She works on, she talks on, and bit by bit the place is richly decorated in lines and shapes which Cloud has seen before. Cloud, meet Brass. Finishing Touches Replacing his first night's sleep with the study of Monsters has, at very least, given Tarn something to fall back on when he locks in conversation with the Tyrant's crew and the Egilsfielders. As far back as his first lessons in the occult he'd felt the nagging doubts his people held for mystics lurking in the back of his mind. The tales of Sorcerers past and present shut up in forts, manors and towers huffing fumes off strange brews, up to their necks in tomes full of things decent folk have no use knowing so they get right at doing no good with 'em. Perhaps knowing this, his teacher had always tied his tightly back to crafts and trades and other daily matters. To their use could work for others. He'd learned to keep things real. So it was that by keeping his nose to the metaphysical grindstone, he'd helped these folks take kindly to the wizard in their midst. Calling up recreations of exciting tales of strange beasts each night didn't hurt matters. After sharing what was known of the potential beasts still living, it occurred to him there may be something to be found in those known to be dead. The oldest tales date back a ways, around the end of the Wyldfog Wars. One winter, four towns vanished from the wilds east of Shield. As the seasons turned, the creature was first seen. Mistaken at a distance for a large, gaunt man in armour, a patrol boat on its last run before the tundra thawed thought he may be a survivor of the missing towns and moved to his rescue. Such was their folly. It waited until they drew close enough to see their error, then struck with blinding speed. Five men were dead before any could draw weapons. By then those left thought better and moved to flee. Even with a good wind at their backs, the beast pursued on foot for hours, dragging the bodies of fallen behind until, as swift as it began it turned away vanished into the fields. When they returned with their tale the army began to organize a hunt. However, this was at time of one of the Immaculate Order's expeditions to the north to cleanse the land of evil and show the league the rightness of the central faith. though the city had all but taken up arms against the hunting party the monks had carried on their efforts all the same. When news of the beast arrived, the dragon masters White Cliffs of Faith, Shining Crescent Vengeance, and Flight of Heaven's Finest, set out to face the foe. By the time the officers and politicians finished their myriad debates on how to proceed, they returned. They nailed the creature's body to the city square and saying nothing more, departed, never to return. Strangely, the creature was indeed seen to wear clothes and carry tools and weapons, presumably stolen from its victims. For a time after that there was peace enough for northern men, but as northern men are wont to do they did not rest on their heels and within a generation they set out again into the east to seek their fortune. And from the wilds they came. At first they were thought unrelated, but in time it became clear that this land crawled with the Kin of the steelman, each with blazing eyes and gnashing jaws and the form of some new horror on its flesh. Any man who wandered too far east would soon provoke their wrath, and meet his end. There began the efforts of the Iron Brand. Younger then, but no less old, Alwin the Red looked east, where other gazed in awe and terror he saw but a challenge waiting to be brought low. Bringing just his own vanguard, he struck out against the beasts. His first opponent, an armoured boar so fleet of foot it outran the wind, so hard of head it split boulders. Alwin provoked it, dared it to be the first to christen his new venture with its blood. So it charged, fast and hard as it could, and time again bit nothing but hot air. In gnashed and wailed and so fixated its rage upon Alwin that it could scarcely notice each time his men would spy an opening and fire on its open back. Not once, for all three days left of its life. Miles away, a little sea the people on its shores called The Great Lake became home to a new breed of guest. When it ran short of boats to sink it began to stalk the shores. It would turn about until it stirred great waves, then launch itself as far as a hundred yards ashore. The anchored tail it left behind would then drag it back into the water. Inspired by Alwin's deeds, a nameless wanderer took up the cause to slay the thing. He found cliff aside the sea, and set out a net to fish. As the waves began to crash he held his place, a set a hound loose into the woods. The monster leapt in pursuit, passing the fisher by. When its tail went taught, he drew his blade and cut the anchor with one stroke. He and his hound then closed upon the creature's head, and though it thrashed its tail about with force enough to tear the forest from its roots in time in tangled, and it tired, and in the the end the fisher ran it through. Though he asked for nothing, the villagers insisted the man keep his catch and he went on his way. After this, they become more cautious. The creatures were less often seen afield, striking rarely and fading far into the wastes beyond. Then arrived the Iron Army. There began the war. A great eel so venomous its very breath melts skin, choked on men of clay called up by the sorcerer Shot-At-Darkness. A strider which dwarfed the greatest redwoods, undermined and brought to earth to face Erik Maxwell's hammer. A floating bulwark and its swarm of deadly young, driven into a storm and torn apart by thunderbirds, each year another great battle would purge more of them from the world. Until today, when only these three remains. Sometimes the storytelling is nearly as exhausting the building. On the final day, he wipes his brow and waits for Cloud to bring him to the scene. As he was not whisked away the moment the last pane was set in place, Tarn intuits that the scourge has found some distraction to entertain himself. He would at least have time to catch his breath. The world does him one better when a vaguely familiar face hands him a mug of warm cider. Not that the face itself was vague, hardly at all, this was not someone easily forgotten. Yet no matter how many times he'd seen her around no one he asked knew who he was talking about. He'd started to suspect he'd gone a new sort of mad, at very least one shared with Dancer as the devil he knew agreed they'd seen her then. <And now we see her now!> Rutherford greets the newcomer, and is soon on his back being vigorously rubbed. If she is somehow a hallucination, she's one shared by man and dog and demon. And she speaks. "Hey boy, you get to go on the big hunt too? Do ya? You wanna chase a big spiky monster cross the countryside? I bet you do." They get their fill of each other. The young woman stands and turns to Tarn. "Well, good on ya getting it done. Show's how we do it right up here, everyone pullin' their weight and doubly so for those with twice the pull, eh?" She gives such a slap on the shoulder that even Tarn's raw force of will has trouble keeping him upright. She laughs, "Well it took twice that to catch you, comin' out this far in this season, but I did it-" Tarn barely notices as Vestin approaches with some papers, "Now, Mister Kavik having considered the sort of supplies reasonably transported via-" They stop and stare. She's excited, he's alarmed. "...How?" "Quite well, thanks." The merchant is far less equipped to endure her friendly jab. "But really, it was great to get out and meet you, and trust me I'd love to take a chunk out of whatever they've got north of here before they run out," a sad little sigh, "I mean, you came all this way to do all this and even stopped to fix the 'ol doormat, but I really can't stay long. Sorry. Another time? 'Course. You know my place, fire's always hot, next time you stay long enough to sign the guest-book, ya?" Another hell of a 'pat' on the back, "Ya. Well, I left a sled somewhere and if I don't bring it back there'll be no end- well, no, shouldn't bug you with it. Nice to see you, be well!" She launches herself away with such speed Tarn only just manages to detect the faint undertone of silver in her aura. Perhaps the most subtle evidence of her inheritance. Vestin digs himself out of the snow quickly enough to, with much pain still on his breath, introduce Miss Jansdatter. Born of one chosen of the Moon. Backstory! New Friends! Post any other business and then let the hunt begin!
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Feb 17, 2013 02:11
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Silk and Silver Cloud "...Cool, I didn't know you could make a cloud people could sit around in! Does it require, you know..." He nods over at the bound figure, dashing over to him. "Hello! Do you do commissions? Cuz I would like maybe a thousand of these sometime, or one really big one..." He smiles as he is met with only renewed thrashing, and waves his hand in a friendly dismissing gesture at Brass. "Oh, I'm sure she's just wanting to use your pretty cloud. Do you need to be in it to power it or something? Because if not we could maybe arrange something..." He looks back at Brass, bright-eyed with possibilities. -------- Soon enough, he flies over the Iron Soldiers and swoops down to have a little chat. "Hi! I think it's time to deal with these pesky things--don't you? I and my men are more than willing to take the brunt of any assault, especially if you have any plans that needed a bit more muscle." He flashes them a quick smile. "I've been working out."
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Feb 18, 2013 00:33
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Gentle Snow Uuuurgh. Snow rose to his feet, then collapsed to his knees and vomited up bile. It spat and sizzled through the dusting of snow and then began to dissolve the plant life underneath. Too much magic, too quickly. He didn't even pretend that he wouldn't do it again, though, he'd do it as long as he needed to, as long as it got him what he needed. Inside his head, there was sweet laughter, a lady enjoying a delightful jest over a fine meal. He came to, nestled amongst his followers. Time to get up. Time... Time to meet the rest of the Warlocks he called 'Circle'. He hacked up a final hunk of acid and spat it onto a rock, where it burned obscene sigils into the stone as it dripped. Right. ---------- He waited until the iceship was just beginning to heave to, just as the crew was ready to really slow and survey the terrain before he leapt, partially propelled by two of the White Rays, onto the deck. He landed lightly. "You might want to stop the ship a little bit faster," he said, and moved past them to the others. "Three noble monsters, each alike in dignity, in the fair frozen wastes, we make our scene. In ancient armors shielded against savagery, where precise weak points make precise blows neat and clean. While two the heavy beasts of these lands show, a cave of darkness shelters one from sun; Now ferocious snake doth lie low, you sail within the lair of fell wing'd one. Its mighty wings, prior hunters arrows have strove, But none should strike purchase on its armored cage, Watch! When it strikes, a weakness spot, I behove Gurgle its last, it shall fall, to green tongue'd rage Bend your ears to charming scout; vict'ry you'll know. My wisdom shared to all, a gift from charming Snow" He stood in the middle of the deck, amidst them all. "Any questions?"
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Feb 19, 2013 00:42
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant takes Snow's sudden appearance in stride, as though him leaping onto the deck and reciting a poem was the most normal thing in the world. "I have but one question, will they bleed and die when they taste a daiklave's edge? If so, then let us at last begin this hunt at once."
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Feb 20, 2013 21:17
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Tarn Kavik - Maw Territory As it transpires, getting to his destination is more a more a matter of patience on Tarn's part than endurance. It's all about waiting for the right set of circumstances: for Cloud to come around; for him to stay long enough to be noticed; for him to be in the mood for conversation; for him to stay in that mood long enough to finish the conversation. Suffice to say that when Tarn does depart, it is with minimal fanfare. Or warning. Following Snow's executive summary of their quarry, it occurs to the sort-of-wizard that a head-on approach may be even more suicidal than he previously believed. Any one of these creatures might prove a worthy challenge for a company of the Cold Iron Brand with support from sorcerers and summoned elementals; all three could threaten even a coven of Infernals. Clearly, some ingenuity is called for. A few hours are spent refining pig iron into fine steel, then spinning the steel into woven cable. Tarn's work constructing the greenhouse serves him well as he puts together a collapsible skeleton of metal, a near-hemisphere that compresses into a (quite heavy) flattened disc of concentric rings. Strands are woven into an interlocking grid and strung throughout the spaces between rungs of scaffolding; springs are forged, tested, calibrated, and inserted at key points along the superstructure; characters of elegant filigree in Old Realm spell out sutras against rusting, sticking, or tangling. The device is sectioned into quarters, and a pressure plate mechanism takes up the burden of keeping the springs compressed. Carefully, Tarn telekinetically carries it from the tent where he's set up shop to the field outside, buries it in the snow, and arms it. Standing well back, he reaches out with his will and gives the center a poke. The apparatus leaps almost a foot in the air (Tarn makes a note to forge some pitons and clamps to anchor it to the ground) as it explodes into a cage big enough to hold a grizzly twice over. Gliding on tracks, the pieces slid up and lock into place, forming a dome of steel plating and cabling. The wires make a low, singing noise as Tarn plucks at them with his mind, testing them for weakness or fault; he finds none. And yet... No. It deployed too slowly. His studies, and Snow's recon reports, had indicated that the creatures are far too nimble to be caught by a trap that might snare even a tiger. Certainly useful, this device is a wonder beyond compare by mortal standards; Tarn's, however, are notably more exacting. Back to the drawing board. A few hours later, he emerges from his workshop yet again, this time bearing a more elaborate mechanism. Comparatively lighter, this one relies on a well-protected gear assembly attached to an encased flywheel to drive the unfolding. The design proves solid: the cage snaps shut in the blink of an eye, quicker than even the swiftest Maw should be able to dodge. Smiling, Tarn prepares to present his invention to the others...then curses as he stubs his toe. The gearbox and flywheel housing peek from the snow at his foot. Far too subtle to alert a mortal beast...but no. The maws are clearly intelligent, and know every square inch of their home terrain. The slightest discrepancy might cause them to steer clear. Fuming in both the figurative and literal senses of the word, Tarn elects to sleep on it. His dreams are feverish and fitful, bringing visions of razor-scales and gleaming fangs and five burning eyes. Again and again, he runs from the terrors; again and again, they run him down and tear him to shreds. With each failure, his patron chastises him, turning another portion of his own body grey and scaly in punishment. At last, he drags himself, raw and bloody, to the edge of a blackened pool; a reflection stares up at him, devil-eyed and lamprey-mawed. His face is not his own. Tarn wakes in a cold sweat. In the wee hours of the morning, he drifts sleeplessly to his makeshift forge once more. Piece by piece, he bids the remaining steel gather before him for inspection. The metalwork is exquisite; the craftsmanship, absolutely flawless. Each spring, each gear, each spool of metal thread, a paean to the principle of clockwork order. Working in a fugue, Tarn begins to improve on perfection. Come dawn, he sets out once more with his third and final snare. Buried two inches under the snow, the drifts blown by the wind soon render it invisible. An orb of crystal flashes into being above the center and drops heavily onto the pressure plate. The response is nigh-instantaneous. Shimmering in the morning light, a tesselation of interlocking plates erupts from cover, an interior cascade of springs going up through each individual tier driving it into position. Modeled after the beasts' own scales, the unfolding segments slide outward, then fall down, locking into place. Truly, an invention worthy of their prey. -------- "It won't hold forever," Tarn explains to the others, "but we don't need it to. Once inside, the only way for a Maw to escape will be to open its scales and bite through, exposing itself to attack." Thoughtfully, he scratches his chin. "That said, the things are clever. They may not be willing to approach unless...well, unless one of us acts as bait. Whomever that is, it's likely they'll end up in the cage with this thing, so it had best be someone who knows how to handle himself in a fight." Base stats for this trap were worked out on IRC: Detection diff 3, Attack 9 dice, Craft (Fire) Diff 5 to create. Damage N/A (imprisons target), Soak 8B/5L, Health 12 to Damaged, 24 to Destroyed. Three instances of 21 dice + 1 sux from WP: 10 sux, 10 sux, 17 sux. First has bonus sux alloted to increase Detection threshold to 5 and Attack pool to 10 dice, second has DT 4 and Acc 12, third has DT 7, Acc 13. Edit: 3-die stunt adds 5! more sux; increasing the DT of the third trap to 8 and adding a die of Accuracy to each of them for 11, 13, and 14 dice respectively. Thesaurasaurus fucked around with this message at 16:31 on Feb 21, 2013 |
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Feb 20, 2013 21:44
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Cloud Nine "Oh, my," Eyes staying on her work, Brass slides a little too comfortably close and looks both of them over, "We were just wondering if there was anything about to keep him busy, and you come right in with just what we were looking for. Good omen, that, eh?" She leans far too closely to the spirit, "Wouldn't want you getting bored, hmm?" He puts all of what little range of motion he has behind a terrified nod. Brass ties a freshly-finished scarf around his neck. In pulling back, a little hook on the tip of a finger cuts the threads over his mouth. It lingers around the corner of his eye as he speaks. Carefully. "This is my home," closer, "whose doors will always welcome guests," backing off, "though it is but a little, humble place, it cannot take many," closer, "It could be made to accommodate more but it would I would need time. Much time. Generations to even approach the scale you ask," closer, "But there are other ways that I could help!" Back again. "You are of Haslan, yes? It is said your people were born of the sky, and it is true. In ages past your ancestors rode the polar winds, and they were not alone. There were other creatures, other races who live on to this day. They could help you reclaim your wings." Closer, "And I can help you find them!" Smiling, Brass withdraws her claw, "Isn't that nice?" Another lances out and pierces the spirit's side. He convulses and falls limp. "But that takes all sorts of time, and talk, and tooling about you needn't lose a wink over, not when you've so much else to do. Oh, no worries here. He'll be nice and settled by the time you come around again." The spirit's bonds are swiftly cut from the wall and resown into a tasteful housecoat. She takes him down and sets him by the fire under a new quilt. "He'll be around." He is a terrestrial god, this is his one-dot sanctum. Though it can be expanded, this takes much time and effort on the spirit's part, far too long to reasonably build settlements of them. However, he can give you leads on contacting other little spirits, air elementals, and Birdmen. Daywatch Cruising high in the morning sky, Cloud feels a tinge of excitement at the back of his neck as the camp spots him and starts scrambling with activity. He's almost disappointed when it fades to caution instead of exploding into open violence. An almost shameful thought for someone out give a friendly hello and an offer of aid. A man emerges from the central tent, immediately standing out from the crowd. Bright red hair ripples gently in the morning breeze, not hid by helm or even a good warm hat. He's on the whole dressed lightly for the season, his polished steel armour laid bare before the elements. Standing tall and proud, with not one of his abundant weapons readied in the face of the intruder, he speaks. "And when did the Silver Cloud, scourge of the crying river, come upon command of men? Or do you expect me to count the Grey Elf and his Wyldhound as if they were an army? Or under anything's command? If they fancy another round with the razor-mouths, there is no lack of selection." Meet Hakon Iormond, Cold Iron Scalelord. Status - Not yet hostile. Has heard of Cloud's elfventures. There is a scale of Irons at each recon fort, two more are in reserve a ways out, the Talonlord is with them. Maw Country The ice ship drops anchor near the edge of the woodland. The mountain towers beyond. And there dwell perhaps the last of the dire beasts who'd brought so much death and terror to the eastern frontier. Snow's efforts have shown that the three still known to live are here, entrenched, living and working for their mutual survival. They've fallen into a regular cycle of movement, always two at once at work. By morning, the flyer withdraws to its perch. It wakes at noon, as the burrowing serpent vanishes from the fields. At night, the stone-carver falls silent in its caves and the snake emerges. In each snow has sensed some further potential hidden beneath the surface, some power kept close to the heart to loose against their greatest foes. One not easily provoked, but sure to show itself if they are truly placed in mortal danger. Or perhaps to guard their young. Whatever else awaits, the hunt is on. Well, there's your setup. Snake favours the swamps and open fields, Bird favours the trees, Yeti favours the mountain. there is some overlap in their usual stomping grounds.
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Feb 22, 2013 17:48
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Silk and Silver Cloud The Scourge of the crying river, as Hakond so excellently named him, smiles softly and pauses from flitting about, standing tall on his windblade just a few inches off the ground. His voice is gentle, but carries to every ear in the camp. "Tell me, have you not heard of how we fought Orek Grimjaw? How his three wolfhounds kept all at bay--until we drew them this way and that, and there again, until their leashes were braided together so tight they strangled themselves? Or how do you think the people of Aursholme managed to fight off three times their number of bandits? That was no skill of arms on my part, else the bandits would merely return next year when I am not nearby; no, we counseled and conferred and so there were caltrops along the path, and wolves baited with fresh elk on the path, and three hidden pits." Cloud chuckles darkly. "They say the Wyldhound was among them, but who can say? Perhaps some simply do not want to dwell on what carnage the beasts of the field and forest can wreak. Or what about the dockworker revolt at the ice piers of Lewin? I only slew five of those slavedrivers personally." Cloud pulls in, dropping his voice to a (still quite audible) whisper. "Then there is my past life; I have been a leader of men, a leader into battle. I cannot say when or where, for now is not the time, but I can say that I have led mine to fight against beastmen in the air, against the swift ice weasels, against the clamoring hordes of the hobgoblins..." His voice cracks slightly, and he spins around on his Windblade, gaining speed and altitude until he is high above them. "But that is not now! Today, there are Maws to slay!" Givin' that pep-talk, trying to get the people to want to help us take it down...together :3 OldMidgetWillow fucked around with this message at 02:59 on Feb 23, 2013 |
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Feb 23, 2013 02:40
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Gentle Snow "A trap, is it?" Snow looked over the construction with a seemingly-knowing eye. In truth, he had only the barest familiarity with the principles, but he could still pretend. "Fine work. I doubt it will last long, but it will have to be enough, won't it?" He stretched and looked about. "Now then, if I was a horrific bird monster looking for a tasty snack from above, where would I look?" He thought on his time, fuzzy as it was. Why couldn't he remember? Perhaps it was like being drunk. You oft forgot what you did when the drink had you, but all you needed to do to recall that time was... He let the essence of Kimbery flow through him. Ah, there it was. "Oh, yes. OH yes. Follow Gentle Snow, and I'll find a place to lay your trap and rest your bait. Of course I'll help, you had only to ask and I am right there with you all, my dear Circle. Allies to the end, and never you doubt that. Never doubt Snow at all, or it will end poorly for you, that it will." 8 successes. What's a little essence-induced psychosis between friends?
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Feb 23, 2013 03:23
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Tarn Kavik - Maw Territory Tarn follows. He observes. He scrutinizes. At last, he nods in approval. Snow has chosen well. The forest holds a number of clearings large enough for the avian Maw to descend on its prey, most with sufficient greenery that its food would find reason to pass through.The shredded chips of old growth imply that the beast may have created these hollows itself for this very purpose. "Good," Tarn mutters to Snow. "These are the creature's hunting grounds. Familiarity is important - it breeds comfort, breeds complacency. The animal tracks will serve to hide our own preparations." Rutherford sniffs the air and growls, his hackles raised. Tarn looks up. "It's almost noon. It will be returning soon, and we aren't yet ready to face it. We should head back for now." -------- "...all likely places for an ambush." Tarn waves, and the projection becomes a tiny scale model of the surrounding land. Two miniature figures - the raptor and the serpent - appear over their respective stomping grounds and begin to hunt. "Attempting this at nighttime would almost certainly prove disastrous. We'd be going in blind -" The map is plunged into darkness "- and if we did manage to corner it, if we were to overexert ourselves..." A column of green light rises from the forest next to the flier. The projection of the snake ceases its prowling and makes a beeline for the trees. "Right. Now, morning -" A light rises at the edge of the model. The flier returns to its roost, and the yeti emerges. "Obviously, not the ideal time to hunt the creature, but perfect for a small team to go in and set the trap without interference or dismemberment." The light moves from the perimeter to hang in the air above the map. The snake retires, and the raptor reappears. "From Snow's report, the cave beast is the most solitary and reclusive of the three, and least likely to come to the aid of its kin. The flier is the most mobile and far-ranging; it behooves us to take it out of the equation early." The projection zooms in on the forested region, and finer details emerge. "We get its attention." A tiny Cloud appears in the air atop a tiny Windblade. The figure streaks past the beast and tags it on the way. "Draw it to the trap." The miniature Scourge leads the Maw on a merry chase, then suddenly goes to ground. "Let it see the real bait." On the ground in the clearing, a figure clad in silver armor. "Wait for it to commit." It circles twice, then dives for the Tyrant. "And then, we kill it." The dome snaps shut over the Maw, and a team of archers comes out of hiding, along with Chukh, Snow, and Tarn himself. "The trap itself is of my own devising." Most of the projection vanishes, leaving only the cage and the figures in and around it. "Sturdy, but the steel cabling is a weak point. The thing will try to chew through it -" The miniature beast suits action to words "- at which point it exposes itself to attack." A volley of arrows punctures it, Essence blasts scour it, and the swordsman runs it through. "I should note," Tarn clarifies, "this is the creature's preferred hunting ground. To prevent a deer or boar from springing it early, I'll be recalibrating the pressure plate. It will only go off if the Maw lands on it..." His eyes slide over to the Tyrant. "...or if a man in heavy armor jumps up and down on it."
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Feb 23, 2013 17:04
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The Glorious Tyrant "Hmmm... Very well then, I will show this creature My strength. Graves, I leave you to coordinate the ranged units." It is clear that Graves is somewhat less than pleased with this plan, and his own intense personal worship of the Tyrant was clashing with the requirements of the duty his King had given him. Finally, as though struggling to find the right words he asks, "Would a personal guard be... appropriate in this situation. Your guards have sworn themselves to defend you with their lives, and would be happy to accompany you..." The Tyrant raises a hand and Graves falls silent, "No, I will go alone. If you wish to aid in protecting me then lead the archers yourself and be sure that every arrow strikes true." His internal conflict resolved by his King, his god's command he responds crisply, "As you command! I will ensure that archers live up to your standards." With that resolved, the Tyrant seeks out Stien, "The Hunt will soon begin, I brought you here so that you might bear witness to what is to follow. You claimed that the so-called gods are aloof and unwilling to do anything, so witness the strength of a true god, and come to truly understand their failings. Etch every moment of My glory onto your heart, so that when you are called to guide the people in prayer and veneration you may do so without your whole being." The Tyrant will go along with your plan, so lets get this show on the road.
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Feb 24, 2013 04:52
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Drunk on Bitter Fortunes After herding screwheads across the wilderness to Egilsfield (fighting off ice weasels, snow bats, a small pack of silent ones and endless forays to go retrieve various idiots who wandered off in pursuit of something shiny) Chukh is happy to accept a ride on an ice-boat to go kill some sort of ravenous bugblatter beast-things. Even if it is with the Tyrant. Fortunes leans over the railing next to his... brother? Half-brother? Permanently in-denial step-brother? <Don't try to figure it out, Chukh. You'll only give yourself a headache, and then I'm the one who suffers.> "Don't you ever get tired of it? All the insisting that they all worship you and shouting that you're the One True Ruler returned?" The Slayer reflects. "Now, don't get me wrong, pal, the whole worship-motes thing feels pretty drat good, and I'm a big believer in shouting at things until they do what you want. But you..." Fortunes grins the lopsided grin of a drunk with a 'brilliant idea.' He grasps the Tyrant by both shoulders... ...And shakes him in time with his words. "Need!" "To!" "Loosen!" "Up!" He gestures out at the vast expanse of ice. "We've got a beautiful ride ahead of us! We're on our way to beat the hell out of something (so to speak), we've got the best drat bartender I've ever met, and I'm sure one of your goons has a pack of cards, or something!" Facing the Tyrant, arms spread out, Fortunes looks at him out of the corners of his eyes, under waggling brows. There is a pause, and the tall man shrugs, before turning away. "Or not, suit yourself. Tarn, you got any more of the Good Stuff?" As mentioned in the OOC thread, bumping Brass from Ally 1->2; will also be bumping Dissolution of Innocence from Coadjutor 4->5 as soon as we get another XP drip. In the meantime, designating Tarn & Snow as Bros (they get Fathomless Poison Haven bennies, woo); Cloud & Tyrant are still up in the air, in Chukh's book.
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Feb 25, 2013 16:06
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The Glorious Tyrant [Flashback to travel on the ice-boat] The Tyrant glowers at Chukh, "Tarn is not even aboard, he remained behind to finish his dome and Cloud will hopefully carry him to the site of the hunt when he's finished." He looks once more over the rushing ice and snow, "As for your other injunction, I fail to see how you can be so easy-going." The Sovereign's voice goes distant for a moment, "Can't you feel it, the whole world screaming how wrong it is at you?" If one was looking closely they might notice the scion of Theion shudder. After a moment's pause he continues conversationally, "Perhaps you don't remember how things were before, but I can. I am trapped with the memory of the way things once were, before creation was shattered, out patrons rent into horrible parodies of themselves, and with each passing moment the memories grow more distinct. Now that we've left hell I can no longer even stand to think of what our patrons have become, because every time I see the raging city, I am assaulted with the memory of the Empyreal Chaos in all of Its Glory, a Glory so potent it would make even one such as you weep for having the the privilege to see it, and as I recall perfection, all I see is its mutilated corpse." For a second time, the Tyrant suppresses a shudder, this time of disgust. After another pause, he turns to face Chukh, his face is steely resolve made flesh, "That it why I can not relax, why I can never relax. The world is a shadow, and every moment I can see what it was, what it should be. I am the spark of a light that has gone out, a light most no longer even remember. However though My light might pale in comparison to what has been lost, I will shine without stop! So that at least some small patch can know the light that is its birthright. So, no, I will not 'loosen up' and dim My light for even an instant. Whatever our patrons' designs might be, whatever the circle's designs might be, whatever your designs might be, I have come to restore at least the north to the glory it should know, regardless of the cost. Can you say the same?" The Tyrant's question is probing, and if he is aware of it, Chukh might realize a critical moment has arrived. The relationship between the Slayer and the Sovereign will begin to take shape over the next few minutes. The Tyrant's whole being revolves around the purpose that burns within him like a flame, the purpose he has just outlined to Chukh, and the Slayer's reaction will (perhaps) forever define how the Tyrant will see him.
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Feb 26, 2013 05:44
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Drunk on Bitter Fortunes - Take a Good, Hard Look at the Motherfuckin' Boat The Slayer looks the Sovereign in the eye, and casually, deliberately, almost delicately, horks a chunk of phlegm and spits it to the side, over the rail. "Words, words, words. You talk a good game, I'll give you that. You might even have good memories of..." there is a pause, then a grin. "Dad's first marriage. But I got news for you: no one else does. Hell, Malfeas barely remembers himself as he used to be." Fortunes eyes his counterpart from an alternate universe. "Until you prove you're more than just talk and stop babbling on about some nostalgic past, you're in the way of fixing this shitbox world." He gestures at the Tyrant's followers, around on the deck. "Cowing mortals is easy. The gods do it, elementals, ghosts and fuckin' Raksha do it every misbegotten day." "You talk a good game, I'll grant you that. poo poo, I'll even admit you might be able to return the North to your definition of glory. But if you want a decent team at your back, maybe try a different management approach? Until you recognize that you might actually need more than mortal help, and that the rest of us aren't just your sycophants and toadies, you're as bad as the loving gods, in my book. So, get off your drat high horse and realize that to the rest of us, you're just an arrogant prick until you prove you can get down in the trenches and get poo poo done." Chukh meets the Tyrant's eyes and grins his devil-may-care smile. "'Course, I'm just a guy picked out by Kimbery to drown the gods in pain and suffering. What do I know about ruling poo poo? I'm supposed to tear things down, not build 'em up. Let's kill a Wyld thing, and see where things stand, after that." Maw Territory Fortunes laughs, quietly, at Tarn's warning about the pressure plate. "So what happens if we DO manage to get ourselves caught in our own net?"
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Feb 27, 2013 14:06
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Strike When Hot "Well, brother," Hakon watches the skies with great interest, "that's a fair deal said without answering - who are you leading?" The air around him ripples, the snow at his feat vanishes to reveal the hilltop's pristine stone. "What tricks are up your sleeve?" With a little wave he collects a handful of steam, "and what'd you expect me to do with them?" He clamps down on the little puff of haze and whips his hand aside. A spike of super-heated air lances out into the sky, it detonates a ways off in a thunderous flash of white light. "Because that's all the words The Captain wants to hear." You got your foot in the door. He's listening. Spin him a plan. The Best Laid Traps that they won't notice With the morning sun thinking a few trees in the way are enough excuse to not be warming his back, Snow glides through the all-too-familiar woods where the winged creature makes its living. His mind immediately recalls its most beloved sites of ambush, the clearings its repeated assaults have eroded into little meadows, a few choice nearby trees trimmed of their peaks so when it perches and light falls just so it can be perilously mistaken for a snow-capped evergreen. He recalls its every swooping dive and catch and ascent at each. Empathizing for a moment, likening the maw's freedom to move through air with his own mastery of the sea, he relives its preferred angles of attack at each site and, with a hunter's eye and mind spies the least convenient point for one to come face to face with an unfortunate surprise. Yes, yes, of course. Bring him by there, spy his target here, and when he does that little half-flap of correction here... Snow only just avoids setting off the trap himself. No, no, mustn't yet. That would be crass, greedy, selfish, rude... And then they'd never get to see the genius of his plan. Miles opted to invest all the fruits of his efforts into boosting the trap's attack accuracy, giving it another +8!
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Mar 1, 2013 22:06
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Silk and Silver Cloud After a few seconds pause, Cloud continues. "But I don't expect you to just take my word for it--I propose a demonstration: If a few of your men would meet us in the lower glade at midday two days from now, I believe they will find it worth their while." ------- One Day Later ------- Cloud, after having spent several hours talking with the Iron Soldiers, decides it's time to keep moving. Shortly afterwards, he sees Tarn again, slaving away at some crafting project or other. "I know you're all busy and all, but I was thinking--it might be good to have some sort of grenades, especially if we are planning clever traps and so forth." OldMidgetWillow fucked around with this message at 23:10 on Mar 1, 2013 |
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Mar 1, 2013 22:42
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Tarn Kavik - Maw Territory "Certainly!" Tarn replies. "I'll admit, my training didn't have much to say about alchemy, but how hard can it be?" Five minutes later Tarn coughs, exhaling a cloud of black soot as he picks himself out of the wreckage of his laboratory. He winces, pulling a long, iron nail from his thigh and inspects the wound. "Well, there's my question answered."
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Mar 1, 2013 23:21
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Silk and Silver Cloud A somewhat uncomfortable Cloud turns distraught as he sees the nail come out of Tarn's leg, and he begins to whir about, grabbing medical supplies from a dozen places and beginning to dress the wound and then realizing that he is pretty bad at it and neatly stacking the bandages and soforth on a nearby table and saying something quite incomprehensible and... Repeating himself, at a more reasonable rate. "I don't want you to hurt yourself trying to help me...just...don't worry about it. I'll be fine without them, I suppose." He turns away and sighs, 'slowly' walking away, scuffing his shoes on the hard-packed earth floor.
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Mar 1, 2013 23:39
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant stands, resplendent in his huge moonsilver plate, a step removed from Cloud and Tarn. After the explosion he remarks, "Considering the nature of our plans, I think explosive devices would be... less than wise. I have no need to withstand the beast and friendly attacks as well."
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Mar 1, 2013 23:48
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Silk and Silver Cloud The Scourge, distracted from his moping, rushes up to the Tyrant and looks at him quizzically (and from several angles): "Do you think I would really throw grenades right next to you? I meant to use them while I was being chased by the thing. Silly."
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Mar 1, 2013 23:52
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