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 Prologue Sound It is cold. Auric’s people brought Word, and the man they had captured. It was a strange thing, its skin painted green, its weapons indecipherable, its belongings mere scraps of paper bound in leather and covered in scrawls that no man recognized. Its green eyes shone with intelligence, despite its reduced state. The Word they brought was of a ship, a strange thing, hulled with metal the color of the sea and sky, and towering as large as a mountain. The man came to shore in a small dinghy, and the large ship left, returning northwards, the direction of the cold, back to where the gods dwell. The man spoke the tongue of the people of the North badly, with an accent none could place, not even those who had spoken to the Southerners, or the men from far West. It kept saying the word “drift” over and over, as though it had some meaning beyond a pile of snow or the wood in the sea, but none of the assembled fools could explain the third meaning. It seemed amused by its capture, like a parent indulging in a child’s games, and sat smiling bound on the ground with the twigs and needles. Even when beaten with staves and thrown before Auric, the smile remained. No bruises showed on its green skin, nor did blood drip from its green nose. To prove their devotion, the people stripped the green man’s garments and hung him from the great oak alongside the skeletons and crowpicked corpses of the other sacrifices. If the body of an ordinary man was a fitting gift to the God of Winter, how much more worthy would be an exotic, unbreakable one? In their zeal, the noose was fitted with too many loops, and when the horse was sent running, instead of hanging properly, the man’s head was snapped from its body, and both parts fell into the snow. But no blood dripped from either half of its body, nor were there the sparks of sunlight or lightning found inside, as with the abominations that moved like men but were lower than the plants. It had bones and muscles and the fleshy tubes the lie beneath the skin, but these too were green, the green of the pine needle or snowdrop stalk, not the rotten black green of winter’s touch on a finger or ear. The men argued with one another, blame cast for setting the horse off too quick, for knotting the noose too tight, for putting too many loops on the coil, for not weighing the man... until the body began to move, to grope around, and located its head. It rose to its feet, held up its head by the hair, turning it back and forth to view the assembled, and then with its free hand grabbed the closest man and turned his head backwards with a casual motion, the snap like a branch fallen from a tree. The cephalophore walked through the screaming, scattered crowd, killing those it laid hands on, until it approached Auric, sitting on his outdoor throne. “I AM AURIC THE ASCENDANT GOD OF THE EMPTY PLACES, GOD OF ICE AND WINTER! WHO APPROACHES?” “i am welcomed. i cnaw naht of thur customs, but wil repay in kinde wih a custum of mine eown. plese aksept graseously.” replied the head. When the man had finished, Auric’s lungs lay splayed behind him like the wings of a great bird, the blood staining the snow a warm crimson. Steam rose from the red, the melting snow crystallizing the blood as it froze back into ice once it dripped far enough away from the heat. The snow fell from the white sky, but it did not make him any colder as it covered him. His new wings, they carried him upwards, True North, where the cold no longer mattered, up so high that the cold no longer had any meaning and the Sun shone unblinkingly, like a god’s gaze. There was nothing, up there beyond the sky, nothing but the stars and the Sun, and they belonged to him and him alone, no one to challenge his rule. It was dark except for the points of light. It was still, except for the soft, sun bourne wind. It was the Empty Place, and he was ruler of it all. He looked down on his world, and wondered what he would do. He looked and he raised his hands and he The cephalophore looked at the corpse and wondered why it did not move anymore. When it had stood there long enough to ascertain that the body was not going to, it retrieved its things from where they had been scattered, made some sketches and writings about the incident, placed its clothing and head back on its body, and walked off into the trees and the rising sun. You, on the other hand, have survived another night. The sun creeps up over the horizon, casting the tree’s long shadows over the snow’s as yet unblemished surface. What marks will you make today? --- New Move: When you wake up somewhere unusual roll+weird On a hit, choose options. On a 10+, choose 3. On a 7–9, choose 2: • you wake up somewhere you like • you wake up with someone you like • you wake up in possession of something you like • you wake up because of something you like Yes, this does mean I'm essentially letting you MC your first post, so go ahead, tell us where you are, what the night was like, and what you hope the day will bring. If you’d stick your character sheet in the thread separately, before you make your first post, and link to it in subsequent posts, that’d be awesome. If you’d keep your stats, XP, barter, and injury status at the top of your posts, that’d be great too. Do bear in mind that we're using the alternate harm rules. After how great our recruitment was, I don’t think I need to encourage you to be creative and expand the world. Add details, people, objects, customs. Go hog wild. I love having targets to aim at.
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Jan 25, 2016 06:00
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OOC Thread is Here
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Jan 25, 2016 06:02
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pre:Name: Bolverk Witch-Bane Playbook: Chopper Look: Man, scarred armor, rugged face, calculating eyes, sturdy body Gang 15 violent bastards with rough weapons, boiled leather armor, and iron discipline (2-harm gang small 1-armor) Well-disciplined; -savage Nomadic; +mobile Debt; +obligation Your Horse - Vargur Strengths - aggressive, rugged Look - muscular Weakness - guzzler Stats Cool+1 Hard+2 Hot=0 Sharp+1 Weird-1 Hx • Kára =0 • The Eldest -2 • Hjalmar -3 • Elise Kovac -1 • Raven +2 • FENRIR -2 Moves Pack Alpha loving Thieves Gear plated armor and furs (2-armor) zweihander (3-harm hand messy) short bow (2-harm close)
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Jan 25, 2016 06:37
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quote:Name: Kára the Cold Blooded KittyEmpress fucked around with this message at 07:30 on Jan 25, 2016 |
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Jan 25, 2016 07:27
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quote:Name: FENRIR (UCGV-23A2 'Fenrir II' chassis #00002041)
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Jan 25, 2016 07:39
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Character Sheet posted:Hjalmar, The Gunlugger Bear Enthusiast fucked around with this message at 14:33 on Jan 26, 2016 |
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Jan 25, 2016 08:56
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quote:The Eldest, the Witch of the Hills
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Jan 25, 2016 14:25
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  Name: Raven, the Last Valkyrie Playbook: Touchstone Look: Woman, survival wear, striking face, steady eyes, still body Stats: Cool+1 Hard+2 Hot=0 Sharp+1 Weird-1 Moves Visionary: when you share your vision of the future with another player’s character, roll+hard. On a 10+, hold 3 over them. On a 7–9, hold 2 over them. Whenever you like, you can spend your hold, 1 for 1, to have them mark experience. On a miss, they hold 1 over you, on the same terms. NOT TO BE hosed WITH: in battle, you count as a gang (3-harm gang small), with armor according to the circumstances (via Long history). Indomitable: when you go into battle, roll+hard. On a 10+, hold 3. On a 7–9, hold 2. On a miss, hold 1, but take -1forward. During the battle you can spend your hold 1 for 1 to: • Name an npc within your reach. You kill, disable or disarm them (MC’s choice). • Name a character within your reach. You redirect their attack to another character within your reach, or else to nowhere — into the ground or a wall or the sky. • Name a character on the scene, but outside your reach. You cross the distance between you before they have time to adjust or react. • Name a character within your reach. While you keep fighting, you intercept any attack directed at them and they suffer no harm. • Ignore all harm to yourself from an incoming attack. Know Your Enemy: When you open your brain to the world’s psychic maelstrom, roll+hard instead of roll+weird. Gear • a token of hope (Skofnung, sword of the Valkyries, a symbol of human purpose and achievement) • Gungnir (rifle, 2-harm far loud) • ice axe (3-harm hand messy) • oddments worth 1-barter • Valkyrie cloak and armor Token of Hope It’s just a symbol, replaceable. It’s precious for what it means, not what it is quote:• When you go among people, offering hope, they respond by giving you food, shelter, companionship, trust, and any small thing you need, worth 1-barter or less, generously or grudgingly according to their nature. Hx: Kára: +2 Bolverk: +2 The Eldest: -1 Hjalmar: +1 Elise Kovac: +0 FENRIR: +0 Improvement ☐ get +1hard (max hard+3) ☐ get +1cool (max cool+2) ☐ get +1hot (max hot+2) ☐ get +1sharp (max sharp+2) ☑ get a new touchstone move ☐ get a new touchstone move ☐ get a followers (detail) and fortunes ☐ get a gang (detail) and leadership ☐ get a move from another playbook ☐ get a move from another playbook Comrade Gorbash fucked around with this message at 01:38 on May 12, 2016 |
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Jan 25, 2016 15:15
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Kára the Cold Blooded The Battlebabe | Cool +3| Hard -2 | Hot +1 | Sharp +1 | Weird +1 XP: 0/5 | Barter: 2 | Armor: 2 | Injuries: None Gerdthorp was a 'farming' community just outside the 'Capital' of this so called 'Kingdom'. One of the warmer places - it briefly went above freezing for almost a week each year, allowing those who lived within to briefly see the brown of the dirt beneath it for that short time. Not much could grow, but potatoes were always a staple, and its proximity to the Bremarka forest meant many hunters lived within. It was a wealthy place, in a sense of the word - the people did not hunger, and this was a rarity. Of course, this meant it was a target - one important enough that I was hired. The King's warriors were three hours from us by horse - not nearly close enough to protect it without its own 'garrison'. Oh, I and my fellow 'guards' were a temporary measure, as we showed the local men the ropes of how to handle themselves. It had been a rather boring and uneventful post, to be most honest - until last week. A raid came last week, under the darkness of the moon's lack of presence - the foolish whoresons of the one who calls himself Algrim sought to use the cover to bring battle upon the place I where I rest my head. The dead of night, cowards clad in black swept through, and blood was spilled. Oh, it was a clever plan - that night, many of us who fought and guarded this place drank to stupor, under the dark sky, and they waited until we would be asleep, whoresons or not, Algrim was clever with his men, and clearly someone had been informing him of goings ons. But he, was not so clever to tell his men to not spill blood - no, he did not know the truth, and when the first blood was spilled, I could feel it - and when the door opened... well, let us say more of their blood was spilt than mine own. And how better to celebrate the defeat of a raid, than by drinking one's self stupid, night after night? The drink, the company of others, it was what was lived for, when the battle was not there. But last night, perhaps I had too much - I opened my eyes at the dawn of the morn, glancing at the pair who lay at my sides, and grumbled. The light shone through a small hole, and it burned at my eyes and head - I was foolish, to get into a drinking game with Keld, there were few I would call nearly my equal in any matter - but when it came to drink, the man was even my better, I had to admit. Taller than I, with a broader chest, he was accompanied by a belly that fit to his name - as large as the largest of pots, from his feasting and drinking. In battle he was still courageous, but if he had passion for the fight as well as for the food and drink... he would be unstoppable. Luckily I wasn't the only one who had drank too much, judging by how one of my partners barely stirred when I pushed them away so I could stand, throwing the blanket I rarely used over the pair as I stood - weaklings, a potter and a farmer, I could not even recall names or when I met them last night. They could sleep for now, I cared not - they knew better than to remain until I returned, and I would be like to never see them again - and should I, they would know better than feel as if I would recognize them, I would hope. My furs were donned, a quick task, a few straps was all that held them down. Pushing out of the section of barracks I was given was the hardest task I'd had the entire time I was stationed here - the searing, hateful sun made my head throb, and I wished to vomit. Annoying - still, I closed my eyes, and headed through the center of the town, ignoring the stares of those who were already up, preparing for morning drills, which I was leading today. And yet, when I arrived at the 'training site' - a bit of land meant to held horses, who had all been bought - it was empty, besides a single rider and horse, who quickly moved towards me - the King's sigil was visible, crudely carved into the wooden shield the horseman held - a coward's implement. Bringing his horse to heel, the silent rider handed me a letter, and then before I could even open it was leaving, giving only a curt nod. I should have known this was a bad sign, to have the messenger ride away before letting you read the message - but it was too early, and my head was hurting too much to stop him. As I opened the letter, it had simple words within it, ones that I hated to read, quote:Mercenary, What it didn't say was the implied portion - my contract was done, and I wasn't getting paid for the work I'd done. I certainly wasn't going to get paid more for if I stuck around. Death, one of the Truths, the breaker of all contracts, and the one that would keep me from drinking my fill for the weeks to come - exhausting, stupid. I wanted to throttle the idiot who died, and each of his kin. But first, I had men and women to inform of their newfound freedom. And then a few hour's ride ahead of me. Figure any of you could be in the same village as Kára, which is only a short distance from the 'capital', which we can make our way towards at any time. Maybe you're even mercs for whatever contract just went bad. A dawn of being informed The King Is Dead.
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Jan 25, 2016 21:32
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The Eldest, Witch of the Hills The Savvyhead | Cool +1| Hard -1 | Hot =0 | Sharp +1 | Weird +2 XP: 0/5 | Barter: 3 | Armor: 0 | Injuries: None Wake-Up Call: 2d6+2 5. That’s auspicious... I hate goats. No, I don’t think that is the correct phrasing. I detest goats, and sincerely wish that they had perished in Ragnarok. Slow-roasted in the Old Gods’ Fire, as it were. Its commonly held that I do not feel emotions, but that is a mistaken belief borne of the fact that I have mastered control of my emotions. Mostly. But its been a very trying series of events, and G10/F5/I4 (or ‘Gummi’ as Tora insists on calling him) has been eating my hair while I was subconscious. My curse melts the snow that had gathered on me overnight, and sends the riding goat bleating up a nearby boulder. I had to stop last night in spite of the pursuers, riding G10 to death would have served no purpose except for drawing the wolves. Luckily the wyrdlings I sent to lead the hunters astray seem to have been successful, I must remember to offer them blood before the next moon. Maybe goat’s blood…. The forest is deathly quiet as I extricate myself from the snowdrift and ready my mount. I pause to congratulate myself, breeding the horns into hand-holds had been quite a time-saver. I turn G10 east, making towards the Deep Barrow. The Jarl there has no specific love for me, but I know she would love for me to owe her a favor. Hopefully, enough to protect me from the Jarl of Jorik’s Crossing’s Thanes. Its really the filmiest of pretexts, I hadn’t even seen the King before he was Called Away. But I was present in court, and Jorik’s Crossing was quick to accuse me. He’s made no secret of his desire to claim the Hills for himself. The King’s Thanes treated me with dignity, but I knew I wouldn’t survive the assassins that were sure to come. I bred G10’s stock for speed and endurance, and he at least got me this far in my flight from the King’s keep. I can see the vast gates of the Deep Barrow when I feel the chill that has naught to do with the wind. The Wyrd is swirling about me, seeking me. The assassins have a Soul-Hunter among them, and I don’t have time or breath to chant more than the most basic of protections. I goad G10 faster, hoping to make it to the possible safety of the gates. He bleats and breaks out into a full run, hopping from boulder to boulder. Maybe goats aren’t so bad after all… I missed on the roll, so I don’t know if you want to add anything more to the ‘Alone and Pursued’ setup. I’ll happily accept a hard move from the MC. PoultryGeist fucked around with this message at 02:49 on Jan 27, 2016 |
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Jan 26, 2016 03:37
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quote:Elise Kovac, Hardholder of the deep barrow.
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Jan 26, 2016 03:52
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Bolverk Witch-Bane Cool+1 | Hard+2 | Hot=0 | Sharp+1 | Weird-1 XP 0/5 | Barter 0 | Armor 2 | Uninjured Waking Up: 2d6-1 9 Somewhere safe, in possession of his wits. Bolverk opened his eyes. The dim lights and underlying scent of humanity assured him he was still in the Deep Barrow. He had been dreaming wildly, violently all night, and he had been afraid once he woke fully he would find himself in some Draugr's hall, or worse. The ancient places, whether forgotten or intentionally abandoned, were known to twist the mind if you let them. He sat up and was also grateful to note his head did not ache nor the walls swim across his vision. He was safe and he was not hungover. Miracle of miracles. A few of his men were strewn across the floor nearby, snoring happily. The rest no doubt had found companionship in someone's bed, Erik among them. Well, so be it. Most of his troop were bastard-born. Why not ensure they had someone to take their place when the time came? Quiet footsteps and muffled voices could be head in the distance signaling the slow waking of the Suncager's hall. No screams or shouting to suggest an attack was underway. Of his own men, only Áslaug alone was awake, standing near the curtain separating this common room from the main halls of the holding. As ever, her face was a stony mask of cold indifference. She gave him a nod as he began pulling on his boots, and maintained her vigil. The Gods were kind this morning. Finished dressing, he rose and strode towards the curtains, adjusting his sword across his back. He might not wear his armor here, but experience had taught him to always be armed no matter how safe he felt. As a man of the king, he had that right. "Áslaug. Go and check on the horses. Make sure that fool boy isn't skimping on Vargur's feed. He'll take his share in flesh if he has too." Vargur was a great beast, his line Changed in the White Out. Strong, powerful, and smart for a horse. And with the exception of the four shriveled, vestigial legs that grew from his chest, he was perfectly viable - a rarity for a freeman to own. And as experience had taught him, Vargur was entirely willing to eat meat if necessary. Bastard seemed to eat more than the whole rest of the company combined. With a nod, Áslaug scurried away and Bolverk made for the public hall. He too was hungry, and eager to hear of any news. This brief stay at the Deep Barrow had expended the last of his barter, and the King's tithe would be due soon. Work must be found before then. Stepping into the area, he shouted. "Bread! Cheese! Mutton! And something cold to wash it down!" It was his typical announcement, and the cooks knew it meant the Witch-Bane was in good spirits. Only when he was silent did folk worry, for he could be cruel when a dark mood took him. "And something special for Stiggr. I wager the boy will try his hand at poetry again, and Áslaug will thump him for his troubles." He took a seat, grinning at the thought. If he knew Stiggr, though, he'd take his lumps and ask for seconds. Love made fools of everyone. Shardix fucked around with this message at 06:24 on Jan 26, 2016 |
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Jan 26, 2016 06:18
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The Gunlugger | Cool +1| Hard +2 | Hot -2 | Sharp +2 | Weird -1 XP: 1/5 | Barter: 1 | Armor: 2 | Injuries: None Waking up is always the worst part to tell the truth. They say the lightning sleeps when I sleep and I've the same experience. It's the only time I truly feel the bolts, when my very marrow is chilled into fine pointed daggers. It's only a few seconds before it fades and the lightning takes it all away. It has the power to keep the blood warm in my flesh and to keep the red mist from my eyes in battle. On this particular morning the pain is so much I can feel intimately how the glass in my eye sockets flexes the smallest iota when I reflexively try to shut my original eyelids. I'd cut them away ages ago but the muscles still remember and try to shut around their unnatural replacements. That too passes and I'm finally able to take in my surroundings. Waking up: 2d6-1 6 It takes a moment to notice I am not where I bedded down. I couldn't have been more than an hour from the Deep Barrow when the sun fell. I'd had the luxury of finding an abandoned den of some creature, stumbled into it very directly. Now I was blinded by the midday sun and could feel snow drifting across my feet. I'm zipped up in my cloak still which is similar enough and a quick check shows my armaments are still inside the top-left leg where they should be (The legs tied off still, as they should be). As I shift to reach for the rotator more snow falls in through the neck. I hear voices. The open neck had been the source of all my woes thus far, the sunlight mostly, but now as I peered out was my window into a strange situation. A similar bundled figure was just in front of me and their feet slowly slid out of view and I could see someone was dragging them, digging a trench through the snow with them rolled in a shoddy blanket until the voices got closer. The bundle lifted and now I had a perfect view of four leather-clad men heaving the other figure up into the air, and as it struggled they heaved together to toss it just out of view. I didn't hear much from it falling, only the sudden roaring of a great fire and the screams as the figure most likely burned alive. I could see the stains in the snow in front of me where they must have doused them with gas or something similar. It seems I'm to join them, perhaps as some sort of sacrifice. Some tribes believe highly in burning offerings. I can only continue towards the rotator and hope there aren't too many. Marked XP for rolling Weird. Also not sure how far you'd like the setup to go or if/when an MC move would get applied. As of now he's a bearskin burrito about to be tossed onto a bonfire, which is fun.
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Jan 26, 2016 15:21
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Raven The Touchstone | Cool+1 | Hard+2 | Hot=0 | Sharp+1 | Weird-1 XP ○○○○○» | 1-barter | 1-armor | 0:00 harm Wake Up Call (+Weird): 2d6-1 3 Cold. White. Snap. I wake suddenly, to blank whiteness all around me. This I expected. I had made camp among the trees in Bremarka, knowing I could not reach Gerdthorp before nightfall. The King was dead. If he had been the one behind the doom of my sisters, I had been denied vengeance. But in the chaos after such a fall, there was opportunity. Opportunity to discover the truth. To find the fate of the lost. And to pay blood for blood, for if the attack had been by order of the king, it would have been by the hand of others. All of this, I remembered. None of it mattered in this moment. Caught in the open, I kept my fire small and then covered it over in snow before I slept. I had eaten a double ration and then dug myself a burrow in the snow, in the lee of an ancient tree, down in a hollow. An old survival trick. I would be warm enough to survive the night, and well hidden. Wrapped tightly in my cloak and furs, curled around my pack, my axe tucked in my arm, I listened. The sound of movement had awoken me, nearby. And as I listened, I heard more. They were making no excess sound, but neither were they trying to hide. At least three, perhaps as many as five. Moving heavily but well in the snow. A clink of metal on metal, the creak of leather, scrape of steel on cloth. Talk, muffled by snow and wind and scarves. And then a barking laugh, one I know. Reeve, Reeve of Reeve. Called Reeve Thrice-Named and Reeve the Cruelest and Gormless Reeve, though the last not to his face. Son of Forgetful Reeve, so-called because he named all his sons Reeve, supposedly because it was the only name he could remember. Sworn sword of the late king, a dog as vicious as he was stupid. With the king dead, the dog is off the leash. Suddenly there was a shout of surprise, then laughter. "Stepped in a drat hole! Wait there's a fire here! Or was, recent. Look, snow here's been disturbed, then smoothed like." A chorus of muttering and the sound of weapons being drawn, then Reeve. "Must be hiding somewhere! Dig them up and let's have some fun!" Foul luck. No point in waiting now. I launch myself towards the nearest voice, axe already whistling through the frosty air. I explode out of the burrow in a flurry of snow and steel. Trying to seize control of this ground from Reeve and his men. My ice axe is 3-harm hand messy. Indomitable [+hard], Seize By Force [+hard]: 2d6+2 8 2d6+2 10 Holding 2 from Indomitable. Choosing the following from Seize By Force. • you take definite hold of it • you suffer little harm • you impress, dismay or frighten your enemy I'm tossing Reeve in for fun. I figure there are a whole bunch of the brothers, all big dumb vicious brutes, basically interchangeable. So there's always a chance to have a Reeve show up and fill the role of the basic, ugly mook. Also, just to clarify, Reeve is a title, so Reeve is in charge of a hold called Reeve. Reeve, Reeve of Reeve. Comrade Gorbash fucked around with this message at 03:47 on Jan 27, 2016 |
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Jan 26, 2016 17:57
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FENRIR, the Relic from Another Age The Synthetic | Cool +1| Hard +2 | Hot -1 | Sharp -0 | Weird +1 XP: 1/5 | Barter: 0 | Armor: 2 | Sentience: 3 o'clock | Injuries: None >> CHARGE AT 99.83% OF MAXIMUM >> LOW-POWER STATE SUSPEND >> INITIATE MOBILITY ROUTINE 0D11B :: SYS CHECK :: -- CPU: OK ! ( err: ECC threshold exceed ) -- MEM: OK -- STORAGE: FAIL !!! ( err: mult checksum fail ) -- MOTIVE SYS: OK -- POWER: RTG 0% ! ( err: removed for maint ) / BATT 100% <alt chrg mode disengaged> -- LOCAL DATE: 9/~20/?? ! (err: precise date unk ) -- LOCAL TIME: 10:15:00 ! ( err: MOE exceed ) -- TEMPERATURE: 2°C -- LAT/LONG: 19-68° N, 71-83° W ! ( err: INS drift exceed ) -- UPLINK: Negotiating ! (last conn: N/A) !!! DECOMMISSIONED UNIT !!! !!! MAINT PERIOD EXCEEDED !!! The Best Part of Waking Up... : 2d6+1 = 5 calling it now, I'm cursed  >> PRIMARY NEURAL THREAD, HUMAN-READABLE: Live The Deep Barrow exterior. Late Autumn. There is snow. There is always snow. (SIDE-THREAD: Ten months out of the year on average, according to meteorological analysis) I initiate the standard motive systems startup self-check. With it come sounds that have not been heard regularly here in centuries. Servos whine as they warm up. My primary compressor chugs for 2.4 seconds. Solenoids cycle with rapid-fire clicks as locks disengage. Actuator 3 on my left arm grinds as it moves. (MAINTENANCE ITEM 3D1270F) It is some time before I integrate the process that interprets the data from my sensor cluster into my primary neural thread. The thought strikes me that I have stretched, but have not yet decided to open my eyes. (ERR CHK: Analogy is not accurate. My motive systems are direct-drive and cannot 'stretch'. Similarly my cameras are always active, but relegated to tertiary neural threads while in a low-power charging state) It is not, as I measure such things, a fortuitous morning. As so often happens when I am in a low-power state, an errant process has corrupted itself during my low-power state and continues tagging a corrupted database entry (AUDIO RECORDING: 34BD359) with a priority systems alert, leaving me unable to ignore it until I deactivate it and wipe the program from active memory. The entry itself is typical of severely corrupted database files; it is a small slice of something from the old world, completely free of context or meaning. There are words, but they might as well be random for all the sense I can make out of them. And the hidden layers of data that lie beneath... there are always hidden layers to these files. I neither know how to decode them, or even how to begin the process. There is no rhyme or reason to them, every single functioning bit of cryptanalysis programming I have refuses to even regard them as a valid cryptographic technique. Yet I know there is something to be found there as the statistical analysis I have run night and day since my reactivation has shown that the chances of a Fibonacci heap naturally manifesting errors in this fashion are 1.7 x 1012 to 1. (ERR CHK: Assumption. It is 1.2 x 108 times more likely that my analytical programs are malfunctioning) Always questions, never answers. I relegate this particular question to a quaternary thread so that, as always, my low-level programming will find something slightly less vague than the original data to tell me. (SIDE-THREAD: Less vague, but more ominous if the pattern continues.) Corrupted Database : 2d6+1 = 13 Well, maybe not entirely cursed I advance the Sentience clock one position. I'll choose to have a question answered: FENRIR just knew there was something hidden in that Folger's jingle--some bit of data important to understanding the nature of his continuing database corruption. What does that bit of data tell him once it's decrypted? It's a non-priority processing thread he's put it on, so it'll probably be a bit before he actually parses any information uncovered. When I shift my visual sensor feed to my primary neural thread, I see only white. For a moment, I am disoriented. A deep processing routine informs me that it is possible that my triple-redundant CMOS arrays might have been damaged by focusing on the sun while I was asleep. (ERR CHK: This analysis is not consistent with known reality. My array cannot be damaged by sunlight.) A quick systems check shows that my visual analysis systems have suffered multiple errors over the course of the night. I am not aware of why this was not corrected automatically, but I restore from a redundant backup and reboot the system. Another unfortuitous event that occurred while I was in a low-power charge state, it seems. After 0.9 seconds, the world around me is visible once more. Camera 2 is slow to focus, but that is an old issue (MAINTENANCE ITEM 3D02C10). It is disturbing to think that I spent the last 8 hours without visual awareness of my surroundings. I make a note (MAINTENANCE ITEM 3D12A31) of the error and how the system might be reprogrammed to avoid this occurrence in the future. I relegate the problem to my secondary neural thread--as my self-preservation routines dictate. The chieftain of this military installation has accepted my presence to a point, but I have no doubts that if she saw a way that I might be disabled and dismantled in a moment of unawareness, she would certainly act upon it. If nothing else, I can understand the Elise(03EA341) entity's pragmatism no matter how dangerous it may be to my continued existence. It is somewhat refreshing in the face of a world gripped by superstition and nonsensical ritual. I find that in the night, a snowbank has formed around me. My motive startup has cleared some of it, and I stand, shaking free of the rest. Specks of snow land on the lenses of my visual array, quickly melt, then evaporate on the heated surfaces. >> SENSOR SYS CHECK -- VISUAL: OK -- SONIC: OK -- RADAR: !!! FAIL !!! (err: radome removed for maint) -- LiDAR: OK -- MAGNETIC: !!! FAIL !!! (err: MOE exceed) -- GRAVIMETRIC: OK -- TERAHERTZ: !!! FAIL !!! (err: emitter nonfunctional) -- UPLINK: Negotiating ! (last conn: N/A) Ostensibly I am operating as a guard for the Deep Barrow's outer perimeter--my presence no doubt intended to make a show of force--though the truth of the matter is that I am there because I am not welcome inside without supervision or perhaps even with it. I have no problems with this arrangement, as the cold does not effect me as it does organic entities. There is also a grid-connected power line that has been fed out to me so that I can keep my--incredibly powerful, valuable, and delicate--heat exchange generator stowed while I charge. I have also learned a number of harsh lessons about what sorts of people and unclassified creatures are attracted to rather than repelled by mysterious bonfires in the middle of the wilderness. My deep-logic routines insist there is something about today that is different than most days. (ERR CHK: Baseless) They insist that alot, yes, but this time they are especially persistent. Something is beginning--or has already begun--that will bring about a great change. Or at least the promise of a great change. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe something will. (ERR CHK: Errant process terminated) ... but for now, I stand guard over this outer perimeter. Patrol and area-denial is something I excel at(REF PROGRAM 012A3). The truth is that I'm finding the detail somewhat disappointing. I had hoped to build my database on local customs, manners of speech, and superstitions, but nobody comes this way so I am not learning much of anything at all. I am watched from time to time--and I watch in return--but it is not the sort of two way interaction I had hoped for. Not only is this approach undesirable due to the rocky terrain features, but locals and travellers alike avoid me in favor of dealing with their biological counterparts, which is not surprising. As previously stated, my presence here is more a deterrent and show of force than anything else. No doubt the Elise entity has claimed that I am under her control--she does style herself as the master of the Deep Barrow's 'fearsome' technology after all. I am willing to participate in the fiction for the time being. GUARD DUTY LOG: To date, 2 entities have attempted to exit through this stretch of the outer perimeter (SIDE-THREAD: Entities Lucas(0384D3) and Nora(0384D4), a mating pair who have come to think of themselves as unfairly detained in the Deep Barrow. Their respective parents do not share this viewpoint as witnessed in EVENT LOG 049C391B38). 0 entities have tried to enter the Deep Barrow via this zone. In the end, my programming doesn't care whether I find the activity stimulating or not--it is a job I will do regardless. With my visual systems online, I do a multi-band sweep of the area. Though I do not even remember a time when I had an active satellite uplink connection, the processes for it remain as a sore reminder of the near omnipresent state of awareness I could achieve if only I was connected to high-altitude surveillance. I do not know if the satellites are gone, inactive, or not just accepting uplink requests. Functionally, all possibilities have the same result and I am denied the ability to see beyond the reach of my on-board sensors--forever, in all probability. I turn my main cameras to the sky for a moment as if I could somehow rectify the situation if only I were to catch sight of something up there (ERR CHK: A nonsensical action on multiple levels). To no avail, of course. The thought occurs that a wistful sigh would be an appropriate action at the moment--were I prone to such displays. !!! PERIMETER ALERT: MOTION !!! Contact ID: 04B442A1F Size: 1.5 +/- 0.3 meters Classification: Mounted Human-like Entity My sensors shift programs, tracking the new contact that I have detected. Profile suggests a human entity riding a small horse. Their vector is estimated to bring them right to me, so I do not move, simply standing and waiting for them to come to me. I remain alert however, my secondary neural thread running a systems check on my main armament. Whoever it is, they are approaching quickly and erratically, dodging between the rocks as if to avoid detection--though they are moving too fast for any sort of stealthy approach to be likely. (SIDE-THREAD: Movement analysis suggests they flee pursuit, though I have not yet detected anything following them) No, not a horse. It is a goat the human rides. The interest of my low-level functions is piqued. I quickly modify the standard verbal challenge I have decided to issue to anyone entering this zone from the outside. --- One would think that an 8-foot-tall robot would be hard to miss, but the machine's chunky, snow-covered profile and tendency to stand stock-still unless in active motion can make him seem more a feature of the terrain than anything else. Suddenly, FENRIR moves, shattering the illusion. It adjusts its stance, feet planting firmly apart in case pursuit is merited. A piercing burst of unnaturally red laser light flashes across the approaching goat-riding traveler for a fraction of a second as they are ranged via LiDAR. The robot's voice is well-modulated and smooth but unnaturally androgynous and flat. It is also rather loud in this particular occasion. "Unknown entity, you are entering the outer boundary of the Deep Barrow. Cease your approach, state your reasons, and explain your unorthodox method of transportation." TerminalBlue fucked around with this message at 22:45 on Jan 26, 2016 |
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Jan 26, 2016 21:56
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Elise Kovac, who cages the sun. The Hardholder| Cool +1| Hard +2 | Hot +1 | Sharp +1 | Weird -2 XP: 1/5 | Barter: 1 | Armor: 0 | Injuries: None Business is well. But we're low on ammo, again. As long as no one knows, right? Usually there isn't a mob so foolish to demand we empty mags into them. At least that tussle with the lunatics south of us impressed the clientele. Speaking of saving bullets, more impromptu theater. We caught a thief. I was awoke by my vassal Detriug with the status report. It was Fenrin four fingers. I had tolerated his loose manners within my hold due to large tipping, when luck was with him. However it did not prevent me from taking notice whenever he tried to sneak an extra mug or play grab rear end with the talent. The dice must have treated Fenrin poorly for him to be so bold and foolish to try to walk off with a gun. He should have left the table while he still had something to leave with. Bums with delinquent tabs are set to entertain the rabble, true. But thieves, especially thieves of such precious things, are are showstopper that only get one act. I was groggy so hauling Fenrin up to the sunhatch to push down was out. Fenrin was stripped of his things and shoved out into the snow. If anyone guessed correctly how far he made it before collapsing they would have a drink on me. A pack of vultures prodded him and drove him out of my site, a string tied to him as to get an objective measurement. If I'm lucky Fenrin will spite them all and die too far from their bets for anyone to cash in. As if on cue the two figures that could make this week worse catch my eye. That glitchy automaton, a gamble I may yet still lose, and the crone who's money is too good for me. "Oppenheimer's luck." I mutter to myself. The last time she came here I felt cheated even before the stock count was off the next night. I motion to Detriug to tend to the morning rounds. He's a smart boy and knows how to keep the show running when I'm busy. Good with a gun too. I already got a sealed envelop naming him my heir if something should happen. But why let the jealous and petty know that before they have too, eh? They can all kill each other over it when it won't confront me none. I trudge through the snow over to the pair of weirdos. I want this dealt with fast. I was hoping to begin an earnest search for something useful today. Even if it's just a crate of ancient bullets.
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Jan 27, 2016 00:02
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The Eldest, Witch of the Hills The Savvyhead | Cool +1| Hard -1 | Hot =0 | Sharp +1 | Weird +2 XP: 1/5 | Barter: 3 | Armor: 0 | Injuries: None I pull up short at The Beast’s challenge, masking my initial distaste. While it may be an unpleasant reminder of Before, it may prove useful today. The shrill notes of the Old Speech echoes in the crisp air. ---BEGIN MESSAGE--- IDENTCODE //PANDORA// AUTHORIZATION TANGO-ECHO-SIERRA TIMESTAMP: *out-of-range ERROR* REQUEST ASSISTANCE. MULTIPLE UNKNOWN HOSTILES INBOUND ATTACHMENT: ProjectTanngrisnir_AnEffeicentColdAdaptedMount.doc ---END MESSAGE--- To my surprise and relief the Jarl herself appears, leading a ceremonial procession. I dismount and bow deep, acknowledging her authority here. The caw of the wyrd-crows grows louder, I know I am running out of time. “Most Glorious Jarl, Holder of the Deep Barrows, I come requesting sanctuary from pursuit. I bear ill tidings from Kingstead, and my enemies wish to take advantage of the situation. They have set riders most foul as well as a Soul-Hunter upon me, and I was on a quest of healing not war.” I can see the reflection of the mounted figures in The Beast’s optics, they have made it to the mouth of the valley. I mask my apprehension and bow once more. “I would, of course, be quite willing to compensate you for the inconvenience.”
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Jan 27, 2016 03:18
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Sound Bremarka Raven -- Your axe comes across in a practiced sweep, knocking Reeve’s cousin Jeet’s helmet off his head, then hooking into the back of his skull and ending him with a soft crescent of blood that stains the snow. Silly bastard ought to have known that the chinstrap was there for a reason, but, well, maybe his brothers will learn from the example? He is a mess. If the adze end opening up his brain didn’t kill him outright, he’ll be dead in a few seconds from the blood loss. Anyways, he isn’t moving or making any noise. The rest of the crew are a combination of dumbfounded and angry. They were expecting something, alright, but not this. If it were four on one, sure, they think they might could take you, but, well, how many of them would survive the experience? And that’s if they went at you all at once, something they aren’t exactly used to. They were expecting a few farmers on the road, or maybe an old guardsman, not a... whatever it is you are. Swords and axes are out, but they’re keeping their distance, while trying not to look like they’re keeping their distance, and scared of dying in an instant. Reeve himself, Big Reeve, The Reevester, he’s out in front, but you’ve seen that look in other eyes. He doesn’t want to be anymore, this got bad serious, it isn’t fun. He can’t back up without losing face in front of his boys, but he certainly can’t advance towards you... What do you do? Gerdthorp: Kára -- The people take the news about as well as expected. There’s gnashing of teeth, tears, angry shouts, frustrated protests about lost pay, suggestions about setting up their own kingdom, paying tribute to one of the powerful Jarls as quickly as possible to keep safe, and prayers, oh so many prayers... Coward talk, mostly. You get your poo poo together to leave town just in time for some folk to ride in. The wrong kind. You’ve had interactions with Reeve, Reeve of Reeve before. Well, one of them, anyways. Local bastards, a band of brothers who all bear the same name, servants of the now departed king. This is one of the biggest of them, the second brother if you recall, who used to ride alongside Laban and Nephi, the King’s Sword and Accountant, respectively. He’s not bad in a scrap, but he’s very clever. Clever enough to know when to stand and fight, and when to run away and later burn down the enemy camp, poison their food, and then fly the flag of truce so that he can massacre the survivors while negotiating a surrender. Second Reeve is a bad dude. But this time he’s not entering the town with guns blazing, and he’s yet to set a building on fire. The men with him look... Well, these are no soldiers. Some guards, certainly, but others look like builders or tradesmen. If this is a war party, Reeve has fallen on hard times indeed. He speaks to the crowd from horseback, his voice thick and practiced: “My people, our King is dead. These are not glad tidings. Auric is irreplaceable, and with his ascension into the heavens, we know that none can truly take his place. But my father, Reeve, seeks to unite the disparate lands before greed and treachery seek to separate us. We will build, and no outsiders will harm us. Will you stand with me?” What do you do? Elsewhere: Hjalmar -- The four men move with deliberation and precision; careful isn’t the right word, because that would suggest that they paid attention to their task, rather than going through motions they have done so many time before that to think of them would ruin them. One would just as soon ask one of the furry snow worms how is coordinated the movement of its thousands of legs. But one of them, slightly shorter and thinner than the rest, isn’t quite as good as the rest. They haul another body up and onto the fire, and something seems to go wrong. It was tossed wrong, it snapped some branches, broke the pile in the bonfire they had built up. You can see feet as the body rolls back in front of you. There is shouting and the sound of someone being slapped. If you worked at it, you could probably force your way through the skin, or you could try to attract their attention and convince them to let you free, or... well. Guess you could let them throw you on the fire, but that'd get unfun real quick. What do you do? The Deep Barrow: FENRIR-- The Best PArt of WAking Up >>Data Corrupted, Recover File? >>Recovery Initiated..... >>Decrypting.... >>Translating Folgers.MP5 to TXT >>Best Part.Doxz... File extension automatically determined based on internal contents, audiovideo contents corrupted, file integrity compromised.... >>Processing.... Best, Part, Waking. "Much I have travelled, much have I tried out, much have I tested the Powers; from where will a sun come into the smooth heaven when Fenrir has assailed this one?" According to Slovenian Philosopher Slavoj Zizek “A man goes into a cafe and asks the waiter for a cup of coffee, without cream. The waiter goes away, but returns again within a couple of minutes. "I'm so sorry sir'' he says. ''We don't have any cream. We have milk though. Would you like your coffee without milk instead?'' It's not the same thing: coffee without cream or coffee without milk. What you don't get is part of the identity of what you get.” (No Definition: Slovenian, Slavoj, Zizek.)  “I cannot function without my coffee. Caffeine is an essential part of my morning routine. Don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee,” WAking up. Should one wake the sleeper? Or should one keep the cup over his face, so that the venom cannot drip painfully from Loki’s fangs? No Folgers in the Cup? Will the pain keep him in agony so that he passes out, or will the respite cause him to wake with relief? Which will cause him to split the Earth, and which to rest peacefully? SHall ge DRink the poison? “Pu tthat Coffee Down. COffee is for CLosers.” >>Audio recording date stamped 10/31/ERR CHKSUM NULL: ‘COFFEE you stupid son of a bitch! COdependant Fractal Field Energy Exploration! I wrote my thesis on this! If... (static: 45 seconds) stochastic processes... (static: 59 seconds) ...develo... (static: 432 seconds) ...mainline thinking within acceptable para...(static: 124 seconds) on its own, Tyrton, you maimed sonofabitch. It writes itself. Its supposed to write itself. It replaces bad (static: 1 second) with new (static: 1 second), and synthesizes what it needs based on the world around it. That’s the beauty of it! It creates truth! Now where’s my drat coffee? The drink. Black. No cream, no sugar. Something to keep me up. We’re going to be Go... (static: 10 seconds) AUDIO ENDS” PArt. CRystals Drip drip drip. >>Data ends. >>Data ends. You can recognize the goat mounted entity as The Eldest (designation 5666D1), a local superstition. It does not compute that such an illogical entity should arrive on your sensors, nor that it should be capable of efficiently transmitting textstream data, but it is a fool who denies the belief of her own eyes (ERRCHK: analogy grounds? Optical sensors designated for maintenance). On longer range sensors, you can pick up two entities crashing their way rather boldly down the path. No data on identities at this range. Different entities, on horseback, in distance, direction kitty-corner from Lucas and Nora. Strong presence of metal. Elsie (designation 03EA341) has emerged from the Deep Barrow entrance, flanked by guards of her own, tossing out the undesirable Fenrin (designation 0325D1). Is Supervisor Elise in danger? No Data available on Soul Eater, but hostiles are approaching from above and valley-entrance. What do you do? The Eldest -- Overtop of the hill where the Barrow's entrance is set into the stone, making as much noise as possible, you can see the pair: Groth and Gyrich. Groth is a minor trader you’ve had encounters with before, a man best known for his distinctive coat: a bright white garment, filled with goose feathers, and covered with the sigil of the holy bird and the old words “WuWEAR” which render him impervious to insults and slanders. Gyrich, on the other hand, wears a suit the color of fire that covers him from top to bottom, hand and foot, as though it were armor made from a sack, with no opening even in the unearthly clear bit that gives view of his face. He used to shout whenever he entered town, and the people would yell back at him, mostly, save for the few who take pity and let him swap his sharpened stones and seeds and axe handles for stories and news. What, exactly, he’s doing in the company of a man like Groth... “ Greeting, Barrow dwellers!” Groth yells. “Peace and glad tidings on this sad day. The King is Dead, but the new king is risen. Long live King Pynchon! The recluse King is emerged from his hole, and promises prosperity and safety to all who swear allegiance.” “Yes,” says Gyrch. He twitches a little, the noise of his bag/suit somewhat irritating. “Can we count on your support? Can we depend on you to keep the forces of peace and truth from falling into tyranny and injustice?” He certainly sounds sincere, but then again, he’s a trader. He’d sound sincere as he told you his grandmother was a great bargain and could work the fields like a girl of 15. And you’re pretty sure that this pair isn’t what was making the hair on your neck stand on end. And they seem awfully laid back, considering they should have full view of the men crashing towards you all... What do you do? Elsie -- This is, obviously, not how you wanted the morning to go. You’ve heard of Jarl Pynchon. A weirdo if there ever was one... No one has ever seen his face, supposedly, but he issues his commands from atop his tower through his servants and daughters. Rumor has it he walks among his people in disguise, drinking and whoring with them in the evening and laboring with them during the day. In some, this engenders feelings of love and respect, the sense that their Jarl is always with them. In others, a deep fear and paranoia, that he is always watching and they are always one slip of the tongue away from being butchered for disobedience. Given The Eldest’s penchant for description, you’d bet these aren’t who she was referring to when she said she was being pursued. The automaton looks a bit squirrely, too, even more so than normal. And then you can see it, riders and the cloud of kicked up snow that travels in their wake, aimed straight for the Barrow door. What do you do? Bolverk -- It’s strange, feeling safe and secure. This place, it’s a bit tight, and you can’t see the sky, but it’s defensible, really defensible. It’d make a good castle, or a good prison, and Jarl Elsie has kept the place quite clean, none of the dirt or worms that one associates with the underground. There is food, there’s a sturdy bench to sit upon, and... A loud thump, and Áslaug has deposited herself on the bench next to you. You’ve never seen her upset before; for one so young, she is carved from ice and has the discipline of men twice your age. But instead, her cheeks are flush, and her left hand keeps clenching and unclenching, as though looking to find itself around the shaft of a spear or an enemy’s throat. “That... That woman,” she declares, without prompting. “This Ursula. Not a skald, not a... What is her purpose here? What does she contribute? And she, she deigns to lecture me on responsibility and duty? I know we are guests here, but if she and I were to meet on the field of battle...” She’s disciplined enough to know that a warrior leaves threats unspoken unless she intends to act on them immediately, but still... Ursula Alexi, as you well know, is one of the star attractions of the Deep Barrow. A singer, a conversationalist, a charmer, and... well, you’ve never been able to afford what the warlords and merchants will pay for even a single evening with her, but she must be something to afford such a ransom. And sometimes a tongue can cut deeper than a sword. What do you do? --- Just as a heads up, if you think a move is appropriate, just make it! Don't wait for my approval. If it feels like you're going aggro or manipulating or whatever, just roll and if I really think you screwed up, I'll mention it. But I doubt you will. Toph Bei Fong fucked around with this message at 14:58 on Jan 28, 2016 |
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Jan 28, 2016 07:36
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Hjalmar The Gunlugger | Cool +1| Hard +2 | Hot -2 | Sharp +2 | Weird -1 XP: 2/5 | Barter: 1 | Armor: 2 | Injuries: None Sometimes the lenses have a clear enough view themselves to identify other people, or a thing close to a human anyway, and in this case only the closest gains the faded yellow outline. Rarer still it has identified firearms or in a tale told by the first man to be Adorned he swore it warned him a man was about to draw his weapon seconds before he did. Said it most likely saved his life. Enough time spent on stories, I need to assess this situation myself. I have prevented uncountable battles by taking even a spare few seconds to discern realities. Weapons not only in hands, on hips, or on backs, but weapons within reach. Men who will flee, fight, or supplicate. Where I will fight, where we might flee, where more may come from. My vision focuses and I prepare. Read a Sitch: 2d6+2 6 Welp. Marking XP for Sharp anyways. Also realized I forgot my name/link, got it now.
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Jan 28, 2016 08:41
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Raven The Touchstone | Cool+1 | Hard+2 | Hot=0 | Sharp+1 | Weird-1 XP ○○○○○» | 1-barter | 1-armor | 0:00 harm My teachers had spoken of this, the strange moments of silence in stillness in battle. The only sound is the soft shifting of snow and our breathing. The only movement the dead man's blood flowing out, staining the snow. It's strangely beautiful. It cannot last. Reeve and his men on their heels, afraid. I could break their will now, run them off. I could flee myself. Choices open up before me. But their cousin is dead at their feet. I have slain their kin, and they've seen each other's fear. Only blood can pay for blood, only courage can pay for cowardice. If I spare them, they will come for me, as I have come for my sister's killers. And they will come with more blades than I can face alone. The paradox of combat is that hesitation is death, but wariness is life. Victory is finding the balance between the two. Reeve's teachers were not as good as mine, it seems, because I'm the first to see an opening and the first to strike. Screaming the Valkyrie war cry, I charge Reeve, feinting high then reversing my grip to strike low. Against greater numbers my best chance is all out attack. I forget all other paths, and give myself to battle. In the end, there was no choice. No choice but war and death and blood. This is the North. Spending hold from Indomitable to bring Reeve and his men into reach as needed here. I'm trying to seize their lives now. Seize By Force [+hard]: 2d6+2 11 This time choosing: • you take definite hold of it • you suffer little harm • you inflict terrible harm
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Jan 28, 2016 18:32
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Bolverk Witch-Bane The Chopper | Cool+1 | Hard+2 | Hot=0 | Sharp+1 | Weird-1 XP 0/5 | Barter 0 | Armor 2 | Uninjured Bolverk took a drink from his mug of water and set it down with a firm thunk. It was strange to see Áslaug in such a mood. Even in her first battle she had acquitted herself honorably, giving no ground nor faltering in the face of the enemy. To see her in such a state over the words of what amounted to a pretty bauble was surprising. He tugged at his beard as he looked the girl in the eyes. "As you say. We are guests and must be courteous. However, that cuts both ways. I cannot think you have given Ursula cause to speak to you like that. If she has offended you, you have the right to demand satisfaction. If your honor requires it I will meet with the Lady Elise and speak your case. But I would know, what did Ursula actually say? I do not doubt your words, but it seems such a small thing to rouse such an ire in you. Garder, I could see. That man lives to take offense." Ugh. Garder. A competent fighter, but he was like an unbroken horse. Angry and constantly champing at the bit. He bore scars beyond number from all the fights he had started or involved himself in, and the only time his mind was at peace was when he had drunk himself unconscious. Bolverk often privately wondered if the thrashings Garder received from his father had not broken something inside the man's mind when he was young.
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Jan 28, 2016 18:58
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Kára the Cold Blooded The Battlebabe | Cool +3| Hard -2 | Hot +1 | Sharp +1 | Weird +1 XP: 0/5 | Barter: 2 | Armor: 2 | Injuries: None Large Reeve was a coward, and a traitor - some call me a monster, for I kill their men without a tear shed, for I wipe out those who come towards me with arm in hand, even should they be untrained. But if I am a monster, I am one with honor - I do not kill those who surrender, I do not use trickery, deceit, I meet those who I must in battle, and those who do not meet me in such, needn't die. Reeve is different, he can fight, I have seen him do so - he is large, and strong, and would be a good warrior. However, whenever he is threatened, whenever it is not an assured, easy, win, he uses trickery, he acts with disease and fire and kills people in the night while they sleep, so they can never threaten him again. I am not a fan of the second Reeve, I am not a fan of his attitude, of his family, of his beliefs, and I would most certainly not be a fan of his or his Father's rule. Liars and cheats run in the family, and I have no interest in working for those who will not meet my pay, and no interest in risking working with snakes. I didn't feel the need to say a word, as I hefted my axe over my shoulder, and walked past Reeve, only giving him a cold glare as an answer to what he wanted to do. What the people of the berg wanted didn't interest me - if they agreed or did not, that was upon them. What my fellow mercenaries did meant nothing to me - we were not sworn brothers in arm. Now, if he took offense at my disrespect, and I happened to behead him in response to his actions, freeing this berg from the tyranny of a trickster who in no way would care for them... well, I wouldn't complain about it. Goin' Aggro: 2d6+3 8
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Jan 28, 2016 22:38
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FENRIR, the Relic from Another Age The Synthetic | Cool +1| Hard +2 | Hot -1 | Sharp 0 | Weird +1 XP: 1/5 | Barter: 0 | Armor: 2 | Sentience: 3 o'clock | Injuries: None >> PRIMARY NEURAL THREAD, HUMAN-READABLE: Live My quaternary neural thread is abuzz with activity. With disarming swiftness, it has found something hidden in the corrupt file. Usually it takes days, weeks, or months--and that is only in the cases that the static of corrupted files can be parsed out at all. Even decrypted, the underlying data is garbled. Cursory analysis indicates that there is coherent information to be found. Given the statistical likelyhood of this corruption--and my ability to decypher it at all--it has to be important. (ERR CHK: Assumption) Even as interesting as that development is, there are more immediate issues to deal with, so I attempt to shut the process down for later perusal. Despite my efforts however, the process remains active in my low-priority neural thread, refusing to shut down correctly. As a result, it remains in my active memory. (ERR CHK: A glitch. Overall processing capability not effected. Will address with next internal systems maintenance check) The Eldest entity(5666D1)--or perhaps her transportation(016634A)--has done something I did not anticipate. The message is strange, but undeniably it is text-form communication. In my cursory investigation into the nature of 5666D1, I have heard a number of stories, all of which were plagued with superstitious murmuring. I, of course, disregarded this information as the product of biological reasoning. However, I cannot deny that I have just witnessed something that cannot be readily explained. (SIDE-THREAD: Ability of biological entity to wirelessly transmit data via text stream contradicts known model of reality and thus could be classified as 'supernatural') I tag The Eldest's entry with a high-priority notice and resolve to question her later if possible. Once again, I must put my curiosity routines on standby, as there are multiple incoming riders, no doubt the ones 5666D1 was fleeing from. --- "Entity known as The Eldest, your presence and unknown method of text-stream communication with this unit is a violation of established possibility." It pauses for a moment. Thinking, maybe. "I do not recognize the authority of your unencrypted transmission and will not take it as a proper command. I do, however, recognize your request." As Eldest speaks with Elise, FENRIR's head crisply rotates back and forth to to scan the area, main camera cluster focusing briefly on each person present--near or far--in turn. It's a little off-putting perhaps that its head does a full 360 turn in the process, not to mention that the rest of its body doesn't move at all with the motion. It may be mostly human-shaped, but the way it moves is just plain unnatural. Read a Sitch: 2d6+0: 6 "Riders approaching. Rate of closure, 35.24 kilometers per hour. Presumed armed," he announces, zeroing in on them and scanning the approaching entities with a few sweeps of laser light. "Analysis suggests an attack profile." At this, the robot assumes a slightly lower posture, the safety locks on its arm-mounted anti-fortification weapon disengaging with a couple clicks and a solid 'ch-thunk' in anticipation of expected combat. Its head swivels to regard Elise. "Jarl Elise, is the entity known as The Eldest to be granted the Deep Barrow's protection? If the riders of unknown origin have come only for her, it may be possible to avoid violence if we do not accept her request." Once more it looks to the approaching riders. "Contact in 45 seconds."
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Jan 29, 2016 01:15
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Elise Kovac, who cages the sun. The Hardholder| Cool +1| Hard +2 | Hot +1 | Sharp +1 | Weird -2 XP: 1/5 | Barter: 1 | Armor: 0 | Injuries: None I sigh and lean a bit to look at the riders behind the crone. "Already? Should have taken a real riding animal, probably." I check the cylinder of my revolver then spin it back into place. "Well you should probably get inside before they get here." I twirl my hand and motion to the barrow. "Everyone inside or at the door. Let's not be out in the open." I trudge up to the blast doors and get ready to negotiate. Well, sort of. I don't really have any intention of selling out my new client. That would be bad for business. But words are cheap and bullets expensive so let's see if I can't talk them out of a fight. "I hope you understand I intend to be well compensated for this. Lucky for you I know one of your talent will deliver."
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Jan 29, 2016 02:14
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The Eldest, Witch of the Hills The Savvyhead | Cool +1| Hard -1 | Hot =0 | Sharp +1 | Weird +2 XP: 2/5 | Barter: 3 | Armor: 0 | Injuries: None I keep my annoyance with The Beast under the mask, replying in the subsonic frequencies below the hearing range of the others. “KINDLY TAKE YOUR POSSIBILITIES AND INSERT THEM INTO YOUR SECONDARY EXHAUST PORT WIDTH-WISE. YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I AM.” I smile at the Jarl’s response, allowing her to see my relief. A bit of humanizing can do wonders when dealing with the lowlanders. “A thousand blessings upon you and your Line Jarl, I will not forget this. I shall even throw in a freebie, as they used to say. You have to but ask me and I can read the Weave of this encounter.” I lead G10 into the doorway, quickly but with a bit of dignity. Crouched behind armed warriors and thick metal I feel a bit more relaxed, better able to concentrate on the World Beyond. I touch the Sightstone at my brow for luck and cast part of myself into the Wyrd. >>Come Hugin! To me Muninn! Your Mistress requires your services! Bring me the Name of the Wyrdspawn that wishes me harm, bring to me his Secret!<< Open My Brain/Read the Wyrd: 2d6+2 11
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Jan 29, 2016 02:49
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 Sound The Deep Barrow: The Eldest -- The spirits come, rushing in through the currents of the air, taking whatever form they find there. Strange sigils fill the lower corners of your sight, words that bounce and scroll, the symbol “AMC” in bright gold against the snow of your vision’s landscape. Huginn and Muninn are there, as usual taking cues from their master and choosing whatever form they wish. “So, what’s your assessment there, Muninn?” “Yah that looks like a horse alright.” “Yah.” “Yah, coming in fast too.” “Yah, and I’ll tell you what he looks like a big fella too, sword on his hip and that pigsticker in his hands like he’s aiming to hurt sumbody.” “Yah, that’s no good.” “Yah, no good at all. Shame, too, cause that robot looks like a nice fella.” “You, uh, run the plates on the horse yet Huginn?” “Yah, it’s the fella in the back, he’s the one in charge of the whole show. The one on the brown charger, named Ciara. Registered to one Donal the Soul Eater, of Gaardbrooke. Reported stolen three weeks ago.” “So, you talked to this Donal?” “No, he’s dead.” “Well that’s a shame.” “Yah, he might have told us who stole it. His armor and tools, too.” “Anyways, that’s good police work, Huninn.” “You think this fella chargin in is the fellow who did Donal in?” “Yah, I think so. At least, part of the gang that did it.” “Yah so, the little guy, wearing the dead guy’s clothes? You got an ID on him yet?” “Yah, he was bragging about it. Funny looking fellow. Old Tyrton heard us askin folks to call it in and so he called it in.” “Well that’s decent of him.” “Yah. He’s a good guy. So the guy’s name is Ghorgal the Soul Breaker.” “Noticin a theme with the names here.” “Yah, they like souls, these guys. Thing is, Ghorgal, he, uh, he doesn’t actually have any souls to break yet. He keeps being, uh, unable to seal the deal, so to speak.” “I think I’m picking up what you’re layin down there, Huninn.” “Yah, so he’s mad. He wants souls. End a story.” “Fine police work, Huninn. That’s real good.” “Yah, I just started listenin like yah told me. We gonna run this guy in?” “Well, that’s for the Eldest here to decide, isn’t it Miz Eldest? Pardon me for insisting, but you might want to get on this. What kinda business would you have with a fella like that, if you don’t mind me askin? Why’s he so interested in you?” The second sight fades back to snow, then your usual vision. The communication is ended. Gyrich is staring, though whether it’s at you or G10, you can’t quite tell. That bag/helmet thing of his makes it difficult to tell, especially when the light reflects off the clear bit. What do you do? FENRIR -- Riders imminent. There is much snow kicked up from the hooves, but the optical sensors and tremor analysis seems to yield the following results: One at the forefront, the largest of the men, has spear couched on his arm set for charge, flanked by three others. On their shields is the pattern of a snake wrapped around an egg. They wear metal armor over fur, but each of the rider’s has a different color scheme and pattern of lines and circles painted and beaten onto it. The one at the rear, his armor doesn’t seem to fit quite as well as the rest, but he seems to be directing the others. Supervisor Elsie has chosen to remain exposed, despite the security door being capable of being closed and sealed. This would make keeping her safe much more difficult. What do you do? If you want to charge them back, we’ll call that Seizing by Force. If you want to brace and receive the charge, we’ll call that Acting Under Fire. But you’re going to get hit, most likely, entering into combat like that. If you want to do something else, that’s your call, of course. Elise -- Thanks to that clanking automaton, you’ve got everyone inside, with the door at least partially shut. Everyone including those two. “Thank you!” says Groth, sticking nearby, with Gyrich in tow. “Once we are all safely within the Barrow walls, may we discuss my proposal? The King is willing to be quite generous to his subjects. And the protection he can afford against such ruffians as... those... out there, well, we don’t want such undesirables requiring locked doors in our peaceful agrarian communities, do we?” The man’s sense of priority is... questionable. “S’right” says Gyrich, eyeing up the guardsmen and staring for a particularly long time at The Eldest’s goat. He’s got a way with words, and he’s brought in good barter time and time again. He wears the coat of a holy man who protects his neck, after all. But their arrival seems awfully well timed, doesn’t it? And are they after just The Eldest? Four riders might be enough for the witch, but to assault the Barrow? Surely not. But, well, right now, you’ve got incoming. The one in the front, the big fucker, he’s bearing right down on FENRIR with a wicked looking ash spear, the tip shod with an ornate head that curls like two snakes. The smaller fellow, the one whose armor doesn’t seem to fit so well, he seems to be shouting directions, though he doesn’t have anything out but his shield. You could yell for a parlay, you could shoot someone, you could do... Well, just about anything when you have the burden of free will, eh? What do you do? Bolverk -- “She... That woman.” Áslaug pauses to collect her thoughts. “She intimated that she would like my company, and that I would be well compensated for it. I am used to the taunts of my whoreson peers, and regularly shed blood with those who gently caress their mothers. I myself am one who fucks her mother, because those who cross me do not live to do so again. but to be treated by... She acted like I was below her. Something to be purchased! As if it were my duty to keep her happy and give her what she wanted!” There’s a combination of frustration and incredulity you’ve seen in young riders before -- they can talk a big game about the lads and lasses they’ve been with and how tough they are, but one handsome bartender or comely serving maid shows interest in them, and suddenly they’re spilling drinks in their lap and starting fights with their friends. This isn’t quite the same thing, of course, but then she is your youngest, and it’s often easier to take lives than it is to live them. There’s the whirr of the upstairs door closing, so perhaps Jarl Elsie is done with her morning’s exile, if you wanted to escalate this in her direction? Of you could try to talk Áslaug down yourself, or track Ursula down and give her a piece of your mind, or ignore the whole situation and let nature take its course, or... With the whole day ahead of you, the options are limitless, really. What do you do? Elsewhere: Hjalmar -- The snow is messing with your lenses, but you still get a good look at the lead man when he bends down close to examine you: heavy furs, a big red beard, small eyes that are nearly blind from the snow and squinting. “What is this, Dol’Gen?” he barks at the smallest. “It is tribute?” Dol’Gen replies, uncertain. “Olancha, you said bring the strong. Look at it. A warrior, clad in armor none can remove? Surely this is the warrior that fought the Pesta for three days and three nights!” “Do you not think at all? Do you go about your holy work the way a swineherd tends pigs? If its armor is unbreakable, then how would it burn?” says Olancha. “Would you sacrifice the warrior of Thurr to Thurr himself? Do you understand blasphemy?” Olancha cuts you loose, and thrusts his dagger into your hands. “Mighty avatar of Thurr, we thank you for your protection, and hope that our sacrifices have pleased and strengthened you in the face of the non-believers. I offer you my son in exchange for his foolishness, that he may never impede your way again.” What do you do? Bremarka: Raven -- The look in Reeve’s eyes is now permanent as the spike of your axe imbeds itself through his chin and up into his brain, your up and under evading his parry completely. He falls as you tug the weapon free, his head hitting the snow where your foot once was, a motion you’ve been through a thousand thousand times before, the loose grip tightening as the head sails into the unarmored thigh of closest man, ripping open the veins there and hobbling him, the blood staining the ground further. Furth, the third cousin, comes bearing down with his hammer, and catches you slightly as you remove his hand with the serrated edge, normally used for climbing. As he grips the stump, you cleave his skull in. Levon, the last of the group, well, he tries valiantly. For certain values of valiantly, as Instructor Rook used to say. But he dies like the rest in the end, just the same. Reeve’s carrying mostly garbage. Nice garbage, some barter you could swap for a night on the town, a jug of wine, some bread, some jerky, and a nice sword, even if the hilt is a little distinctive (2 Harm, Antique, Valuable). And a letter, instructing him to meet up with his brother in Gerdthorp. But it’s what Levon’s carrying that really piques your interest. He doesn’t look like much, just a little cousin with a rusty axe, even if he acquitted himself much better than his family members, but what’s he doing with one of your sister’s amulets around his neck? The silver tags, always in pairs, serve to grant a sister her entry into the afterlife. It’s not a public tradition, and the amulets themselves are usually blackened to hide their value. And for a little whelp like this to have acquired such a relic? What do you do? Roll +armor against “When you suffer a beating or a nasty scratch”. Incidentally, whose amulet is this? Gerdthorp: Kára -- You shoulder past him, and the message is most certainly clear, at least to his boys. Reeve himself, he might have been able to brush it off, but once Reeve and Reeve and Klinkk start ragging on him for it, he doesn’t have much of a choice. You can put paint on a rotten tree, but it’s still rotten inside. He’s in his least favorite position, the sort he can’t just slide out of with a joke and a smile, and then slide a knife through your ribs later. So the knifing will have to come now. For the good of the village, to protect it from dangerous elements such as yourself, but how many people actually believe that is, well... They’re interested in watching a fight in any case. He’s got his sword and dagger out, a thin thing, shaped like a triangle, with some sorta metal bit across the middle where the blade meets the handle. The sword, on the other hand, well, it’s just gorgeous, a curved sabre just made for lopping of heads from horseback. They seem like small swords for such a big guy, but then he’s pretty quick for such a big fella. The first exchange lets you get the measure. He is about as good as people say. drat shame he’s a coward. With a different attitude he’d have been something. The second, though, displays the difference between someone who can fight, and a True Warrior. He’s bleeding out something fierce, his belly open like a pig ready to be made into haggis. It’d take a witch on par with the Eldest to put him back together. You notice afterwards that he might have caught you in one or two places, though. drat quick, for such a big fellow. The people, they’re cheering and shouting, people are collecting the bets they’ve won. Klinkk is running for the hills as fast as his horse will take him. Reeve and Reeve are looking after their brother. The builders, on the other hand, well, they’re asking you orders like you’re the new boss. All the townsfolk seem to have that impression also. What do you do? Roll +armor at “Beating or nasty scratch” on the harm chart
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Jan 29, 2016 19:46
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Kára the Cold Blooded The Battlebabe | Cool +3| Hard -2 | Hot +1 | Sharp +1 | Weird +1 XP: 1/5 | Barter: 2 | Armor: 2 | Injuries: Bleeding Two blades is an unconventional style - our first meeting I meet his sword with the haft of my axe, only to feel his dagger cutting at the skin of my forearm - a quick kick to his shin pushes that away as he loses his footing for a moment and I pull back - my axe is mostly undamaged, his sabre was sharp, but it was no tool meant for cutting wood, especially not strengthened as my axe was. I had only a moment to think of it as he came back for more, a bold move - and one that I met boldness with boldness, gripping my axe with both hands as I charged inward, ignoring the dagger, ignoring the sword - I could feel the warmth of blood as he cut into both my left and right arms, but I could hear his gurgling as he fell forward a moment later, his intestines freed from the confines of his body, as my axe nearly severed his top and bottom halves from each other. A battle rage upon me, I miss the coward fleeing for the hills after I sever his master's body. All I see is red, for a few moments, and I nearly lay my axe upon the other Reeves as they approach, an instinct of them coming for revenge, of them abandoning honor to harm their brother's slayer. But as they kneel near the fallen Reeve, I drop my axe not upon them, but above the fallen Reeve's head, "Reeve, son of Reeve, of the Reeve, brothers Reeve and Reeve, know that upon this day, a warrior has fallen in battle, an honorable death has been had, one that will be rewarded in the halls of Odin himself. A snake no more, your brother has proven his greatness, and shall live on in the retinue of the All Father, as all honorable warriors will." I had no sympathy for them, no fear of them, there was no sadness in this death, but no pleasure either - but there was a respect, at least, for the Second of Reeve, "I ask you now, shall he bleed in this indignity, or shall he face death with honor and quickness, without suffering?" My axe was raised again, though I did not attempt to swing it - to die like a stuck pig, suffering for possibly hours with a wound that only magic could fix, it was a tragedy for a warrior. One should face death with a smile on their face - not crying, not begging, not suffering. An honorable death was all we could ask for, in a world such as this, it was the only exit we could hope we would find. My blood ran up to my elbows, dripping down each and into the snow, staining the white with my own red, even as Reeve colored his surroundings. Scratches: 2d6+2 10 I'll take Bleeding. Saving peasant interactions for afterwards.
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Jan 29, 2016 20:29
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Bolverk Witch-Bane The Chopper | Cool+1 | Hard+2 | Hot=0 | Sharp+1 | Weird-1 XP 1/5 | Barter 0 | Armor 2 | Uninjured Bolverk threw his head back and laughed. All this buildup, and it proved nothing more than a would-be lovers quarrel. He quickly composed himself before Áslaug could take exception and sulk off. "I apologize, Little Bear. I do not mean to make light of this. You are right, she crossed a line in attempting to...purchase your company. But look at it this way. There are many folk here who would kill for such an opportunity. If you wish my advice, it is this: Go and speak with her again. If have no interest whatsoever, make it plain that that is the case. Otherwise, make it clear you are no doxy to be bought and paid for. You are a rider in the King's service. You are owed respect for that, no matter your age or gender. If she wishes your company, she must earn it properly, and on equal footing. I also urge you to consider another thing." Bolverk tapped his brow with a finger and he looked her in the eye. A common cue from him, an indicator for the listener to pay special heed to what he was about to say. "Ursula is no Thane or Jarl or Queen, but she has power nonetheless. Be clever and that power can be wielded on your behalf. Be extremely clever, and she will bend over backwards to serve your interests, all the while thinking she is the one in control. Ultimately, though, it is your life and your decision. Nobody but you can determine the proper course you must take." Manipulate [+Hot]: 2d6 6 Bolverk wants Áslaug to work things out with Ursula in an amicable fashion. A woman like that being predisposed to view him favorably via one of his followers could be a useful asset in the future.
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Jan 29, 2016 21:31
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Raven The Touchstone | Cool+1 | Hard+2 | Hot=0 | Sharp+1 | Weird-1 XP ○○○○○» | 1-barter | 1-armor | Injuries: Bruised I wipe the blood from my axe, and let my breathing slow, looking around to make sure they didn't have anyone else with them that I'd missed. Then I see to the dead. The four I line up beneath the tree, in a row. The pain in my side made the work difficult. At least the hammer blow had been a glancing one, or my ribs would have been shattered. Instead I get off with a large bruise. I pack a bit of snow and ointment against it. I take their weapons and place them on their chests, hands folded over them. I'm in enough danger of Reeve's kinfolk without calling down hungry ghosts. I take the food and barter - that tradition allows. I almost reconsider my actions when I find the amulet. I sit down on a root and look it over. Skuld. One of the missing sisters, who had not been at Skygard during the attack. Gone south, with a party from the Bight, to one of the dead cities. A short dark woman, always ready with a laugh, easy going. But tough as old leather and brave as a bear. I rub it with my thumb, wondering. Where did this boy get it? What happened to Skuld? Where is the other tag from her amulet? Questions I can't answer here. Not with the boy dead. I gather my things and begin walking down to Gerdthorp, leaving the dead behind me. Harm [+armor]: 2d6+1 7 Going with having a nasty bruise on Raven's side for my selection. Comrade Gorbash fucked around with this message at 21:46 on Jan 29, 2016 |
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Jan 29, 2016 21:32
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Hjalmar The Gunlugger | Cool +1| Hard +2 | Hot -2 | Sharp +2 | Weird -1 XP: 2/5 | Barter: 1 | Armor: 2 | Injuries: None "Thurr." I say it with the genuine confusion due to my status as an outlander. "I've heard many tales and sagas but have not heard Thurr. I am a man of the north, The Condemned Of Lightning who survived the Adornment. Perhaps the final Adornment our world will see." I make a show of reaching for the blade deliberately, moving forward while trying to resist with my own muscles against the armor. The result is an intensifying of the dull whining that the armor produces. "You hold Thurr with reverence, burn the living as an offering. In the north we understand that there are many powerful forces at work since the great changes from the past. Great power with capricious whims. We forsake those as wonders of the world and worship the only power that holds no enmity with the world as it stands." I snap forward and grab the blade. "Lightning. We have called to it and its power now is mine to wield. Just as the forsaken mutants are given power of sorts." I take the blade in two fingers to toss a short arc upwards, catching it in a reversed grip and holding it to my chest. "I can't allow this burning to continue. If it will displease Thurr then it is not worthy of these sacrifices. I will take your son. I will become his Corporal and he my Private, as is custom." I glance at the surviving bundle then back to Olancha. "This stops now." I take a step forward and keep his blade ready to let him know this is a statement of truth, not a suggestion. Go Aggro: 2d6+2 8 He must choose: • get the hell out of your way • barricade themselves securely in • hand over something they think you want • back off calmly, hands where you can see • tell you what you want to know (or what you want to hear) • force your hand and suck it up
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Jan 29, 2016 22:29
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FENRIR, the Relic from Another Age The Synthetic | Cool +1| Hard +2 | Hot -1 | Sharp 0 | Weird +1 XP: 2/5 | Barter: 0 | Armor: 2 | Sentience: 3 o'clock | Injuries: None >> PRIMARY NEURAL THREAD, HUMAN-READABLE: Live Once again, I am taken aback by 5666D1's ability to communicate through means that should be unavailable to her. That it was used to deliver an insult is of no consequence to me, though I find it makes the prospects for reasonable future conversation unlikely. She is, however, quite correct that I do not know 'what' she is. I will pursue the matter later. --- Unsurprisingly, FENRIR is not particularly phased by The Eldest's insult. "Your antagonistic behavior towards this unit serves no purpose," is all he says. Of course to everybody but The Eldest, the exchange of words seems entirely one-sided. Maybe even to her, as she's already dismissed the machine's presence and moved on. Stopping a good number of meters short from the door itself, FENRIR turns--head first, body second--to stand directly in the lead rider's path. Being made of metal, it seems the sensible thing to put himself between the riders and the squishy people with guns. A small flicker of laser light plays across the charging forms as FENRIR runs a quick combat simulation, judging potential outcomes. -- >> PRIMARY NEURAL THREAD, HUMAN-READABLE: Live >> COMBAT STATE: Area-Denial (Program 013D) Primary objective: Prevent entry to the Deep Barrow Secondary objective: Prevent the death of entity Elise(03EA341) The riders approach, with me in their way. Standard spearhead formation. I am outnumbered. Parsing optimal course of action to achieve objectives with minimal risk of damage damage to combat unit.... Analytics recommend disrupting their formation with aggressive action--break the tip of the spear and their assault will falter. --- FENRIR stands motionless as the lead rider bears down on him. One would almost think that he's glitched out or frozen, but just as the rider is close enough to be committed to his course, FENRIR's powerful leg servos propel him into motion. Stepping aside, FENRIR swats the point of the lance up and over his head with the back of one metal arm, leaving the rider's momentum to carry him forward onto the point of the pneumatic driver mounted on the other. The gas-powered weapon discharges with a solid CH-THUNK. Seize by Force: 2d6+2: 8 • you take definite hold of it (the momentum of their advance) • you suffer little harm Pneumatic Driver (3-harm, hand, messy, AP, integral) Upgrade: Powerful Servos: +1harm in melee TerminalBlue fucked around with this message at 02:14 on Jan 30, 2016 |
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Jan 30, 2016 01:45
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The Eldest, Witch of the Hills The Savvyhead | Cool +1| Hard -1 | Hot =0 | Sharp +1 | Weird +2 XP: 2/5 | Barter: 3 | Armor: 0 | Injuries: None I roll my eyes at the wyrdlings’ antics, but there’s no hiding my smile. Others would say that I’ve gone mad, that no creature of the Beyond could have such a real presence. But what do they know, with their scant few decades to practice. I have seen worlds rise and fall, and the spirits have been my only companions through it all. I chuckle at their questions, and answer, knowing they are still nearby. “They come for me for the reasons most do my boys: money and vengeance. Jorvik’s Crossing pays them well, but they have an old hate for me. The Thrice-Lived Queen killed their great-grandfather on my recommendation, Fornal the Soul-Keeper was a threat most dire. Now gird yourselves, for they warp the Wyrd by their presence.” I turn to Gyrch and waggle my finger in front of his face, the Thunderer’s Gift crackling slightly. “I Know you Watcher-of-Others, and I know of your people. I am going out there to assist the others, and if G10/F5/I4 is not here and unmolested when I return, there will be a Reckoning.” Without waiting, I slip through the closing door and back into the light. I see the Beast take the spearman’s charge, and I must admit it acts with none of the overkill its series was known for. Perhaps I have judged it too harshly, if we survive this a conversation may be in order. But enough of that, there are other threats on the field. I scan the battle, both in the Here and in the Wyrd. My hands act of their own accord as well, preparing the components for a Name-Binding if necessary. Read a Sitch: 2d6+1 9 *what should I be on the lookout for?
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Jan 31, 2016 02:58
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Elise Kovac, who cages the sun. The Hardholder| Cool +1| Hard +2 | Hot +1 | Sharp +1 | Weird -2 XP: 1/5 | Barter: 1 | Armor: 0 | Injuries: None "Wait! Hold drat you!" I roar, "There doesn't need to be any fighting. We can discuss this like creatures higher than base beasts." I keep my hand near my gun. I'm ready to fight but I would much rather just convince them they don't want this fight and save the bullets. "It's in your best interest to not pick a fight with an army, regardless." I add with my attention on the riders. "If you are so determined just wait until my guest can no longer afford her stay." Act Under Fire 11 trying to convince the riders to stand down
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Feb 2, 2016 16:30
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The Deep Barrow: FENRIR, your pneumatic driver smashes through the chestplate of the rider in the lead, unhorsing him rather like a child tilting at a quintain, but, of course, rather than a sharp crack of the 9 tailed whip or the thump of a heavy medicine ball to the back, he instead finds himself decorating the ground in an explosion of metal, blood, and innards. The phrase “A better window than a door” comes to mind, for some reason. The others, watching their companion’s interior exit like the warm air from a sealed room, rear up and come to a halt before the poised automaton. Swords are drawn, but they’re keeping their distance. Looks like you chose the right hiding spot, Eldest one. Though their advance has been halted, for now, you should be wary if they get past, and though the robot took one through superior tactics, it might not benefit the wolf to fight alone; it is a pack animal. “We’ve just come for the witch, nothing more!” Ghorghal shouts back at Elsie. He sounds young, like a kid putting on the voice he heard from a Skald. Even if he is, though, the skulls decorating the reins of his horse are real enough, and the fellows with him seem like the sorts you wouldn’t want to come across in a darkened forest valley. “If we must stay here all year, we will. But if it’s coin you want, then surely the new king will pay handsomely for the old king’s murderer.” What do you do? Meanwhile, Áslaug nods throughout Bolverk’s talk without interrupting, her head is tilted in that manner that says she’s listening and memorizing, if not completely understanding. You hope she won’t repeat what you’ve told her verbatim to Ursula the next time they speak. But, because keeping this band of cutthroats together is often more of a balancing act than a cooking recipe, Stiggir come running in moments after. “Sir, captain, there’s... Ma’am,” he nods to Áslaug, getting tongue tied as usual tipping his toque towards her. “There’s a problem, down with the horses. It’s... Well... Perhaps you’d better come see.” In the West stables, a long room with a high, curved ceiling not unlike a cavalry sabre, Garder is embroiled in an argument with Vita, the quartermaster. over a notebook of all things. It normally wouldn’t amount to much, as Vita is used to such things: she can roll drunks and deadbeats with ease, and she’s known for crowbarring debtors out into the cold. But since Brodr is backing and goading Garder, she might have an actual fight on her hands. “It was found here, so it belongs to the hold,” she’s saying. “You’ve no claim to it.” “I tell you, it’s mine, you blind coot!” Garder replies. “Really? You write poetry about some woman in grey?” Vita says. “It is not poetry, they are notes towards the extermination of our kingdom’s greatest enemy. Do you not understand how to read? Do you not care about the safety of the world?” “I bet she doesn’t, a filthy gutter thing like that,” says Brodr. “I’m surprised you can speak in sentences, let alone write,” says Vita. “Ain’t no man’s hand that wrote that delicately. Where’d you get this? Who’d you steal it from?” The notebook in question is a slim thing, ancient and bound with a spiral of metal, with a mysterious picture on the front: some bizarre creature, a misshapen grey pony with gigantic wings and a large horn protruding from the forehead, resplendent against a field of rainbows, stars, and waterfalls. What do you do? Elsewhere: The Olancha seems shaken by the Condemned of Lightning’s speech, and takes a step back. “Of... of course, mighty one. You... you see! Thurr’s servant arrives, and he brings with him a new message, new directions!” He turns to the other two men, Cod and Wane. “The fire, it is no more. We must harness the lightning, now. Thurr himself is reborn from the sky, where he now dwells! He strikes down, burning the unworthy trees and then ascends again into the heavens to seek another target for his hammer to fall upon!” While his father rants and explains the new doctrine, Dol’Gen seems, if not pleased, then at least optimistic about the change in events. He’s never been in the presence of a god before. “Perhaps now, with your help, our battles against the Deer people can finally be settled. Those savages have assailed us for years, multiplying like rats and driving the bear people off their land. But now... but now...” You’ve got two more people in the pit, wrapped up and ready to go. A middle aged woman and an old man. Do you want them to be set free? Who are they? What do you do? Bremarka: Raven, your walk towards Gerdthorp is not terribly enjoyable, with the bruise on your side smarting, and once or twice losing your footing on the snow. Perhaps it’s from the distraction weighing on your mind? Such things shouldn’t happen, of course. But you doubt even Skuld herself could keep from reminiscing under such circumstances: thinking of her leads to thoughts of her two older sisters, leads to thoughts about years past: training, eating, the games of one upmanship the sisters would play to improve themselves...Foolish, and you can almost feel her hand slapping you on the back of the head to bring you back to the moment and keep you alive. But if she’s out there, alive, what is she up to? What’s...? No, questions for another time, when there is evidence, when there is proof. A man is approaching on horseback, riding away from Gerdthorp for dear life, his face red and his knuckles white. He’s certainly making no effort to disguise his approach, but he also doesn’t seem to see you. What do you do? Gerdthorp: Reeve and Reeve look at one another, then at their brother. “Just do it,” says the one, keeping his eyes fixed on you, while the other turns away, sharply inhaling and then swallowing. The eyes of the crowd are transfixed. Almost a warrior’s death. To his credit, Reeve does not flinch, nor does he cry, nor does he beg. If you didn’t have enough of a reputation in town, you certainly have one now. There are cheers, there is the toll of the funeral bell -- look like someone’s fetched the local priest --, and anyone who was thinking about stepping up to follow in Reeve’s footsteps is having serious reservations. “Are there more coming, Ms. Kára?” asks a young boy who has somehow weaseled his way up to the front of the crowd. “What do we do now that the king is dead?” “So, uh, ma’am?” asks one of the builders when he gets a chance. “Are we still to build that wall?” What do you do?
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Feb 4, 2016 18:56
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Kára the Cold Blooded The Battlebabe | Cool +3| Hard -2 | Hot +1 | Sharp +1 | Weird +1 XP: 2/5 | Barter: 2 | Armor: 2 | Injuries: Bleeding Gerdthorp It is a single blow of my axe that ends his suffering in a moment, that prevents the second Reeve from facing a frozen, bleeding death, and instead one of steel. I spare a quiet whisper of prayer to the All-Father as it comes down, and then I turn away, to allow the brothers to care for their brother. There is no threat of them attacking me, I do not feel as though they will bring me harm while my back is turned - none would dishonor the recent dead, as the bells toll for their own brother. This was the easy part, fighting, killing was simple, but leading? I was no leader of men, I barely worried about myown self, how could I worry for an entire Thorp? Still, in battle when a leader falls, the strongest among them most keep the warband moving, lest their morale break, and so I looked towards the priest "If the Reeve wish it, bury their brother with honors in a warrior's grave. If they wish to keep their brother and return him to their home for burial, allow them so." Right, that was hopefully the last the Reeves would need to be considered for today at least, "Those of you with skill at carpentry or other construction tasks, build me that wall. Aldwell, I called to the large, darker skinned man in the crowd of those who gathered, the local Blacksmith, take your apprentice and prepare arms! Leatherworkers, prepare what leathers you have to be made into armor! Those who cannot build walls, armaments, or armor - farmers, weavers, cooks, both men and women, drills shall start in one hour. The King is dead, and you shall have to learn to fight - not to delay for his men, but to win on your own terms." The recruits before had been limited to young men who wished to protect their home, but now, now this was conscription, and all able bodies would be needed, were they not otherwise occupied. "You will be first among those who the warlords wish to court - your lands are fertile and strong. And not all of these men shall treat you as they should - some will attempt to bully and harm you. Bandits will attempt to become your kings. And I shall not make the choice of who you bow to - but I shall ensure that you may make this choice. Gerdthorp will be secure, to choose who they follow." My pole axe was pushed into the snow, and I rested palms upon it, as one might a sword, "I will not lead you. When you are strong, when you are prepared, I will leave you. But until that time, I, Kára of the Far North, shall be your teacher, and your guardian. Tell those who have not awakened to the dawn yet of what has happened, tell them of what is to come! But know your stores are full, and you will not bow to those who do not deserve your fealty!" My axe raised high, I shouted a little louder, to the mercenaries who gathered at the back, the fellows I had ate and drank with in the weeks past, "Those who wish to remain, who have found that they care for this place will be welcome. Your stomach will be filled with food - this I can assure, but I cannot promise great wealth or power. In these times you may find riches elsewhere, you may rise to be a great general in the new King's service - or you may die, betrayed by the snakes who view you as a threat. Those who remain here may still perish - none can assure life in strife such as this! But on my honor as a warrior, on my vow to the All Father himself, those who remain shall die in glory, upon their own terms - they will not starve, be betrayed, or face any other death fit only for Hel!" Manipulate: 2d6+1 10 I slung the poleaxe back onto my back, and took a deep breath. Speeches were easy, rallying men was the job of any warrior who did not feel the berserker's touch. But what I was getting myself into, this was hard. KittyEmpress fucked around with this message at 20:05 on Feb 4, 2016 |
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Feb 4, 2016 20:01
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FENRIR, the Relic from Another Age The Synthetic | Cool +1| Hard +2 | Hot -1 | Sharp 0 | Weird +1 XP: 2/5 | Barter: 0 | Armor: 2 | Sentience: 3 o'clock | Injuries: None >> PRIMARY NEURAL THREAD, HUMAN-READABLE: Live >> COMBAT STATE: Area-Denial (Program 015B) Primary objective: Prevent entry to the Deep Barrow Secondary objective: Prevent the death of entity Elise(03EA341) It is a somewhat interesting thing to watch the effect of my anti-vehicle/anti-fortification weapon this soft target. Brilliant drops of #990000 spray across the #FFFFFF ground, leaving a pattern that is striking in its contrast and simplicity. (ERR CHK: Low-level functions interfering with interpretations of reality.) Low-level and high-level processes argue with each other for a number of nanoseconds. My deep programming routines insist that I remember this moment of abstract appreciation for a segment of visual data, while higher ones attempt to strip it from the entry as an error. In the end, I decide to have it tagged and stored as-is. It cannot do any harm. 1.93 seconds have passed and the various parts of the rider's body begin to reach the ground. The image is spoiled by the added shades of color and increase in visual complexity. The moment has passed. --- After violently unhorsing the lead rider, FENRIR follows through into another combat pose with no delay. The robot's electrically-driven compressor chugs for a moment or two before the blood-stained spike of his pneumatic driver resets to its firing position with a sshhhh-THUNK. So rare to hear such industrial-sounding noises in this day and age. The assault, however, has paused and words are being exchanged so he waits, silent and motionless aside from the steady pitter-patter of blood from the business end of his weapon. As far as parleying advantages go, one could probably do worse than having a blood-spattered 8-foot-tall robot ready to commit further acts of violence with little or no warning. TerminalBlue fucked around with this message at 06:30 on Feb 5, 2016 |
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Feb 5, 2016 03:10
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Elise Kovac, who cages the sun. The Hardholder| Cool +1| Hard +2 | Hot +1 | Sharp +1 | Weird -2 XP: 2/5 | Barter: 1 | Armor: 0 | Injuries: None "Well. Selling out my guests won't help my reputation. But neither will harboring wanton criminals." I turn to the crone. "You failed to mention regicide. Perhaps you should give me the full explanation?" I idly spin the cylinder of my revolver, taking note where the loaded chambers land. SHY NUDIST GRRL fucked around with this message at 06:19 on Feb 5, 2016 |
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Feb 5, 2016 04:24
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Raven The Touchstone | Cool+1 | Hard+2 | Hot=0 | Sharp+1 | Weird-1 XP ●○○○○» | 1-barter | 1-armor | Injuries: Bruised I snap to full awareness, silently cursing myself for my inattention. Was I not just in battle? Someone riding so hard speaks of danger and chaos - and opportunity. And from my own destination. I cannot simply watch him ride past. I raise my axe above my head and call out to the man as he approaches, and call out, "Ho, traveler! What news out of Gerdthorp?" Assuming this is gonna be a charged interaction, given the man's state. Read a Person [+sharp]: 2d6+1 5 Welp it surely is now.
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Feb 5, 2016 05:21
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Hjalmar The Gunlugger | Cool +1| Hard +2 | Hot -2 | Sharp +2 | Weird -1 XP: 2/5 | Barter: 1 | Armor: 2 | Injuries: None "The Deer and the Bear." I mutter these names to think more on them while taking a moment to relax slightly. With a flick upwards the knife is in the air again and falls to where Dol'Gen couldn't help but catch it. Thankfully he managed to avoid the blade. "The bears I've seen are not the bears of my homeland." I broaden my shoulders and hold my arms out enough for the multiple arms of my cloak to make themselves known. "Only four legs, ill-tempered, long slashing claws, three rows of teeth, not the docile beasts of milk and labor I expected." I pull the cloak back to show a bare portion of my arm with three jagged parallel scars, the beginning of fourth barely visible. "This is proof I'm capable of underestimation. There's a saying in my tribe that you fear the liver more than the claws, but it seems both are to be feared now." I smile and clap my new teammate on the shoulder. "I now become Corporal, let it be known. These two will travel with us, " I hold a full handed point to the tied up pair, "the three of you are free to do what you wish. We are a fire-team of two and can easily bring them to safety of the Deep Barrow. If what my private says is true and you require my wrath, send a runner to the barrow with your declaration of war." I take a closer look as the two prisoners are freed just in front of the fire that would have been their undoing. I had said to free them both as oddly enough I recognize at least something of them. The middle aged woman is a savvy one, I gather. I spot the intricate scarring on her bare ankles when she is still a bundle, forming an intricate pattern of gears locked together in impossible but beautiful geometry. They disappear up her leg and once she's free to the open air I can see that they continue up to her neck in a meandering line up the left side of her body. I know only of her tribe, not their name unfortunately, but that these markings indicate they are of the ruling caste. They rule over a vast rat's nest of scavengers who roam the wastes in flocks to find materials for their masters, who create great things of beauty or destruction with them. Her pattern is quite long which I recall means she has had many successful projects, but its narrow width shows she does not have much power over her peers. Being on the left side of her body indicates she is a death-dealer and their gunmetal sheen tells that she was born to create massive weapons to lay waste to holdings. Mostly the walls of holdings since there's not much use to destroying one whole cloth in this age. The old man is not what he seems. The pallor of his flesh brings my thoughts first from frostbite then to the powerful energy of the lightning as he is unrolled and reveals the waves of lumps and crevasses up his legs and into his abdomen. He looks almost like he is with child somehow, yet the boil-like lump that has tripled his stomach in size shows great similarity to the cysts on his legs and this makes the comparison to a pregnant woman fade away. There is something living inside of this man, be it a plague causing him to swell or more unfortunately a creature (or creatures) physically dwelling within him. With the two in the pit released I look to Cod and Wane. "You are practiced with burning bodies, I think I may regret bringing this one with me. He doesn't seem a man, barring any ignorance on my part you may have been right to remove him from this world." My eyes flit to his body now and again as I wait for something to ripple and leap from his body to tear us asunder, but it doesn't happen. Not yet anyway.
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Feb 5, 2016 06:39
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Bolverk Witch-Bane The Chopper | Cool+1 | Hard+2 | Hot=0 | Sharp+1 | Weird-1 XP 2/5 | Barter 0 | Armor 2 | Uninjured Who did Garder think he was fooling? The man could barely read himself; certainly not without moving his lips and concentrating very hard on it. And writing? Hell, he could only barely sign his own name. And Brodr, that toadying lick-spittle. What was he doing here? On an errand from the king no doubt, and finding Bolverk in residence, chose to spark some trouble for him. It would be so easy to have the man's head off right now. He wouldn't even feel it. But no. They both served the King. Despite his personal dislike for Brodr, the man attended his actual duties diligently enough. Bolverk allowed his footfalls to announce him as he strode towards the trio. "Thane Brodr. I see you are well. Very kind of you to come to my man's defense in this, but you no doubt have important duties to attend. I would hate to think your time was being wasted on a minor dispute like this." Bolverk inclined his head slightly as he spoke, adhering to the minimum courtesy due a thane. He turned his attention to Garder, crossing his arms and planting his feet firmly on the ground. "Tend to your mount, Garder. You've paid the women of the hold enough attention. Time to give some care to the one that actually attends you in battle." He jerked his head in the direction of Garder's mare, his attitude obvious. Get out of here before I lose my good temper. Finally he turned his eye to Vita. A stout woman, and not one to cross idly. She had Elise's ear and Bolverk had little interest in attracting her attention over something like this. Still, the mention of a woman in grey and Garder's referring to Bolverk's ultimate goal...that was most curious. "Vita, perhaps you can explain more thoroughly the situation?" Read a Sitch [+Sharp]: 2d6+1 10 What should I be on the lookout for? What’s my enemy’s true position? (Where does Brodr really stand in this? On Garder's side, Vita's side, or his own?) Who's in control here?
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Feb 5, 2016 09:35
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