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It has been hours since breakfast was served in the antechamber of Duke Adalhard's audience chamber, and through the day, petitioners and the like have trickled from beyond the two oak doors leading to the court proper. Finally, a servant appears through the doors and clears his throat, bowing ever so slightly. "Lords and ladies, the Duke Adalhard awaits." He opens the doors and stands aside, keeping his eyes to the ground. Duke Adalhard sits at the far end of the room upon a high-backed wooden throne, absently picking cuts of meat from a tray held to him by another servant as he pores over a document held by yet another servant. He swirls a goblet of wine as he chews, his brow knitting together as he glowers at the page. Off to the side, a bard plucks slowly at his guitar, singing part of a chanson focused on some ancient battle. The duke is a large, ruddy faced man donned head to toe in well polished and maintained armor. He seems to be in an especially foul mood, and when he notices the group waiting at the end of his carpet, he grunts and dismisses the servants with an overdramatic wave of his arm.  There is a long pause as the Duke studies the group, and he takes a huge sip of his wine before pushing himself to his feet and stomping down the stairs, throwing his arm back to billow his cape behind him. "My duchy demands much of me, adventurers. Trade routes must be protected, the peasants must be inspired, but can I govern?" He clenches his gauntleted fist, his face turning beet red. "That blusterous, ignoble fool Guido LeBeau! I have so much to do but his antics vex and distract me at every damnedable turn!" Spittle flies from his lips as he speaks, a vein throbbing at his temple. He motions for one of his servants, who sprints over and offers the duke a fresh goblet of wine, which Adalhard downs in three massive gulps before throwing the cup to the ground. "A parcel of land to each and every one of you for LeBeau. I do not care if you bring him to me in shackles or if you bring me his head, but you must bring him to me." He pauses, glancing to the dwarves. "And if land is not to your taste, I do believe we can find something to interest you." He adjusts his gauntlets, frowning severely. "You simply need follow him south past the Cordon Sanitaire into Mousillon, and capture him." He turns to climb the stairs back to his throne, rolling his hand above his shoulder to gesture for them to speak. "But you have questions, I assume." Adalhard sits upon his throne, leaning back and motioning for his platter of meat. "Speak, then. Let us get this over with." ---- Welcome to the game thread! Post your sheet and any questions you might have for the duke, and then we'll get you going to the shittiest part of Not-France.
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Aug 14, 2017 03:05
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Adalhard raises his goblet to the knight errant, smirking at him. "Well spoken, my friend, well spoken. You do your lords proud, but do not worry; this land shall be yours, even should I hold it until you feel it is your proper place to claim it." He listens to the slayer, shifting in his seat as his face reddens again. "Guido, that cur, was little more than a common bandit, before he started telling the common folk he was their 'champion.' The simple and easily swayed lay folk believed him to be some sort of folk hero, akin to the Herrimault. But that is utter ROT." He takes a deep drink from his wine cup and sets it down, leaning forward in his throne. "The bloody maniac killed a courier carrying taxes to one of our Knights of the Realm, and when a questing knight took after him, the butcher killed him. But worst of all, the greatest affront so far?" He leans back, gesturing to the castle as a whole with a sweep of his arm. "He broke into the chamber of Lady Augustine, here in my own castle! I am humiliated! By the teeth of Malgrimace, how could this happen?!" He slams his fist against the arm of his throne, sending the goblet toppling to the ground where it spills wine all over the stone floor. He gives his servants a glare, taking a slow deep breath as he tries to calm himself. "Lady Augistine is traumatized, the poor girl; she is a lady in waiting to my wife, the Lady Ismene, and his theft is an insult to my very honor. LeBeau is a psychopath, a murderer, and a rebel against the natural and proper order of Bretonnian society." He listens as the adventurers ask for gold, and scoffs particularly at the elf who assumes a duke of Lysonne can give land in Mousillon, motioning to another servant to bring forth and unfurl a tapestry. "This is the little corner of Lysonne I offer you, my friends."  "Your own fiefdom, a castle to call your home, and so much more. You would be Defenders of Lysonne, by my will. As for the Barony of the Damned, I know little of what you will face. I have sent knights through the cordon, but few ever return." He cocks an eyebrow at the lawyer, chuckling softly and waving a hand at him. "My man at Auferic's Watchtower can fit you with some simple gear, but time is of the essence. LeBeau has only been gone two, maybe three days, and you cannot lose that lead."
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Aug 15, 2017 05:55
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The Duke nods to the knight and gestures for a messenger, sending him off to find the lady in waiting. In the mean time, he resumes his snacking on the assorted meats nearby. "Mousillon is a poor land with few knights of note, a backwater hovel where ruffians like LeBeau believe they will be safe from scrutiny; even LeBeau is likely to have few friends there. Despite what you may have heard, it is nowhere as bad as rumors would say; our great king, Louen Leoncoerur, has made great strides in civilizing the duchy." He laughs at the question about the dragon, giving a broad smile. "If there were such a beast in my duchy, I would be out there fighting it myself!" Several minutes pass, and finally, Lady Augustine enters the court, her eyes downcast; she is a young, skinny, pale woman who seems exhausted and traumatized. Flocking around her are a gaggle of serving maids, and the Lady Ismene, an older and handsome woman, trails behind them, her eyebrows raised as she studies the dwarves. Augustine stops at the foot of Adalhard's throne, glancing nervously to him, and he gives her a gentle smile, motioning for her to speak. "Go on, my dear. Tell them of that night." Augustine nods and swallows hard, her voice soft as she speaks. "I woke one night to see a shadowy figure in my room, rifling through my dresser. The window was wide open." She looks over to Ismene and the woman nods for Augustine to continue. "He heard me awaken and turned to look at me, and.. and he was illuminated by a shaft of moonlight. He had a roguish leer, dark and villainous eyes, and stubbly, beaten skin. He laughed and vaulted out the window, and was long gone before the men at arms could respond." She fans herself, beads of sweat forming on her brow; she wavers on her feet, seemingly about to faint. "It MUST have been Guido LeBeau, for surely who else in the whole of Lysonne could be so evil and daring enough to commit such a crime?" Ismene motions for the serving maids to help Augustine take her leave, and turns back to the group. Her voice is husky, and she looks to each member of the group as she speaks. "You simply must excuse her, this has been a trying time for the poor girl. She is a delicate Bretonnian flower, and this rogue has upset her deeply. Though my husband has made little mention of it, I do ask that you recover her circlet as well; it is a silver circlet, with a rose at the center with petals of gold and a ruby heart." Duke Adalhard scoffs once Augustine is clear, shaking his head. "She will know his face when you return with him, and you will know him by whatever heinous deeds he is committing in Mousillon. I will see to it that my head groom loans the each of you a horse, and one of my men at arms shall lead you to Auferic's Watchtower to the southeast, where word has been delivered that LeBeau has passed by. Any equipment you should need, you may purchase from the quartermaster at the garrison." He stands once more, holding his hand out to one of his servants as he strides up to the group. A sealed letter is placed in his outstretched hand, and he pauses a moment to decide whom best to give the letter to. It only takes him a moment to simply hand it to the most trustworthy person there: Henri de Vienne. "Show this to the guards at whatever watchtower you return to once you have found LeBeau, so that you may have no issue returning to Lysonne." The letter is emblazoned with Adalhard's heraldry and sealed with wax with Adalhard's signet ring. Groubert, as he is introduced, meets the group once outside of the castle with enough horses for all six of them. He is a sullen looking man, and short of explaining that the ride will be two days by the quickest roads, he speaks only in grunts. I will update more tomorrow; feel free to ask any more questions before you get railroaded, but know there'll be a chance to question Knight Auferic at his watch tower when you arrive. Since this is a very civilized part of Lysonne, you (un)fortunately don't encounter anything on the way to the tower.
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Aug 16, 2017 05:53
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Over the two day ride, Groubert responds to questions about the fief, the duke, and practically everything else with a shrug and a grunt. The man is a practiced scout, setting up and tearing down a simple camp every night in short work, and showing no hesitation while choosing directions while travelling. Before too long, the group emerges from the woods and stands before the small hill upon which sits Auferic's Watchtower, a new-looking wooden building with a platform at top for archers and archery slits in its walls. It sits on the border of Mousillon and Lysonne, and peering beyond shows the land ahead looks dismal and foggy. Groubert simply turns and rides back the way he came once everyone is on their way to their tower, giving a short wave before vanishing back into the forest paths. As the group rides up to the low walls surrounding the watch tower, a man in plate walks out with several of his men to greet them.  Sir Auferic, Knight of Lysonne "You must be the adventurers Duke Adalhard sent my way! Good evening to you all! Come in, come in, my men will take your horses and you can stay a night here in my tower before having to deal with the hell that is Mousllion!" Auferic leads the group in, several of his men taking their horses to the stable within the tower's walls, and once inside the tower proper he motions for them to sit at a long, rectangular table; the garrison has several peasant archers and a few men at arms, and it seems like they've just finished their dinner and cleared space for the coming group. Auferic finally gets a good look at Henri and grins ear to ear, clasping his upper arm with one hand and clapping his shoulder with the other. "Ah, another night, a sight for sore eyes indeed! Come, my friend, come! You must sit with me at the head of the table, and we will talk and break bread together! I am the only knight assigned to this tower, and it is so rare to receive gracious visitors such as yourself!" He chuckles low, shaking his head as he takes his seat at the head of the table, patting the bench to his right for Henri. "I have been out here for three years, and while I haven't ventured into that horrible duchy myself, I know many stories about the place!" A thin looking chef brings out stone bowls filled with thin broth and stringy chicken, and chunks of bread, handing them to each person at the table save for Auferic; the knight, instead, receives a chicken breast that has been blackened over an open fire. "Ah, where are my manners. I am Sir Louis Auferic, sworn to Duke Adalhard of Lysonne. We will thank the Lady for this meal, and with it ward ourselves against another night of cold and hunger, yes?" He smiles, picking up his knife and fork. "I know you are after LeBeau, but please, my friends, let me hear more of of yourselves." He motions to Skag and Jotunn with his fork. "We don't see much of you mountainfolk out this far, and it would be a pleasure to hear of your exploits."
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Aug 17, 2017 06:12
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Sir Auferic nods to the little lawyer, trying to hide a grin. "How quaint. The commoners in Bretonnia typically do away with the precepts of courtly law, and have mediators that tend to issues between villages and villagers." He bristles slightly at the mention of LeBeau's crimes, settling back into his chair and rubbing his chin. "Aye, well, a man claiming to be LeBeau passed through here six nights ago, and murdered one of my men at arms. The man survived two days with his wound, and related that the assailant sneered at him and told him, 'Tell your Lady that LeBeau sent you,' before he twisted the knife in his side." Auferic glowers at the table as he speaks, giving Henri a long glance when he mentions LeBeau's last words. "Were I not sworn to maintain this watch tower, I'd have ridden after the villain myself." He turns in his seat slightly, to better face the Halfling. "If he is going to Mousillon, it is likely he passed through one of the two villages that are a day south of here; Craecheur and Puanteure. You might need to deal with the peasantry there to find out more, but they truly aren't the friendliest sort.." When Skag mentions the cordon, Auferic chuckles, nodding to the dwarf. "Aye, you're right, friend. The Cordon Sanitaire is here primarily to keep commoners from leaving Mousillon and spreading the Red Pox into the neighboring lands. I warn you, definitely do not drink any water that you haven't boiled yourself in Mousillon!" He laughs at this, shaking his head. "But no, truly, there is much disease and despair south of here, and you should be careful. So long as you don't feast upon their frogs and snails, you SHOULD be okay." At the mention of drink, Auferic raises his hand to call over his cook. "We have sherry, friend, but little else. I don't know how much good it will do a man stout as you."
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Aug 17, 2017 14:16
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FYI, I had meant for you guys to buy here at the watchtower and not at the castle, so buy here if you like! Also, you guys already have wooden cutlery; I'ma link my post from the OOC thread on it cause it was after you finished your dude, Tricky. https://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3829058&userid=81141#post475107471
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Aug 17, 2017 21:22
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"He did, in fact. He took two of LeBeau's fingers from his left hand with a swipe of his sword. More's the pity the blackguard didn't suffer more at his hands." Auferic shakes his head, pushing himself to his feet. "Francis was a good man and he died with honor in defense of his Duke's lands. His wife will be well attended to, but Guido must pay no matter the cost." Auferic yawns, covering his mouth with a gauntleted hand. "The night draws on, my friends, and I believe it is time we turn in. My men have put together straw pallets for you to sleep upon, and we can speak more in the morning. Rest well, as Mousillon awaits you on the morrow, and you will need all of the good will of the Lady to handle such a hellish place." Werix is at Gen Con so he's NPC'd for the time being, and I'm going to let him retroactively make any purchases he needs when he gets back. Beyond that, you guys will be able to ask any last questions of Auferic before heading south into Mousillion and deciding which lovely village to go to. Here's a map so you can decide what crappy village you want to go to. 
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Aug 18, 2017 05:06
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The knight shrugs at the Norscan. "They are peasant villages in Mousillon. I can only assume they are like any peasant village, but worse." Auferic shakes his head as he begins to mount the stairs. "No one comes and goes freely through the cordon, so we only know the landmarks that have been there since the War of the False Grail. I doubt the Grismere or the city of Mousillon has much moved over the centuries." Night passes. The straw pallets are faintly moldy, but comfortable. Most of you have slept on worse. Nothing happens during the night for the night watch to rouse you. Morning light trickles in through the leaded windows, and the smell of cooking sausage fills the barracks. A man at arms comes around the pallets, nudging everyone awake with his armored boot, save for Henri, Gunnbjorn, and Skag; for the slayer, berserker, and knight, he politely and gently shakes their shoulders to wake them, making sure to move back quickly when he awakens the slayer and berserker. Auferic is awake as well, sitting with his men and eating simple breakfast of eggs and sausage, and he waves the group over. "Alain! Get these fellows a plate! They've got a long day ahead of them!" The skinny chef stands by a massive stove, frying up the sausage and eggs side by side. The breakfast is quickly cooked and just as quickly consumed, and with all the waking men, it is difficult to actually speak with Auferic about the coming journey. Before the sun has risen too far into the sky, Auferic leads the group outside, taking them to the road leading south into Mousillon. "Would it be that I had men to spare and no oath to this watch tower, else I could send you on with more than a few kind words and my prayers." He claps Henri on the shoulder and clasps his forearm, smiling. "May the Lady guide your lance and shield you from the slings and arrows of your foes, Sir Henri. You'll have a half a day's walk before you reach the crossroads to the two towns." With that, Auferic returns towards the watch tower, leaving the group to start their trek into Mousillon proper. The group treks south, and after an hour of walking, the resplendent greenery of Bretonnia fades into the bleakness and murk of Mousillon; the change is rapid and startling, with the grass turning drab and dark, the sky filling with dark and swollen rain clouds, and the wind turning to a biting cold. Sporadic drizzles of rain fill the air, not enough to get a good soak in but enough to be uncomfortable. And above all else, there is the smell. The pervading armor is dank and musty, like a dampened cellar, with a faint sour note like spoiled food or unwashed dwarf feet. The smell is everywhere, and as you journey further south, it simply gets stronger. Before long, it's infused in everyone's clothing. Mousillon smells and looks of wrongness, despair, and impending doom. But suddenly, several hours into the march when the crossroads are finally in sight, the smell considerably worsens with the sweet notes of rotting meat and decaying flesh. Cat and Greyleaf bring the group to a stop, each staring off into the foggy woods to either side of the road; both have noticed movement in the trees, and they rouse the others to readiness just as the first groans of the undead fill the air. Staggering from the tree lines on either side of the road are a mixture of skeletons and zombies, about twelve in total; a single skeleton on either side emerges last, clad in rusted and torn chain and scale mail and wielding weapons that glow with carved runes. The creatures raise their weapons and roar with unnatural voices, sending the zombies and skeletons shambling towards the wayward group. Thanks to excellent perception tests from Cat and Greyleaf, you guys are not caught by surprise by the undead ambush. You all get to act first, as they are using their actions to move. If you have any knowledge pertaining to the undead, you can test to have your character realize the creatures in the back are Wights, and to realize how dangerous their blades actually are. e: The skeletons and zombies are close enough for a dwarf to charge, and the wights currently offer a -20 penalty to hit due to cover from their minions; if you hit within 20% over the modified TN, however, you will hit a zombie or skeleton. John Dyne fucked around with this message at 22:22 on Aug 20, 2017 |
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Aug 20, 2017 21:29
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I'm gonna say there's not gonna be a fear test against these jerks since they're just bog standard zombies and skeletons. The wights I won't need a fear roll on unless you know about their blades. I think it's rather silly that a dwarf who has sworn himself to find honorable death in combat will refuse to fight a spooky skeleton.
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Aug 21, 2017 01:55
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Henri spurs his horse into action, scattering the two skeletons standing between him and his target with the power of his horse; the lance tip slams into the wight's chest, sending a spray of damaged chain links and brittle, ancient bone as the creature staggers to the side. As the wight turns to follow the knight's charge, hissing in rage and raising its blade, the Halfling hunter Cat takes careful aim and fires at the creature's exposed side; her broadheaded arrow shatters through the wight's arm and the rest of its ribcage, causing the monster's chest to cave in from the weight of its armor and send it scattered to the ground, dead. Greyleaf follows suit with the Halfling, aiming at the remaining wight and loosing an arrow in its direction; unfortunately, one of the zombies staggers into the path of the arrow at the last moment, the projectile burying itself in the undead monstrosity's chest with a sickening noise and out through its back. The creature stands still for a moment, obviously confused, before falling face forward into the grass, its spine severed by the arrowhead. The Norse berserker strolls forward after Henri, drawing his great sword as he does, and he pauses to glance the zombie over. Far north, in his home, the undead tended to be mutated monstrosities twisted by the dark powers; a simple, dead Bretonnian man wasn't much to look at. With little effort, he brings the massive weapon around in a smooth arc, slicing the monster's head off right at the jaw; its tongue lolls as the top of its head tumbles to the ground, and the berserker gives the body a shove to keep it from toppling onto him. Skag, meanwhile, turns his attention towards the remaining wight. With his maul in hand, the dwarf charges forward, his weapon raised in a sign of challenge. The undead before him part at the wight's mental command, and the wight meets his challenge head on. The slayer bats away the wight's swing with the haft of his hammer, feeling the unholy strength behind the blow and seeing it in the mark left behind by the strike. Skag brings his weapon down with a crunch against the wight's shield, the beast staggering back as the green corpse lights in its eye sockets flicker angrily. Feeling emboldened, Skag continues to stride forward, landing blow after blow on the ancient, corroded shield, bending the metal this way and that. With a final swing, the shield is battered away along with most of the wight's arm, and the slayer uses the momentum of his blow to spin, planting the head of his hammer right against the side of the wight's ribcage. The dwarf smashes the wight clean in half with his mighty blow, sending its two halves tumbling in separate directions. When Skag turns, he finds his little duel has taken him a fair distance beyond the line of undead, separating him from his comrades. Jotunn watches as the slayer bursts through the ranks of the undead to pursue the wight, and takes after him, his axe in hand. A skeleton reaches towards him with sharpened fingers, but the dwarf slaps the grasping hand away with the head of his axe and shatters the skull of the skeleton with a backhanded blow from the same weapon. Went ahead and acted for Skag; since he got an Ulric's Fury, I spiced up his fight a little bit, since it was enough to outright kill the wight after its soak. I still need an Archiebald attack and then I can do the Undead. Here's a horrible MS Paint map though. There's no scale because everything is in charging distance and basically short range for the bow wielders.  Greyleaf - 8 damage, zombie, body (dead zombie) Henri - 6 damage, wight, body Cat - 7 damage, wight, left arm (dead wight) Gunnbjorn - 8 damage, zombie, head (dead zombie) Skag - 11 damage, wight, body (dead wight) Jotunn - 8 damage, skeleton, head (dead skeleton) Skag Charge vs 64: 1d100 10 2d10k1+4 14 Skag Righteous Fury Confirmation: 1d100 53 Skag RF Damage: 1d10 4 Jotunn Charge vs 68: 1d100 1 1d10+3 13 Jotunn Confirm UF: 1d100 96 Zombie x3 AG 10, TB 3, W 8, AP 1 Arms/Body WS 25, 1d10+3 damage Skeleton x4 Ag 25, TB 3, W 8, AP 1 Head/Body WS 25, 1d10+3 damage BS 20, 1d10+2 damage John Dyne fucked around with this message at 03:43 on Aug 21, 2017 |
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Aug 21, 2017 03:24
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Archibald's stone whizzes past the head of one of the zombies and plinks harmlessly off of the skull of the skeleton next to it, causing the creature to turn its attention towards the halfling with an enraged hiss. It draws its rotting bow and notches a single, wobbly looking arrow, pulling the string back and taking aim; the string snaps forward, and the arrow hurtles into the air... .. where it arcs directly downwards and embeds itself in the dirt not three feet in front of the skeleton. The zombie and skeleton on the same side as the archer press in on Gunnbjorn and Henri; the knight simply lashes out with his boot into the face of the approaching zombie, causing it to stumble back and groan in confusion. Gunnbjorn, meanwhile, finds it laughably easy to avoid the clumsy swings of the skeleton trying to kill him; the berserker had marched far south from his home and had certainly faced much more dangerous foes in his time. Skag and Jotunn, however, find themselves surrounded, with a zombie and a skeleton both attacking the each of them. Jotunn is able to take the first blow from the zombie on his shield, but the undead creature holds on to it and struggles to wrestle it free from his arm; at the same time, the skeleton closes in, brandishing an axe caked with gore and mud, and swings it with both hands for the dwarf's head. Jotunn does the only thing that he can, and he ducks under the blow. Meanwhile, Skag bats away the swings of the zombie's mace with the haft of his hammer, but as he defends himself from the onslaught in front of him, the skeleton is able to get behind him and strike from behind. The ancient club strikes Skag square in the back of his bald head, the decrepit wood splintering from the force of the blow, but surprisingly, the dwarf seems to be unaffected; slayers are obviously made of sterner things. LZ1 - misses Henri LS1 - misses Archibald LS2 - misses Gunnbjorn RZ1 - misses Skag RZ2 - misses Jotunn RS1 - hits Skag for 0 damge RS2 - hits, but Jotunn dodges Skeleton Melee Attacks vs 25: 3#1d100 93 10 8 3#1d10+3 10 5 10 Skeleton Ranged Attack vs 20: 1d100 33 1d10+2 3 Zombie Melee Attacks vs 25: 3#1d100 62 33 73 3#1d10+3 6 10 7 Jotunn Dodge vs 23: 1d100 9
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Aug 21, 2017 22:57
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With the precision expected of the elves, Greyleaf draws his bow and looses an arrow that shatters the shoulder of the bow wielding skeleton. The undead creature stumbles, tripping and smashing its brittle skull onto a rock, its haunted limbs going still. Cat, meanwhile, turns away from the dwindling undead melee to the left of the road to aide her brothers in height, her arrow slicing through the zombie harassing Jotunn and burying itself in its spine; the zombie spasms and falls over, groaning and tossing its head. While it still lives, it's no longer a threat thanks to its arrow induced paralysis. Jotunn, meanwhile, finds himself tugged forward by the dying zombie right as he swings for the skeleton clawing for his throat, and his axe goes wide. Henri's horse rears back and tramples the skeleton before, smashing the monster into the dirt and stamping its bones into dust. Skag finds himself stuck on the defensive, unable to bring his maul around properly to destroy the skeleton attacking him, and Archibald's attempt to help falls short, the stone digging a divot into the wet earth by the skeleton's feet. The Norscan, unimpressed by the final zombie's attempts to kill him, simply splits the unnatural beast's head open like an overripe melon. Now that his shield is free, Jotunn is able to bring it to bear on the skeleton advancing on him, the sharpened bones merely scratching against the metal of his shield. Skag easily fends off the remaining two undead harassing him, keeping them at bay with his maul. They continue to circle him, unable to find a way past the weapon without suffering harm.  Only three zombies left. Henri and Gunnbjorn are in charging range if they want to go help the dwarves. I'm assuming these three are going to just die in overkill, but we had a few whiffs in the last round so who knows! e: gently caress I uploaded the map and forgot to link it, this is what I get for updating right before bed Zombie and Two Skeletons Attack vs 25: 3#1d100 30 61 48 3#1d10+3 13 8 7 John Dyne fucked around with this message at 05:14 on Aug 23, 2017 |
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Aug 23, 2017 04:39
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Henri once more spurs his horse into action, crossing the short distance between himself and his dwarven allies in the blink of an eye, his charger kicking up mud and water from the damp ground as it passes over the road. The zombie wheels at the noise, moments before it is impaled upon Henri's lance; the knight carries the walking corpse a short distance before it writhes free, falling directly under the trampling hooves of the horse and ending its unlife in three gory stomps. Skag, free now to use his hammer as he wills thanks to the knight's charge, brings his weapon about in two mighty swings, the first staggering the skeleton before and the second pulverizing it straight into the dirt at his feet, scattering chunks of brittle and ancient bone all around him. The final skeleton continues to advance on Jotunn, its pitted blade held high above its head, until a rock the size of a human thumb smashes through the front of its skull, rattling around for a moment before falling out through the creature's jaw. It hisses, turning and loping towards Archibald, the unholy flame in its eye sockets guttering as it struggles to maintain the necromantic magic supporting it. But luckily for the halfling lawyer, Gunnbjorn reaches the skeleton before it can reach the halfling, and using his momentum and momentous strength, the berserker cleaves clean through the bone from skull to groin, its eyes dying immediately upon the impact; the skeleton falls to the ground in pieces, the magic binding it together snuffed out by the Norscan's blow. The rain continues to drizzle down on the group as they stand, watching the woods around them for signs of more attackers. After several minutes and no sign of action, the group relaxes, turning back to the trek before them; their destination has yet to be decided. Henri: 8 damage to zombie 8 dmg - 3 TB - 1 AP = 4 damage Horse: 10 damage to zombie (dead zombie) 10 - 4 = 6 Skag: 5 and 12 to skeleton (dead skeleton) 5 - 4 = 1 12 - 4 = 8 Archibald: 7 damage to skeleton 7 - 4 = 3 damage Gunnbjorn: 21 damage to skeleton yeah lol why math this out, dead skeleton
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Aug 24, 2017 00:18
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In Greyleaf's hands, the wight's blade is completely inert; the elf licks nothing more than a pitted and ancient blade, which is still probably not the best idea in the world. Unfortunately, all of the armor is fitted for humans, and in absolutely horrendous condition, though one might expect this from equipment worn by the ancient dead. Regardless of what is scavenged, the group follows the crossroads to the east, towards the village of Craecheur, which stands atop a low hill overlooking the swamp. The other village slowly disappears into the ever-present mist as the group climbs the winding road to the village.  The first building encountered is, amazingly, a relatively solid looking wooden building that sits far away from the center of the town, and is a stark contrast to the rest of the village. Craecheur's hovels stand together on the crown of the hill, almost looking as if they are huddled for safety, and from the road, the adventurers can see a handful of peasants sitting around the center of the village, keeping themselves busy with something that can't really be determined from where they stand. To the north there are a small group of pitiful looking fields that are currently being tended by other peasants, and to the south there is a scrawny belt of trees that seem to be sporting apples. Even at this distance, the whole town reeks of poverty and silent desperation, with a sharp tang of something else that no one can quite put their finger on yet. Sitting outside the wooden building is a thin looking man with a bulbous nose who is quietly working on what appears to be a shoe made of bark and the entrails of some small animal. He wears a pair of similar shoes, which Henri marks as incredibly odd since peasants typically don't bother with footwear; the man shows no sign that he's noticed the group's arrival, and hums softly to himself as he works the gut through carefully punctured holes in the bark.
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Aug 26, 2017 10:42
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The cobbler starts when spoken to, having been completely engrossed in his work, but looks up with an earnest enough smile. "Oh, aye, cobbler by trade, thank ye ma'am. Proud of it, at that. Me name's Flarc. I make shoes from what I can around these parts, which ain't much but it's somefin' that keeps us apart from the animals, ain't it?" It takes him a moment to realize not everyone assembled before him is human, and he coughs, shifting slightly; it's obvious he hasn't noticed the knight yet, as Henri notes he is still incredibly relaxed for a peasant in the presence of a knight. "Our boss? Mayor? Erm.." He wiggles his nose in an incredibly dexterous and almost unnatural manner as he thinks. "Oh! You must want our elders, the frogwives, Ger and Floupe. I reckon they're going to be in the middle of the village, guttin' frogs and shellin' snails." Flarc leans forward, pointing up the road. "Can't miss 'em. Two of the oldest folks around these parts, save for Blug the Venerable over at our rival town. Sold him a pair of shoes once." The cobbler's friendly demeanor quickly sours at that, a frown forming on his face. "Worst decision I ever did make. If you're wanting help, don't mention you spoke to me. I'm.. not much liked around here." As he's speaking, a man in the village raises his voice, though his words are unclear from here. Flarc rolls his eyes. "That'd be Marfe. Richest man in town. Bought a pair of rabbitskin shoes from me before the whole deal with Blug. Bit of a prick, if you ask me, but he's the only man with apples on the side of a bog without much for snails or frogs, so.." Flarc shrugs, sinking back into his chair. "Let me know if I can do somethin' for you lot. Shoes, maybe?"
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Aug 28, 2017 20:10
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Flarc stares blankly at Henri for a moment before leaning back in his chair, sniffing and scratching the inside of his nose. "I've been as far as the valley over yonder and I don't quite reckon we got much in the way of nobles or lords or what have yous around here in Mousillon, good sir. Be frank, don't get much in the way of nobility through here." He gives Henri the warmest smile a man can with so many missing teeth. "No disrespect intended. Though if you lot end up needing a cobbler on your journeys, well... I'm more than happy to pack up and leave town." Regardless, the group follows the path up to the center of town, where it seems most of the town is gathering at the moment. A burly looking bald man with a long beard stands haughtily in the center of town, gesturing off to the southwest as he speaks very loudly. "We can't sit around doing nothing forever! Those uppity rich assholes over in Puantere have lorded that blasted pig over us for far too long, and by the Great Sow we ought to do something about it!" The overly loud man is obviously Marfe, the apple baron mentioned previously by Flarc; a quick glance down shows the shoes that Flarc was ever so proud of, a pair of open toed rabbit skin shoes that were apparently made from two whole rabbits that were simply cut open and the openings stitched together and reinforced somehow. Marfe's incredibly long and hairy toes poke out from the mouths of the two rabbits into the protective casing of snail shells.  Marfe, the apple 'baron' "Lissen here, Marfe, we cain't risk it! We ain't any love fer that pig or fer the people of Puantere, but tryin' to steal their pig just ain't wise!" The woman speaking to Marfe is a horribly ancient looking crone who is, while she speaks, methodically jabbing a sharpened piece of wood into the stomach of a frog and disemboweling it in practiced and skillful strokes, dumping the guts onto the ground before her before tossing the frog into a bucket. Her giant ear turns of its own accord to face the balding apple baron, and the pie faced woman next to her sniffs in derision, dipping her insanely long middle finger into the shell of a snail and yanking the meat out with dexterous ease. "Floupe's right, ye know. The frog and snail harvest ain't been too bad, thanks to Eep."  Ger, with the long finger, and Floupe, with the giant ear Marfe reddens at this, baring his teeth as he continues to be incredibly loud. "Swampiarein' is a man's work, Ger, and you drat well know it! That girl's gonna bring a curse down upon us, you hear me?! Ain't no women supposed to be huntin' frogs and snails, even if we are stealin' 'em from them damned Puantere idiots!" He huffs, folding his brawny arms across his chest. "And I don't care if they got guards on that pig night and day. They're simple folk and I don't reckon they know which end of the stick to poke us with, and they're cowards, all of 'em!" Off to the side, peering from behind one of the hovels, is a short, stocky woman that could be mistaken for a dwarf if she weren't six inches too tall to be one. She has scraggly, shoulder length hair and a massive underbite, and she glances between the two frogwives and Marfe with anxious interest. As it stands, only a few of the peasants have marked the arrival of the group, and Floupe's ear has turned their way but she hasn't acknowledged them yet. Marfe, especially, seems to be off in his own angry little world.
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Aug 30, 2017 04:12
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The peasant's conversation stops when Archibald speaks up, and there is a pregnant pause as Marfe and the frogwives study the interrupting group. Ger's face cracks into a large smile and she moves forward, cooing and fawning over the Halfling. "Will ya lookit this HANDSOME little man, bless my eyes! Been a snail's age since I seent someone half as handsome." She tries to give her most girlish and infectious smile to the lawyer, but her lack of teeth and her apparently advanced age ruin any charm she might be going for. Floupe, meanwhile, rolls her eyes and shakes her head, muttering to herself as she continues to gut frogs. Marfe, meanwhile, strolls over with his hands on his hips, studying the group of adventurers with a discerning eye. He especially takes note of Cat's little speech and casts a long stare at both Gunnbjorn and Skag, his face betraying the fact the peasant is trying his hardest to think and process what's going on before him. After a minute, he grins, spreading his arms wide. "On behalf of our beautiful village, let me be the one to offer you the shelter of me hearth and home, and the delicacy of me apples; I know people forn to Mousillon aren't too fond of our snails and frogs." He motions to the largest, least ramshackle and muddy house in the village, where a comely looking woman by Mousillon standards is picking the low hanging apples from a tree. "That's Tuube, me wife. " He waits a moment before his smile fades. "I've also got some business to discuss with the lot of ye." At this, Ger looks up from her fawning over the litigant, casting the evil eye at Marfe. "Marfe, don't you dare try to con this handsome man and his friends into messin' with Puanteure! Ain't their business and ain't their place!" Marfe wheels on her, his voice rising to a boom once again. "Woman, they got armor and they got weapons! And they ain't us!" He motions to the Henri. "Hell, that one's COVERED in metal armor! They ain't gonna be afeared of no half-wit idjit with a sharp stick!"
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Aug 31, 2017 14:56
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Marfe gives Archibald a sour look, partly due to Ger trying to run her fingers through his hair and partly due to his comments. "Ain't no land disputes out here, lad. Them smug arseholes over in Puanteure gots themselves a pig and they lord it over us poor folks. Rich bunch of cunts, they is." He sniffs in derision, folding his arms across his chest. At the mention of a bandit passing through Mousillon, Archibald notices Ger hesitate; she bites her shriveled old lip and steps back from Archibald, smoothing out her robe. "Sorry, sir, bit of the young maiden in me showin' at such a handsome devil of a man. Pardon me." If Marfe notices the change in her demeanor, he says nothing of it. "How's about this, then. You help us, we help you. Someone in the village might know about this bandit yer huntin', but they won't talk without me say-so." Floupe glowers at Marfe as he says this, and the burly man clears his throat. "Or the say-so of Ger and Floupe. Here, lemme bring some of me hospitality to ya. OI! TUUBE! BRING ME A BASKET OF ME APPLES, WOMAN!" A moment later and Marfe's wife shuffles up, holding a basket with a blanket thrown over the top to keep the bugs at bay. She smiles warmly, amazingly having most of her teeth, and pulls the blanket aside to offer the bounty of Marfe's orchard. The basket is filled with small, wizened green apples tinged red at spots. She plucks one from the basket with a free hand and offers it to Greyleaf, still smiling. "G'on, sir. Try me wife's apples. They'll change yer mind on our humble little village, I assure you." For Greyleaf, if he eats the apple: Your opinion of the 'humble little village' most assuredly does not change, and likely worsens, if at all possible. The tiny little apple is an affront to fruit as you have known it. It is amazingly small, incredibly sour, and somehow grainy, dry, and mushy at the same time. It is entirely an unpleasant thing you have bitten into, and Marfe and Tuube both look to you expectantly for your reaction. If Greyleaf declines: "Well then, any of you lads and ladies are welcome to 'em. Yer ol' sourpuss of a friend 'ere ain't much of a conny-sewer of fruit, it seems." Basically the same result as if Greyleaf ate it, but you may be more inclined to more politely describe the apple than he would.
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Aug 31, 2017 21:35
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Jotunn is the final straw, and Marfe throws his hands up in frustration. "I offer you the finest this town has to offer, offer you a spot in front of my hearth, and this! This is how you repay me!" The man tugs at his beard with a growl, stomping his feet and just generally throwing a hissy fit. "My apples are a DELIGHT! A. DELIGHT." He wheels on Ger and Floupe, gesturing at the adventurers with an open hand. "I can't deal with such rudeness! The ironclad one has a stick up his arse and the hairy midget spits out the finest apples in the two villages! YOU deal with them! We need to be rid of Impeatrice, and they can help, BUT I WILL NOT DEAL WITH SUCH RUDE IDIOTS." Marfe casts a furious glare at Henri and snorts, his nostrils flaring as he turns and stomps back to his house. Ger and Floupe share a nervous glance and shrug at one another, sitting back down to continue shelling snails and gutting frogs. The other peasants, seeing that most of the excitement is over, cast a few curious glances at the adventuring group before continuing about their day, most of which involves heading off to tend the to horrible fields or out hunting more snails and frogs. Only the stout looking girl from before sticks around, and she takes a circuitous route to the group, glancing to make sure no one else in town is watching. She clears her throat and gives a slight bow. "M'name's Eep. Best Swampiare around either town. Um.. I heard Marfe speaking to you, hard as it would be not to, and.. he wants you to kidnap that pig, right?" "Erm, I don't know how wise it'd be to anger the pig. See, uhm, there's a man out there, I overheard him a month or two back, mumblin' to himself because the pig were askin' him to kill folks. Called the big the Black Pig, an' I reckon she IS the avawhatsit of the Black Pig." She looks sheepish for a moment, before pressing on. "I know I was too far out and swampin' too close to their town, but that man is crazy. If'n he's right, then kidnappin' the pig from where she's comfy is gonna anger the Black Pig, an' if he's wrong, then he's a crazy git who's gonna be murderin' folks. Either which way, that ain't right!" Nearby, Floupe's ear turns back to the group, though she doesn't make any sign she's listening or paying attention.
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Sep 6, 2017 01:33
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Eep stares at the stern faced berserker for a moment before clearing her throat. "The Black Pig of the Woods is a evil spirit of Mousillon, what stalks the forests when the green moon hangs low and urges the poor folks to kill each other in its name, and gorin' and tramplin' those who won't. She's the dark side of the Grand Sow, an' that man I heard is bein' whispered to by the Black Pig, an' he thinks that hog of theirs at Puanteure is the Black Pig." She shrugs. "They know I ain't one of them so I don't get too close, an' I never saw the man, jus' heard him. Don't know about no animal looks, though." The woman looks down at Archibald in confusion. "No, no! Kidnappin' that pig is jus' gonna make the Black Sow mad and bring doom on us all! You need to either kill that pig or convince Marfe to drop his drat crusade, or it'll be the end of us all!"
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Sep 7, 2017 03:26
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As a note, you all have literally no loving clue where he might have gone and only Henri is likely to have even an inkling of how Mousillon is laid out. If you don't want to help the peasants and aren't sure if they actually know if he passed through, remember: there IS another village, and he had to pass through one of these two villages. You know that much.
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Sep 7, 2017 18:48
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 After a short march around the bog that only takes about two hours, the adventurers find themselves marching through a thin, cloying mist that emits from the bog and hovers over the town of Puantuere itself. Much like its sister village, the tiny little peasant town the group finds themselves in is a complete shithole. Off to the one side, near the bog itself, a man stands singing to himself atonally, stirring a giant pit in which two other peasants are currently dumping their buckets of frog guts into. Unlike Creacheur, the hovels here are built around a central, muddy square rather than being clumped close together, and here the majority of the town sits, gutting frogs and shelling snails, or in the case of a few peasants, simply staring blankly at the mud. Off to the west, snorting and rooting around in the mud, is the pig that has caused the feud between the two villages. Two moronic looking peasants stand lazily by the pen, holding sharpened sticks and chatting between themselves, one with a digit firmly in his nose two knuckles deep. The other peasant seems disgusted by this, but the arrival of the adventurers draws his attention away from his disgusting friend and he goes quiet; his friend seems not to notice and continues to jabber away.  The bearded one is the one who is not utterly disgusting. Most of the village seems to ignore the new arrivals, but a tiny man, looking ancient beyond anything possible for a human, slowly cranes his neck to the north, a smile splitting his leathery face. For his posture and his appearance, the man could well be a humanoid turtle, save for his eyes that are tinged with insanity. 
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Sep 12, 2017 05:37
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The old man shakes with palsy as he cranes his head towards Cat, every tendon and muscle in his ancient body creaking and groaning with the effort. His right eye is much larger than his left, and it rolls in its socket as he tries to focus on the little halfling. He runs a pointed and greying tongue over his dry, cracked lips, giving her a broad, toothless grin. With great effort, he finally speaks, his voice rough with age. "Who the fook you callin' a turtle, ye gobshite? Fookin' lil' tit, insultin' 'er elders an' bein' a lil' turd. Fook you." He cackles at this, resting his hands on his knees as he leans forward. "Wi' the pleasantries ow' o' the way, me name's Blug." His eye roams over the other adventurers before settling back on Cat. "Wot's a bunch of outsiders wantin' in me lil' slice of heaven?"
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Sep 12, 2017 23:30
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Blug makes a deep, horrible noise in the back of his throat before spitting a gob of phlegm into the dirt, sniffing as he rubs it in with the heel of his foot. He nods slowly at Cat, still smiling at her, and is about to answer when Henri interrupts. The old man's smile fades. "Ye talkin' about the Black Pig? Don't fookin' bring tha' curse down on me village, lad. In me 27 years on this earth, I ain't seen no Black Pig of the Marsh." He makes the sign of the evil eye on Henri for a moment before grinning back at Cat. "Naw, we's TRUE Mousillon people; don't cater much tae outsiders. Not like them cunts at Creacheur." At the mention of their rival village, some of the villagers boo and hiss, and Blug's toothless smile widens. "Aye, we usually runt outsiders off, but yer a cute lil' lassie an' ye all 'ave weapons an' I ain't fookin' about wi' no weapons." He cackles like any old man who cackles at their own horrible joke, and he wipes the tears from his eyes as he looks at Gunnbjorn in confusion. "Yer hairy friend fookin' daft? Aye, go lookit our fookin' sow, ya fookin' soft fook! She goes OINK OINK SQUAAAONK an' she's the prize o' this village! Got her meself through me shred business acumen." He drops Cat a wink. "Gonna fin' our sow a hog tae rail 'er good an' have us some wee lil' piggies tae rub in Creacheur's poor fookin' faces!" He gets an evil gleam in his eye as he thinks of this, folding his tiny arms under his flabby chest. "I 'ear tale they's got some 'uge oval office named Marfe an' he shoves apples up his arse an' squats 'em back out tae feed the idjits what live there. Can ye fookin' imagine the taste o' a shitter apple? Ha!" Throughout this, the two guards near the pig watch the group with interest... or at least the bearded one does. The blonde one is staring at the pig roll in the mud, and begins to laugh for apparently no obvious reason. "Bou, Impeatrice done farted in the mud and there were bubbles!" Bou, the bearded guard, gives his comrade a look that is a mix of disgust and exasperation, and he swats the blonde in the back of his head. "Pay attention, Mans! There's outsiders about! And stop being so bloody disgusting! You're as dim as Little Tadpole! Or Spuc!" Mans looks incredibly stung by this and picks his sharpened stick back up, leaning against the fence and pouting. Bou rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to Blug and the adventurers.
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Sep 15, 2017 01:11
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Bors hefts his makeshift spear warily as Gunnbjorn walks closer to the pig pen, kicking Mors in the ankle to get him to do the same. However, when Henri hefts the village elder by his shirt, the entire village cries out in alarm, some reaching for their gutting knives in a bid to protect Blug. When Jotunn draws his axe, however, most of the peasants hesitate, save for Bors; the valiant guard steps forward, trying to show off a brave face even as his knees begin to knock. The old man's smile has faded and only anger appears there now, his giant eye focusing in on Henri. He waves Bors back, shaking his head and cocking it to address the boy. "Yer a fookin' good lad, Bors, son, but this is beyond ye. Yer wee pecker poker won' do a wit tae this one." When he levels his head again, his smile has returned, though very faint. The next words he speaks very lowly, so only Henri can hear. "For more'n one reason, eh, lass?" Blug cackles again, kicking his feet in the air at the amusement of the joke before him, his smile now splitting his face from ear to ear. "Oh, ol' Blug's jus' a fookin' dumb ol' peasant, ain't he?! Don't know nothin' o' the worl' outside 'is fookin' lil' shitsberg! Ain't like e's travelled tae the Grimisire river 'n back, or tae the Cordon an' back, noooo sir! No ma'am! No, oval office!" He laughs again, and nervously some of the other villages join in with his laughter. While the rest of the village is distracted, the lad stirring the pit of entrails stares at Gunnbjorn in wonder, looking as if he has seen the ghost of his greatest hero. He motions for the berserker to come over to him, looking around nervously before stepping back around the side of his hut. Even as he does so, a waifish little girl runs up to Henri, her eyes welling with tears as she hits the knight on his leg plate. "Put grandpa Blug down, mister! I'll get Douleur if you hurt him! Please don't hurt him!" Her tiny fists do little on the metal armor of the knight and she simply slumps against his leg, bawling.
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Sep 15, 2017 02:40
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Now closer to the boy, Gunnbjorn is able to see the lad is obviously mutated, with six fingers on each hand and several extra nipples on his bare chest. His face is that of an idiot, slack jawed and distant at first glance, but the berserker sees a malevolent intelligence in the boy's eyes. He notices the boy has drawn a large, curved knife with a serrated back, and is turning it over in his hands, running his fingers along the blade. "Yer here fer the Black Pig, ain'tcha?" He looks at the fresh cut on his fingertip and the blood welling up from it. "She's a curse to this village. She lures us to our deaths in the dark of the night, and whispers horrible plans to us in our sleep. I fight it, I do. I really do. But she's strong. So, so strong. I want to just snap and.." He looks up from the blade, his eyes pleading. "You know what I mean. I can tell." He licks his lips, his hands shaking as he tightly grips the hilt of the blade. "But if she were hurt, she'd do so, so much worse. If we were hurt. I.. I can't let he be angry. I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I have to do this. For the village. For the Black Pig." The boy predictably and clumsily swings the blade for Gunnbjorn, but the veteran fighter is able to catch the weak little lad's wrist with ease to protect himself. The sight is pathetic as the skinny lad tries to pry Gunnbjorn's fingers from his wrist with his free hand, tears streaming down his face. "You can't kill her! Nothing can kill the Black Pig! You'll just make it angry! You'll just make it worse!"
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Sep 15, 2017 03:01
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Spuc stares at the scar during the entire story, the fight going out of him as he listens. He lets go of the knife and lets it drop to the ground, his shoulders slumping and his chin resting on his chest. He's silent for a moment after Gunnbjorn's question, and at first his response is too soft to hear. When he realizes this, he speaks up. "He doesn't know. They think she's a normal pig. But she's not. Killing her.. killing her will just make everything worse." He wipes at his eyes with the back of his wrist, trying to square his shoulders. "She has us all under her control and killing her will just make this hell that much worse for us. We can't just.. just shrug this off." He looks over in time to see the dwarf approaching the pen with his axe drawn, and all color drains from the boy's face. Bou sneers as he realizes Jotunn won't be so easily dissuaded, taking a half step back and looking to Mans; to his merit, the blonde peasant has raised his spear as well, ready to defend Impeatrice from the tiny marauder. The two nod to each other, and Bou hands Mans his spear, cupping both hands to his mouth. "LITTLE TADPOLE! FRIENDS!" The old man's mirth fades when he hears Bou's shout, and he finally begins to wrestle in Henri's grip. "Those fookin' idjits! Put me down! I need tae box their ears and stop yer tiny moron friend!" As Blug struggles, one of the larger hovels quakes, before the door is thrown open with energy and enthusiasm. A gargantuan man, standing at nearly seven feet tall and rippling with muscles, ducks his head as he steps out of the hovel, a childlike smile on his oddly tiny noggin. All the man wears is a filthy loincloth, and he looks expectantly to Bou, flailing his hands in excitement. "Tadpole! Play time!" Bou points to Jotunn, and Little Tadpole's face lights up with joy. He bellows wordlessly with enthusiasm, running towards Jotunn with his arms outstretched; however, the gargantuan man slips in the mud, falling flat on his face a dozen paces from Jotunn. He begins to scream and flail on the ground, beating his fists into the mud out of sheer frustration and leaving gargantuan divots with his ham-sized fists. He begins to push himself back to his feet, his cheeks puffed out in a childlike show of frustration. Bou takes his spear back from Mans and both adopt a guarded stance, their faces grim. "We's just doin' our job, stunty. Why don' you calm down an' we can tell lil' Tadpole to go back to 'is nap, yeah?" For what it's worth, Blug beats his hands against Henri's wrists, and shows a surprising amount of strength for his apparent age. "An' ye fookin' nobs wonder why we don' like strangers! Ain't no one's been through our fookin' town in months! An' if'n no one ever comes through ag'in after this, it'll be too fookin' soon! NOW PUT ME DOWN!" Tadpole Charge vs 71 + Damage: 1d100 100 1d10+6 15
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Sep 15, 2017 06:26
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Bou points towards the elf and barks an order at Mans, who goes to interpose himself between Greyleaf and the pig pen, while Bou steps in front of Gunnbjorn, his spear leveled at him. "Are you all as simple as Spuc?! Get away from our damned pig!" Cat and Archibald hang back from the others, watching as Little Tadpole regains his feet and lumbers towards Jotunn, hands outstretched and making grabby motions with his hands. Suddenly, the shadows on the ground darken and expand rapidly, snaking up around the legs of everyone but Skag, Archibald, and Cat, moving up around their torsos and their arms and holding everyone in place. Henri is spun on his heels to look directly at Blug, whose arms are outstretched and his lips moving in a wordless chant. The old man has changed drastically, no longer a gnarled and hunched looking ancient; he is now tall and much more handsome, with a faintly weathered face and sharp grey eyes. "I would have expected such boorish behavior from the Norscan, but for a son of Bretonnian and a grudgebearer to act like such menacing bullies? You shame yourselves, gentlemen." Blug's voice has changed as well, and he speaks with a smooth Imperial accent, lowering his arms as the spell continues to hold the town in place. "Truly, do you adventurers have so little to do that you would murder a town's only economy and bully the inhabitants of such a pitiful little burg?" He casts a smile towards Cat and nods to Archibald. "You would do well to follow the example of your friends from The Moot." Blug wanders before each of the frozen villagers and touches his fingertips to their foreheads and temples, uttering a few short arcane words, their eyes going blank and their jaws slack. Once each villager is taken care of, he waves his hand, dismissing the tendrils of shadow; the villagers stumble a step before simply standing still, staring into space. "There. Today is just a terrible dream for them. They'll not remember a lick of it." He wanders over to the pig, running a hand over its head and receiving a few joyful oinks for it. "So then. I am Wiprecht, of the Grey Order of Altdorf's Imperial College of Magic. As I've spent much time here monitoring the maleficent powers that seep in the ground here, I've come to pick up a few.. cultural ideas these simple folk have." He gives Henri a long stare, before chuckling. "Such as a distaste for the nobility and an aversion to visitors. I apologize for my poor manners there. While I haven't seen your man, there's little in the way of civilization out in this part of Mousillon, though there is a manse over a stone bridge across the river Grismerie that leads to the city of Mousillon itself. It would be the only route he could safely take to the city."
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Sep 16, 2017 16:44
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Wiprecht chuckles, folding his hands into the small of his back as he grins and winks at Cat. "This isn't the first time that apple growing oaf has gotten it in his head to try to march a peasant army over here to 'make us pay,' though it's the first time he's raised a group who could actually have slaughtered an entire village." He gives Jotunn a pointed look as he says this, glancing over to the elf as well. "And what right do you have to demand strangers who are living in peace to help you? If you were to fail in your mission and he were to question how he was tracked, do you doubt that he would seek out the village he passed through?" He spreads his hands before him plaintively, shaking his head. "No village elder, wizard or no, would risk his people in such a manner. Marfe is no elder, and cares little for anything besides his own wealth and station even in this pitiful life he leads. He would have his fellows die to appease his own ego, uncaring as to how their loss would damage his village." He motions to Spuc as he speaks, and the boy shuffles over, lost in the magical dream that has been induced upon him. "Do you not realize how miniscule these people's lives are, dwarf? Most have never even seen the watch tower at the edge of the Cordon, and are utterly unaware of its existence. They know only what they are told, and they mistrust outsiders a great deal, a belief that is being reinforced upon myself. Had they seen this LeBeau character, they would have had nothing to do with him, and would not have known whence he fled save for a general direction. I have helped you simply to save these poor people from your thirst for violence." He continues to glare at Jotunn. "I know of your ways and of your oaths, and the reason your 'drengi' friend seeks what he does is that he holds his honor high above all else, a trait you may wish to adopt." It's unbecoming of our allies to squirm through the muck and mud like a snake in search of gold." He turns his attention to Gunnbjorn as Spuc draws near. "Worry not about the Black Pig of the Marsh. This poor boy is haunted by creations of his own mind. He has tried to kill his fellows before, but as you may have noticed, I am well practiced in keeping the peace here." He smiles, patting the boy's cheek and sending him back to his entrail pit. "Did you know they stir that pit to ward away foul spirits? They haven't a clue who or what these spirits may be or what they may do if they are not appeased, but they ward them, nonetheless. It's for naught, as I have, of course, frozen them long enough to monitor what ill may come of the swamps." He stops to place a hand atop the little girl's head, frowning at her. "I do thank you for not giving Minne reason to flee to the swamp. She's befriended one of the Grey Men of the Marsh, and they are truly spirits of this realm and utterly beyond my power to influence. One has taken an interest in her and is very protective of her; it's truly bizarre and I am struggling to understand it." The wizard pauses, now studying the elf for a moment. "You know, that is a curious but amusing suggestion, but I assure you, while Ger and Floupe are far from the simple crones they pose themselves as, they are also a far cry from anything remotely magical. And the cobbler?" Wiprecht shrugs, smirking. "He truly is passionate about shoes, and has little to work with. It's actually ingenious and somewhat amusing. I have several pairs of his shoes in my manse here, simply because they are such entertaining little curiosities." Wiprecht returns to the center of the village, sitting back upon the barrel that he had been upon as Blug. "Now then. You lot have your lead. Is there anything else I can assist you with, or will you be pursuing LeBeau?"
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Sep 18, 2017 05:44
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The Grey Wizard shrugs at Jotunn. "Can you mount a proper defense when you do not which direction your foe will emerge from? Could you strike at the heart of a greenskin horde when you know not from whence they strike? I am but a scout, not an army prepared for war. I will report what I find and the Imperial Colleges of Magic will act as necessary to protect the interests of the Empire and its allies." At Henri's beratement of his actions, Wiprecht laughs, shaking his head. "Truly, you have never met a noble of Reikland, then. All they do is scheme and plot and obfuscate. And as I am a grey wizard, obfuscation is my skill set." He gives a slight bow, still grinning. "As for who is lord and master there? I do not know. None claim this region as far as I have been made aware, and I dare imagine that if any nobility remains within this blighted barony, they do well to avoid the Cordon Sanitare and remain within their holds and castles and whatnot. My focus here has been the people and the wilds, watching them for signs of dark magic. Whoever rules upon that manse makes his business with the city of Mousillon, as there is little in this direction for anyone of power." He taps his lip for a moment in thought. "I will admit that whomever is in that manse holds some magical item or power, as I have sensed the winds of magic drawn in that direction. More than likely a damsel or court wizard of a sort." He shrugs, giving Henri a smile. "I do wish you well on your journey, good sir knight. And to the rest of you as well. I pray that next we meet you will be less inclined to simply butcher the simple folk of this town."
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Sep 18, 2017 18:58
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How dare you place matrimony over elf games.
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Sep 20, 2017 19:25
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Wiprecht gives the group a wave as they head south out of town, leaning against one of the hovels and smoking a pipe. He taps the ashes free and looks over to the pig, giving it a sly wink; the pig winks back and chuckles, with Wiprecht joining in after a moment. Mousillon only worsens the further south one goes, with biting insects swaming from the foul-smelling bogs that begin to crop up in the incredibly swampy land, and it takes four days of walking to reach the Grismerie river, which moves sluggishly and smells of turned milk that has been poured from the carcass of a raccoon that was stomped to death by a horse, a very specific smell familiar to the halflings. The river widens to the west, and shrinks to the east, and as the group seeks a stone bridge, it's logical that they would head west along the river. The river is shallow, but incredibly wide. Dismal stands of trees dot the landscape on either side of the river as the adventurers plod along, still swarmed by annoying biting insects. Every now and again they spot a small cluster of hovels that might make up a village, where the peasants who spot them hurry into their tiny little hovels when they see the meandering band of misfits. As the group follows the river, it deepens and becomes more like a river than a stream, and after several hours of walking, as the sun begins to set, they finally spy it in the distance: an impressive tower set above a stone bridge. A small village has sprung up on either side of the bridge, and there is a sign of civilization here as lamps burn within the villages and the tower, casting away the gloom. As the group approaches, the adventurers spy stakes on the far side of the river, one with a withered body still impaled upon it, but Henri spies something even more exciting: heraldry. A white banner hangs from the tower, showing three black roses intertwined over a golden fleur-de-lis. The coat of arms is not immediately familiar to Henri, but above all else, it means there is actual nobility this far out into the hell that is Mousillon. PS, they kept the horses back at the tower. Your horses would have been slain and eaten the second you got distracted by the peasants in Mousillon, a think Henri would know.
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Sep 25, 2017 04:28
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Several minutes pass before a small group emerges from the tower, lead by a tall, slim man clad in full mail armor bearing the coat of arms shown upon the tower itself. He stomps forward, his face furious and his hand on his sword, and flanking him are several common looking folks with crossbows and maces. "Such jokes are not even slightly amusing! What sort of scoundrel claims himself a knight this far into-" The man stops in his tracks when he sees Henri sitting upon his horse, clad in his armor and with a lance under his arm. His jaw drops for a moment before he composes himself, brushing his hair back and laughing heartily. "By the Lady, forgive me my manners, good sir knight! It is uncommon for us to be graced by true knights, and as of late we have been vexed by the sick humor of wayward minded peasants." He bows deeply, once again brushing his hair back into place when he stands and smiling warmly to the group. "I am Aucassin Hane, lord of these humble lands. It would be my distinct pleasure and utmost honor to give you lot a taste of hospitality in this inhospitable land." Aucassin motions to the man next to him, an aged man with thinning grey hair and an obvious limp. "Diomedes, please be so kind as to stable Sir Henri's horse and see to it that the steed is treated generously; wash down its flanks, be sure it is fed, do as you would for my own steed or those of my knights." The man nods, handing his crossbow over to one of the other members of the household staff and moving forward to take the reins from Henri. His voice is soft and wavering, and he speaks with a stammer. "It.. it would be my pl-pleasure, lord." Aucassin smiles, clapping his hands together. "Well then! Even though it is late in the day and I have already dined for the evening, I believe a meal is in order! Save what rations you may have, you are guests now in the Chateau Hane, and I would be remiss to not open my larder to you all." He leaves little room for argument as he turns, motioning for the staff to continue their duties; all of the formerly armed peasants hurry back to the tower to begin preparations for their lord's hosting. "Prepare the boar, Ingrid! There is no better time, now that we have dwarves and halflings amongst us!" He chuckles, turning back to the adventurers. "Come, come. Rooms and baths will be made ready for the lot of you, and once you are settled in dinner will be ready. There will be roast boar, seared turnips and other root vegetables, and various chutneys and salads as best as we can prepare." He gives another bow before turning to head back into the tower. "My staff shall see you to your rooms! Let them know should you need perfumes or colognes to cover the musk of Mousillon! Ha!" Aucassin has invited you all in, as nobles are wont to do in Bretonnia, and this is your chance to rub elbows with nobility and get cleaned up and fed properly. Since this is the only bridge across the Grismerie, this is also a good chance to find out more about LeBeau.
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Oct 3, 2017 16:33
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Aucassin turns mid-stride at the mention of LeBeau's name, his brow furrowing. "LeBeau? As in, Guido LeBeau? A man by that name passed through here earlier this week, but he said he was a merchant who had almost lost cargo to the storms off the coast of the city." The noble's features darken and he shakes his head, turning, his stride less cheerful now. "I had thought the man's gaze to be furtive and his manner of speaking criminal, but a bandit? You must tell me more over dinner, my friends. But, you must see to your own care first!" The adventurers are led up to the second floor of the tower as Aucassin busies himself with his staff in the main hall, where the group is lead to almost a dozen different suites, each fitted for noble guests and courtiers and with steaming baths heated by magical runes on the side of the ceramic tubs. Each suite has a maid and a steward standing at the ready for the whims of their guests, and a few cast nervous glances at one another due to the state of the guests or due to the armament they carry. Those attending to Jotunn politely smile, but it's obvious the smiles are forced; the dwarf is definitely not making any genuine friends with the staff with his interrogations. Since this is technically a resting point, we'll go ahead and dole out some experience here for everything you've dealt with so far. Go ahead and take 300 XP for your misadventures thus far. I'll move us along likely this coming sunday, since I work retail and we have inventory coming up on Friday and Saturday.
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Oct 4, 2017 15:53
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Nope! You can change to any non-exit basic career for 200 XP at any time. If it says 'BASIC' in the tab in the career compendium, then you can switch to it at any time for 200 XP. Note the 'non-exit' part there, though; since Scholar is an exit for Litigant, it's unfortunately not an option until the Litigant profile is completed. Since Apprentice Wizard is a basic career, you COULD spend 200 XP to jump right into it.. but it says in the text halflings and dwarves aren't allowed to become wizards. But since when do I listen to that bullshit? John Dyne fucked around with this message at 15:21 on Oct 6, 2017 |
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Oct 6, 2017 15:18
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Well, not everyone wants to stay a poo poo farmer forever. Though I will say I'm not gonna allow EVERYONE to be friggin' wizards. I already ran that game once and while it did have a Halfling wizard propel himself through a window through the sheer force of his Tzeentchian farts, it's not a thing I want to try again soon.
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Oct 6, 2017 15:38
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Nah dude, go ahead and be a wizard. I'll allow it. Stranger poo poo has happened in Moussilon.
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Oct 6, 2017 19:37
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After some time passes, Diomedes knocks on each and every door, announcing to the guests that the evening meal has been prepared and his lord is ready to entertain. Aucassin stands at the head of a large table of ancient wood that has been well tended, his hand on his chair bearing an engraving of his coat of arms. He smiles warmly, the fireplace in the room cutting the chill of the Mousillon night, and he gives a courteous bow. "Welcome, my friends. It is an honor to welcome you properly to the Chateau Hane, and to Mousillon itself. I pray you find me a diamond of nobility in a duchy that has fallen so far from grace." He moves to Cat's chair and pulls it out for her, giving her a charming smile. The rest of the group has their chairs moved out for them by various members of Aucassin's staff, and he sits only after pushing in Cat's chair for her. With a clap of his hands, the staff scuttles off and returns with several of the men bearing a large silver platter with a massive roast boar upon it, already carved for easy serving. Following them are other members of the staff carrying roasted and grilled vegetables, fried pheasants, and a broad variety of other foods to hopefully appeal to each of his guests. "And, for our friend from the Moot, I implored one of my chefs to make you a boar and potato pie. I hope it is to your liking, madam." He chuckles as the pie is set before the Halfling, and he makes himself a small plate while the rest tend to their meals. Sitting at the opposite end of the table near the fire is a handsome young man with long hair and a serious look upon his face; part of the table has remained clear for him, and it is cluttered with books and papers, and he sits hunched over a parchment, staring with frustration at the paper. Those close enough can see loping and elegant handwriting, but little has been written to the page. "Oh, how rude of me. My friends, this is Bertand of Aquitine, a renowned poet whom I have adopted into my court. His prose is divine, elegant and subtle; this man does not craft the chansons that my peers love so, but romantic and epic tales to thrill the heart and soul." At mention of his name, the poet glances up in surprise, and gives a nervous smile. "I am charmed, certainly. Lord Aucassin, I apologize for my distance, but this newest poem has me at wit's end." The lord chuckles, chewing on a small bite of boar meat. "Bertrand is privy to bouts of frustration over a single line of his work. His dedication to his craft means he has few works to his name, in comparison to other poets, but no other poet has such beautiful prose." Bertrand grins at the praise from Aucassin before turning back to his work, his brow furrowing. Diomedes stalks around the table behind a small group of serving boys, each bearing bottles of wine and other spirits, watching them like a hawk. Aucassin is the last to be served, and he selects an aged white wine, swirling his goblet before taking a long sip. "Please, take as much time as you wish dining. I can only imagine what rations you have eaten about your journey. Enjoy yourselves, and then we must discuss this LeBeau character."
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Oct 11, 2017 06:03
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Aucassin smiles politely at the compliments, bowing his head respectively and giving a low chuckle. "Please, you are all too kind. I know too well of the horrors out there in the swamps, and it absolutely a joy to have guests of a higher stature than the norm." He looks towards Henri and bows his head once more. "And it is particularly an honor to offer aid to one of the Lady's fine knights. Had I scouts or proper watchmen, I would have heard of your arrival sooner and been better prepared." Bertrand slides next to Archibald after a gesture from Aucassin, and the poet produces a scroll with fine, cramped writing on it; his poetry is not exactly what a halfling would typically read and enjoy, but Archibald might be able to see why Aucassin would like it. Aucassin looks from Jotunn to Henri as they speak of the truth of LeBeau, and the nobleman sighs in resignation, placing the napkin in his lap onto the table over his plate. "Aye, M. LeBeau did tell me he was a merchant, and that he was in a hurry to reach Mousillon itself as one of his vessels had anchored there but come afoul of one of the storms that came in from the sea. He did have a letter showing ownership of such a ship, and so I merely took the man at his word and offered him my hearth and home. To discover he is an agitator and criminal most foul shames me deeply." He frowns now, shaking his head. "His mannerisms were uncouth and his eyes furtive and secretive, but as he claimed to be a merchant, I assumed he was one in one of the lesser houses. I gave him a lame old black nag that we were preparing to slaughter to offer succor to some of the peasant folk, since their harvests and hunting have been meager, to say the least, and he gave over coin for the mare so.." He trails off in a shrug. "At least my people are fed, but to think I aided a man such as he." Aucassin's face darkens with anger and he gives another shake of his head. "I know you are all in a hurry, but his horse was lame and it couldn't have bought him much time. Please, allow me to have you as my guests for the customary two days, and by then my knights shall return and you shall have their steeds. I am not short on wealth so I can afford to replace their horses, but I can assure you their destriers will shorten LeBeau's lead by at least a week. You would be naught but two days behind him, then, if even that." The noble looks upon his guests expectantly, smiling warmly.
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Oct 18, 2017 19:41
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Aucassin claps his hands together, smiling happily. "Excellent! I am sorry your dwarven friend is opposed to the stay, but I assure you, I am an excellent host and these destriers will more than make up for the lost day. You will need your rest, and as it stands, he is mounted while you are on foot; to pursue LeBeau will be folly, and without suitable mounts his lead will only grow." He circles around the table to clap a hand on Jotunn's shoulder. "You seem the mercenary type, my friend; would a job keep you here with your friends?" The noble chuckles, motioning for a servant to bring him a chair, and he sits next to Jotunn; another member of the staff places a rolled up parchment in his hand, and he unseals it and rolls it out before Jotunn. He motions for his poet, and Bertrand stands. "Lord Aucassin has asked that I recite you one of my favorite works, titled simply.. Beauty." The man clears his throat, tucking his hands into the small of his back as he speaks. "My eyes drown in your beauty And my brain roils as I try to comprehend your glamor I then pull out the bottle's cork And sipping on the heavenly Port. Bless the Lady! Bless the Fay Enchantress! Until such time that the Sun should die that which I profess to which I regress? Reality is a staircase leading nowhere. Summer burns on, and my longing grows.." Meanwhile, Aucassin speaks to Jotunn in a hushed voice, unable to be heard above Bertrand's recitation. "There is a man who lives in the village nearby who has murdered one of the people I have sworn to protect. As you know, my knights are away, and he is more heavily armed than the villagers can handle, but I doubt he would be a concern for you. I can pay you handsomely, as I take any harm to those under my protection as an insult to my honor. Diomedes has questioned the people, and they have described the man and my major domo has been kind enough to illustrate his findings." He sits back so Jotunn can study the parchment, a fairly decent drawing of the man in question; Diomedes is apparently a very skilled artist. In contrast, the poem continues..
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Oct 25, 2017 04:14
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