[Abilities/Traits/Perks] >Indomitable, Rank 1: Ignore the penalties imposed by Blood Loss. Does not negate health loss. >Atelier of Death: Craft your own Bombs and Poisons >Nimble Fingers: +30 to non-attack actions involving your hands (lockpicking, pickpocketing, etc.). >Specter’s Dream: A technique to allow one to rest while remaining aware of one’s surroundings. (4/8/12 hour intervals each with their own bonuses) >Knowledge: Nobility (Aderaveth): Take a flat 50 to Knowledge rolls concerning this subject. >Knowledge: Underworld (Aderaveth): Take a flat 50 to Knowledge rolls concerning this subject.
“They descended upon the land, blocking out sun, moon and stars with the shrouds of their wings. And with a single breath, they set the world as we knew it ablaze with the flames of destruction. Gods and countries, friends and loved ones, everything burned on that cataclysmic night. Hundreds of years of human progress little more than smoldering ash.
“Drathil the Elder Fang. Oldest of the beasts, her scales had long since bleached over the centuries to where no man can recount their original shade. Harder than skyiron and as pale as pearls, nothing short of the most powerful attacks could ever hope to pierce her adamantine raiment. Stoic and prideful, unyielding and proud, her cunning intellect was sharper than rows of jagged tooth and claw.
“Vizhorek the Calamitous Heart. His very existence was anathema to the living, the very air he exhaled a miasma that drained the vitality from all it came to touch. Swathes of barren land still remain to this day, where the fiend had taken roost. The only thing more toxic than his breath was his cruelty, his malice and a desire to watch all mortals suffer.
“And Mallifax, the dark wyvern whom they called the Shroud of Shadows. The last of the Dragon Kings, it was he who brought the world to calamity and ruin, the herald of an Age of Fire. With a heart as cold and black as his scales, he led the hordes towards the old kingdoms of Man, commanded them to let the continent burn with dragonfire.
“I curse them and all the rest of their kind. I curse them with every breath I take, with every second I continue to live where they have fallen into the maggot-filled earth. And when my soul shall depart from this world to join the halls of my fathers, it will be with my dying breath that I curse their fell names.”
-Excerpt from the Chronicles of Baldir Urakest, the Dragonsbane and Last Warrior-King of Old Suthyae, -367 CR
==========
Of all the magical beasts to roam the lands of the known world, it is almost unanimous that there is none to match that of the dragon. Commanding both the fear and respect of lesser species, they have dominated the planet’s ecosystem with tooth and claw, magic and fire, for hundreds of years. Of course, this is no doubt due to their longevity, with the current record at nine hundred years, superior intellect, and the absence of a proper threat.
While they do share some commonalities in diet and other physical attributes, one would be hard-pressed to find two dragons who behave similarly. There are those who are little more than primal beasts, smashing and blasting their way to their goals with little consideration for thought or safety. And then there are those who are masters of cutthroat diplomacy, who favor cunning and guile in lieu of brutal strength. Yet even more dangerous are those that employ both silvered tongue and brute strength to achieve their ends meet.
(cont.)
Benjamin Reyes
A fact that we must first dispense with before we continue any further is the origins of these species. I speak not of the scaled, stone-like eggs from which they incubate and hatch, but their very creation in the grand scheme of the world. Doubtless you have heard of them: evil gods cursed by the Divines of the High Faith to take the forms of their inner selves, vessels of Aether that gained sentience by observing the Elder Pantheon. As of this edition, the Oratory suggests that they are creations who rejected the authority of the God of Light.
Now, I must tell you to cast your curiosity to the side, for there exists no concrete answer to that question. Seek not and speak not of the origins of the dragons, for it is a fruitless endeavor, a cause that great men and magisters have wasted their lives on.
Tragically, we can gain no further knowledge, as all that remains of the mighty beasts are bone and ash. And what little manuscripts that survived the tumultuous Age of Fire are scant to offer any details. Yet, the beasts are not so easily forgotten, as they continue to regale the tales, legends and history of the people of Kaithe. Perhaps that is something we can take a small, if not regretful, solace in. What I would pay to see the dragons once more above the skies of Kaithe...
-Introduction to the 3rd Edition of the Lexicon of Dragonkind, written by Magister Anvino, 14 CR
===========
There is little information regarding the Dragon-King Mallifax prior to the Long Night of Fire. Other than the names of his progenitors, Inoith and Praagdrix, we know little of the history of the Shroud of Shadows before his arrival to Kaithe. Yet, physical evidence suggests that at the time of his death, Mallifax was at least four centuries, old enough to challenge his sire for the mantle of the Horned Crown and the right to rule over the Dragons.
(cont.)
Josiah Johnson
Yiss caught up and get to catch one live
Adam Lewis
I've missed this quest so much T~T
Brayden Collins
The absence of any further knowledge is more than likely caused by the Exodus from the Old Continent, when the Vethics took to the sea to escape a barren continent and the monsters that inhabited it. Oral accounts now safely inscribed onto sheets of vellum can trace genealogies of the beasts for the last thousand years before our ancestors made the treacherous journey across the Nemelhiem Ocean. This suggests that Mallifax was born after their flight, further supported by the four-hundred year Golden Age that the Vethics experienced when they landed on the Eastern Seaboard of modern-day Kaithe.
Yet it would not last. For all their cities and settlements, alliances with the native Ingulans and Eridians of the Western Continent, all of that progress became undone when the dragons landed upon Kaithe. The Vethics were quick to forget of their troubles, and within ten generations, the fear of wyverns had faded from their minds. Perhaps this is why the Long Night of Fire was so devastating to all of the continent.
Mallifax was not so quick to forget the lesser species that had tainted what he believed to be a world solely for the purpose of dragons. Where others held indifference, and at the worst, a desire to turn mankind into a servitor race, the Shroud of Shadows held only fire and death in his black heart. At the pinnacle of his power, the Dragon-King gathered his forces and crossed the Nemelheim Ocean, braving salt and storm to reach the object of his search.
A prominent theory of their general search is survivors, left behind, tortured to reveal where their luckier kin had fled. It is unknown how long their journey was or how many perished along the way. Yet, on the fateful night of the Feast of the Arrival, a time of joyous celebration and unity among the three peoples, there were enough of the wyverns to blot out the sky.
(cont.)
Angel Bailey
Merriment quickly gave way to despair when Mallifax’s wings blocked out the overhead moon. And despair gave way to panic when the dragon commanded his legions to bathe the land in dragonfire. Stone and masonry ran like hot butter, castles and fortifications collapsing under the magical flames. Flesh sloughed off of bone, eyes boiled in their sockets, and knights cooked alive in their armor as the heat scoured through the inhabitants of the city of Karthmire. And it was only the beginning, the first of many boroughs to suffer the wrath of the dragons.
One by one, the dragons razed stronghold and sanctuary, burning their way slowly from the Eastern sides of Kaithe. With command of two thirds of his legions given to his trusted lieutenants, Drathil, the Elder Fang, and Vizhorek the Calamitous Heart, Mallifax would see the wide-spread annihilation of the human race.
To the north, Drathil took her forces to cleanse the northern mountains and plains of the Ingulans. Vizhorek laid waste to the Southlands, letting his corruption seep into the earth and soil. For his part, the Shroud of Shadows was content to let his arrival spread among the Western kingdoms. The better to strike fear into their hearts, drive refugees into their walls, the easier to kill them with little effort.
It is often romanticized in ballads and poems of how the three races worked together to stop the dragons’ advance before the rest of them fell. Do not believe the tales of tavern bards and troubadours, for it is all balderdash. Everyone was quick to point fingers and lay blame upon each other, alliances crumbling to ever-mounting hostility. The Ingulans blamed the Vethics for bringing “A Plague of Darkness” upon the land and fulfilling a cataclysmic prophecy; the Vethics cursed the Eridians for not protecting the Seas as they should have; they in turn blamed the Ingulans for not warning of the prophecy and quickly decamping at the first sign of trouble.
(cont.)
Samuel Barnes
>Marcusbowl What did he mean by this?
Blake Parker
Girls want the D?
Luis Campbell
But there is a winner already
Camden Powell
Holy info dump Batman.
Couldn't find a way to do world building and exposition naturally Kaz?
Lucas Walker
Hey most contestants don't know that.
Josiah Lee
This one's been burning a hole in my pocket since I had a lot too much time on my hands in my hiatus. Apologies if it comes long winded.
Isaiah Collins
He could be a hack and do that thing where the entire infodump was actually a passage in a book a character was reading. It's brazen and inelegant but it's better than nothing.
Evan Williams
And deteriorating diplomacy was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Refugees fleeing from the east poured into west, quickly overpopulating the cities and creating slums and hostels within the fortresses. What foodstuffs were left in reserve quickly began to run dry, and starvation broke out among the poorer territories. Plague broke out, ironically killing more than the dragons initially did when some lords ordered the immediate executions of those suspected caring the disease.
From without, dispersed armies quickly turned to banditry, preying upon those they had once sworn to protect. The wizards of the Ivory Tower could fell some of the beasts, but their numbers quickly diminished in the long war. Perhaps the most disturbing, a cult dedicated to the worship of dragons quickly rose to prominence. Some believed in appeasement, believing sacrifices would state the beasts. Others raved and ranted about mankind’s last hours, and how the dragons would deliver them from the world through cleansing flame.
For fifteen long hears, mankind tattered on the brink of destruction. Then, Baldir Ursakest, the Lost Prince of Suthyae, returned to reclaim his birthright.
Having taken shelter deep under the catacombs of the ruined city of Kathmire, the lost prince was among the pitiful few who had survived the Long Night of Fire. Struggling against the arms of his retainer, he had watched his parents consumed by Mallifax’s black flames. In the scorched ashes of his kind, he swore vengeance upon the dragons. And in the years spent transitioning from boy to manhood, the flames of vengeance burned hot.
With naught but his father’s sword, the last loyal retainer of Urakest, and those he could convince to join him in his war, Baldir returned to Suthyae. Civil war briefly erupted as the current incumbent did not wish to surrender the throne. Yet it was futile to resist, and after a struggle, he reclaimed his birthright and began making preparations for war.
(cont.)
Ryan Jackson
The choice he offered to the squabbling people was simple: join or die. And not necessarily by the forces at their borders. His sorcerers had claimed the Ivory Tower of Magic for his faction, as well as all their support and weapons necessary to win the war. If they would not unite, he would kill them all. Better to let them die now than to wait for the dragons’ arrival.
Begrudgingly, the remaining city-states swore allegiance to Baldir, and those that didn’t…
----
Palme frowned, pausing midway through his dramatic intonation of how Baldir united Kaithe to see his charges fast asleep in their beds. Allanus and Ellana had collapsed a long time ago in the arms of a sleeping Adrianna, evident by the strands of drool running down their faces. Huddled against the warm down blankets and the embrace of their elder sister, the siblings slept peacefully through the howling winds outside.
Shaking his head in bemusement, the Lord Commander of the Crownguard closed the book and quietly made his exit. Falling asleep to one of his tales was a first. Then again, Ansell tried to slip this lesson of the history into their bedtime stories, as opposed to the whimsical tales of youthful folly and foray. Little wonder why they collapsed, even with his dramatic rendition of Baldir Dragonsbane.
He left the book where it was, in the hopes that they would resume the tale when they were more open to receiving it. The next day, perhaps? No, the day after would be better. Palme could feel the scratches at his throat. It would be best to take a brief breather and return to simpler tasks. Keeping the Crowmonds safe was far easier than keeping them entertained. With Emeron soon to return, his troubles would soon be over.
All he had to do now was pray nothing extraordinary happened in the days to come…
It is with a grim demeanor that you prepare yourself for the morning, slipping on a fresh tunic and strapping on your leathers with a permanent frown affixed to your face. Your body is hale and fresh after spending time both actually sleeping and resting in the Specter’s Dream, but your mind is far from ease. You’ve never had dreams that left you in a cold sweat, but last night’s was…
You snort derisively as you strut out of your tent. No, it wasn’t a dream. You and Serena had gone quite far enough into that debate. The vision or whatever it had been…those kinds of things never bode well. Visions of dead lovers and enemies…early signs of paranoia or dementia? Paranoia? Emotional response to trauma?
Pinching the bridge of your nose in consternation, you absently take a bit of cured meat from a servant as they bustle around cleaning up the campsite. The pork does nothing to help your mood, though it does a wondrous job of stating your hunger.
Within two hours, the caravan finishes its packing, just as Lord Pullman’s reinforcements pull into the garrison. Tents have been struck and clothes put away into their chests, the only evidence of their prior errection bare patches of snow where they had once stood. And at the carriage, the Crowmonds stand, bleary and rubbing at the corner of their eyes as the sun peeks out from an overcast sky.
After exchanging a few words with the leader, Lord Pullman mounts his horse and orders the continuation of the journey. The goal is to make it at least twenty five miles, towards the holdings of Lord Mazur, master of the territory between the Pullman Vale and the Highlands. There, you will spend a night before continuing on your way to Fort Azgona.
You shuffle around the carriage, nodding in acknowledgement to the royal family and the rest of your Crownguard as they mount up on their horses…
>Choose one: >Stay outside on your horse >Volunteer for carriage duty
Jason Morris
psst, the previous thread link points to 7, not 8.
Wyatt Watson
>>Stay outside on your horse
Blake Taylor
>Volunteer for carriage duty We horse ride last time? Don't remember
Julian King
>>Stay outside on your horse After the "dream" we're ill suited to people time
Michael Perez
...oops. Well, too late to change it. I'll be more vigilant in the future. Link to Thread 8 for posterity's sake.
We didn't ride in it last time but still now is not a socializing time I think. Better suited to quiet introspection.
Owen Ward
>>Stay outside on your horse
Ethan Lewis
>>Volunteer for carriage duty Just to be contrarian
Andrew Martinez
>Stay outside on your horse best to sort out his own thoughts first.
....or get first blood in an attack.
Isaac Evans
>Stay outside on your horse
Josiah Torres
>Stay outside on your horse.
After the events of last night, you’re not exactly in the socializing mood. You’re nowhere near the absolute desolation of the night you got your vengeance, but the hole in your heart feels like it got a few inches wider. No, it is best for you to have some time to yourself, to sort out your muddled emotions and clear your head.
It does not go unnoticed by Ellana, who frowns at you with as her siblings enter the carriage. You catch her look, and force a smile to your face, pointing to your rear and making a pained gesture. It isn’t exactly a lie. Horseback riding is uncomfortable, even as you become more accustomed to riding.
Either way, she seems to accept it. Smiling lightly, she waves at you before going in herself, swiftly followed by Bellatrix who shuts the door behind her. It’s a wise choice between the four of you, a silent agreement passed solely with eye contact. Urath (or Archer, as it’s easier to call him) would be ill-suited given his primary weapon of choice. For a journey this long, it would be wise for him to stay outdoors, where his hawk’s eye could best be put to use.
Silverow politely abstained citing how he had already ridden, and how it would be unfair for him to go again when Bellatrix had not. It had nothing to do with his nonexistent motion sickness in wheeled vehicles. How chivalrous of him.
Gently nudging your mount in the flank, you set a brisk pace to the side of the carriage as it lurches forward. With most of the night’s ice already on the way to meltwater, the caravan proceeds out of the Midbridge Garrison at a moderate tempo. Within an hour, the sight of the bridge and the banner of the Vale Eagle fades from sight as you make your way down into the vale itself.
(cont.)
Liam Nguyen
It is a landscape transitioning from winter to spring. Underneath the cracking ice, the full roar of the River Anosar can be heard as it sweeps runoff into the valley. Snow still clings to the branches of trees, and a low morning mist girdles the powdered land. Soon, the river will be free of permafrost, and the trees unshackled by their frozen fetters. The Vale is one of the most beautiful places in Aderaveth to be in the coming of spring.
But the sight around you is not enough to distract from that which plagues your mind. The first time something happens, it is merely an accident. The next time? Pure coincidence. Three times is enemy action. It is a belief that you subscribe to, with one minor edit. Two occurrences is enough cause to worry. An assassin…or rather, one who was trained in their ways, can never be too careful.
Lucien Painel and Serena Lerche. A man you loathe and a girl you love. Both dead, one left to rot in the remains of a broken home, the other sent to the gods with a fiery pyre to match her passion in life. Both come to see you in dreams. Or rather, Lucien seemed to be the only one you saw outside of the Specter’s Dream. That one had definitely been a dream.
But Serena hadn’t. It was too vivid, cruelly life-like to be anything but a visitation. You rack your mind, thinking of how such a thing might happen. Magic spells could do that, but the strength to cast them had not been seen since the Age of Fire. Gods, perhaps, and their spirits and demons?
You snort derisively. Magic though the world may be, and enough magical creatures still roam the land, but there’s nothing off the top of your head that you can absolutely pin on a sure culprit. Making a mental note to do some research when the opportunity presents itself, you return to the melancholic observance of the surrounding lands.
(cont.)
Brayden Torres
>Roll 1d100 Perception >Best of three
John King
Rolled 6 (1d100)
roll it
Chase White
Rolled 18 (1d100)
Owen Walker
Rolled 1 (1d001)
Aiden Phillips
...
Ian Turner
>Rolled 1 (1d001) >1d001
What the everfuck are you doing?
Julian Walker
Rolled 59 (1d100)
Josiah Reed
crap
ehh
Nicholas Gray
Fucking with you evidently.
Jayden Stewart
Kaz what would you do if we achieved 4 nat 1s in the same thread again?
Grayson Stewart
Pull a Varian and empty the bottle of Scotch I've got in my desk.
Writing...
Xavier Murphy
Thank you for the better-than-average roll.
Matthew Clark
Scotch is too refined. At that point it's time to take a trip to the LC and pick up some fortified wine and brownbag it like a hobo. That's where the real fucked up shit comes from.
Jacob Adams
It’s faint, but you’re sure you almost saw something. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see a cluster of snow fall down from a nearby tree branch, and hear the accompanying sound of birds tittering as they scatter from their roost. You turn in the saddle, squinting at the distant tree line and fallen patch of snow that’s a good ten, fifteen meters from the main road. It’s slightly slopped, but not to the point of struggling to hike up the incline.
Urath notices your hesitation and urges his horse towards you. He looks up to where you gaze, before asking, “Is there problem?”
You cough. “I’m not sure. I thought I saw something…just might have been birds. Or snowmelt falling off trees. I know that dragonkin inhabit the vale, but they go to ground in winter. And we should still be safe from bears.”
He frowns, eyebrows furrowing at where you point. With a seamless motion, he grabs his bow and nocks an arrow to the string. Before you can even blink, he releases it into the forest. It’s too fast for you to track, but you can see where it lands, smacking directly into the pile of snow that fell down from the tree.
A few of the Eagle Knights take notice of your gathering, and even Silverow pulls up along the two of you. “Is something the matter?”
A tense moment of silence passes before Urath grins. “No. It is nothing after all. I am only practicing for tonight’s feast. I saw geese flying overhead. I hunger for meat that is fresh and not dried…”
His words trail away as a figure bursts out of the snow where the arrow hit. It’s too far away to make out any defining characteristics, but it’s more than clear that it’s human. It struggles with something at the foot of the tree, trying to lift something…a body, you realize.
Before you even know it, one of your throwing knives is in your hands. Urath has another arrow in his bow and blue flames churn to life in Silverow’s hand.
(cont.)
Mason Ortiz
damn, garcher
Evan Bennett
“Go to your master,” The mage hisses as the Eagle Knights bring their weapons about to bear. At their hesitation, he continues, “It would do no good to kick up a panic. Let Lord Pullman know that we’ve found someone spying on us. Keep it discreet, don’t disturb the Crowmonds-”
You don’t wait for him to finish. With a sharp nod to Urath, the two of you kick your horses and race off into the woods. The trees are mercifully clustered wide enough to let the horses through, leaping over brambles and rocks with the ease of well-trained war animals. And while you have little experience in riding through terrain harder than paved ground, the horse’s experience compensates for your inability.
At the sight of you, the target gives up on trying lifting the body and flees deeper into the forest. The snow is deep enough to hinder its movements, but not enough to stop it completely. Not that it matters, given the two of you are on horseback.
In its haste, the figure trips on a root, landing face first into the snow. Floundering as you reach the plateau of the hill, it panics. From underneath a white fur cloak, it brings a crossbow about to bear against you and your mount. Your eyes narrow as you track the shot, quickly calculating where it will try to strike.
The bolt whistles through the air, accompanied by the hum of its drawstring. With little more than a quick tug at the reins, you pull your horse and your head out of the way of the projectile. As it sails harmlessly behind you, what little skin you can see underneath layers of clothing and protection quickly pales at your advance.
But it doesn’t stop. Scrambling to stand up, the assailant loads another bolt into the weapon…
>How are you going in? >Lethal. The guy’s trying to kill you. >Non-lethal. You need answers.
Alexander Walker
>>Non-lethal. You need answers.
Angel Gomez
>Non-lethal. You need answers. we have the numbers and the horses
that said, it'd be a problem if he blows up or something.
Christian Lopez
>>Non-lethal. You need answers. Whoever they are they don't need the continued use of their fingers....or legs.
Gavin Ross
>>Non-lethal. You need answers. Info is always nice.
Elijah Richardson
>>Non-lethal. You need answers.
Ethan Gomez
>>Non-lethal. You need answers.
Benjamin Gutierrez
>Non-lethal. You need answers.
Adrian Allen
There’s a little part of you that’s irritated that you’re going in for a non-lethal takedown. You’re already in a bad mood, and there’s a line of logic that suggests taking it out on this poor sap. That tried to plug you with a crossbow bolt.
Still, you need information. And judging from the way that Urath disregards the other guy, the person in front of you is probably your only source of information. Dead men tell no verbal tales. And live ones don’t necessarily need the continued use of their fingers or legs to survive.
You leap from the saddle just as it finishes loading the weapon. There is a terrific noise as you crash into him, forcing the crossbow to aim straight into the sky and away from you or Urath. You lead with the knee, smashing into the guy’s stomach and where a finger’s wrapped around a trigger guard. The bolt sails up into the air, joining its cousin in a harmless flight through the brisk climate of the Vale.
The butt of the weapon comes up to smash you in the face. At least, it would have if you hadn’t smashed your own head into the guy first. He, clearly a he by the string of curses that come out of his throat, reels back instinctively, and clutches at his broken nose with a blood-stained glove,
But even as he tries to soothe his pain, the cold noise of steel grating against metal rings at his waist. He draws a dagger from his belt, and you’re quick to intercept it. But to your surprise, he does not try to shove it into your own heart. Rather, he seems to be trying to force his own weapon into his chest. And he’s got leverage against you, pushing down where you're trying to pull.
Shit. This isn't good...
>Roll 1d100 + 30 Combat >Best of three
Benjamin Wright
Rolled 11 + 30 (1d100 + 30)
Jaxon Williams
Rolled 49 + 30 (1d100 + 30)
no seppeku for you
Luke Miller
Rolled 84 + 30 (1d100 + 30)
Carter Gonzalez
Nice.
Jonathan Edwards
For a moment, you cede resistance to the assailant. And just for a second, he smirks as the point of the dagger is ready to pierce his chest…only for you to push it higher, right past his sternum, and give it the final push into his shoulder.
His smile shatters and he howls in agony as the dagger makes scraping noise against the white of his collarbone. Something fibrous gives way, and the left arm desperately trying to shove you off becomes slack, dead in the air. That definitely tore something as well. But just for good measure…
You reach for your own dagger and reverse the grip, driving the pommel of the weapon straight into the guy’s temple. His struggles cease, and he collapses into the snow, eyes unfocused and staring at nothing. You leave the dagger in his shoulder as you close his eyes. Wouldn’t do for him to bleed out before you can put the metaphorical screws to him.
From behind you, Urath approaches, bowstring taut and arrow at the ready. When you wave for him to stand down, the Inglan immediately loosens the bow, gently coming out of the firing position he had. With a nod that spoke as much of impression as well as acknowledgement, he reaches into his pocket and tosses you an object.
“Found it around the dead one’s neck.” He spits onto the forest ground. “You recognize amulet?”
It is a coin, that of the Sunken Crown above the Deep Goblet, with a leather thong going through the hole in the center.
Vascieli.
Well, fuck.
“…there was only two of them,” You exhale, gesturing towards your guy and towards the area where the corpse lies. “Scouts, maybe? Sending two men…”
Urath frowns. “Could be very far, or very near. Numbers are uncertain, but fact remains that it is dangerous in woods. Enemies lurking nearby…”
You shift at that and turn towards your new prisoner…
>Wake him up, question him here >Drag his ass back to the caravan
Gonna grab some dinner, brb
Alexander Gray
>>Wake him up, question him here
Easton Wilson
>>Drag his ass back to the caravan
Ian Smith
>Wake him up, question him here There is a possibility that we have traitors in the caravan group.
Parker Russell
>>Drag his ass back to the caravan
Ian Reed
>Drag his ass back to the caravan
Logan Hughes
>>Drag his ass back to the caravan I'd rather question him where we have others able to protect or ass if there's an ambush waiting.
Cameron Jones
Back, bumped and writing...
James Hall
Kaz, can we waifu the dragon?
Cooper Howard
>Drag his ass back to the caravan
He isn't an assassin, probably a spy. There is too much trouble for just a bandit rebellion...
Colton Jones
We'd have to find one first. From the opening blurb, looks like they're dead, or at least /thought/ dead
Jose Martinez
I know these rebels are ex-military, but aren't they a bit too well organised and equipped? They might have outside help. Not that it's our problem, we just need to protect the royals and survive the Marcusbowl.
Gavin Collins
The wind that scrabbles at your cloak and leathers is barely strong enough to kick up the smallest bits of fallen ice. Yet in spite of an overt hindrance from nature, the landscape is not friendly to the exposed, the open. For all you know, there’s fifty of the bastards just around the mountain. Where there’s one Vascieli, there’s trouble. Two of them? A big pain in the ass.
You haul your captive none too gently, making sure the dagger’s stuck nice and fast in his ruined shoulder as you toss him over the back of your horse. “We need to go back,” You grunt, hoisting yourself up into the saddle with two tries before you settle comfortably on the animal’s back. “I’d rather be in the company of an armed escort if things get ugly when we put the screws to him.”
Urath nods, before tilting his head in confusion. “What does that mean? ‘Put screws’ to the prisoner?”
Oh. Well, given his heavily accented Westeron, you suppose that it isn’t too far of a reach to assume that he isn’t familiar with euphemisms. “Torture. The saying comes about from thumbscrews. Device that slowly crush the prisoner’s fingers with a screwing mechanism.”
“Ah. I see.” He brings his Vascieli with him, the body limply dangling from the back of his own horse as the two of you race back towards the Caravan. You notice a clean hole, right in the center of the guy’s throat and straight through the interior jugular. Poor bastard must’ve bleed to death. Or choked on his own blood.
With that pleasant thought, you emerge from the treeline, and canter slowly up to the rest of the group. They’ve stopped, twenty of the elite knights safeguarding the carriage in a circular formation. The rest are either dismounted or on foot, weapons at the ready for any sign of trouble.
Lord Pullman and his aides march up towards you the instant you set foot on the main road. “What’s this?” He demands, gesturing towards the prisoners. "Who are they?"
(cont.)
Justin Sullivan
You flash him the bloodied amulet that Urath tossed to you. The Lord of the Vale hisses, gauntleted hand tightening around his sword. “Vasciel.” The word comes out as a ferocious snarl. “How many of them?”
“Just the two, milord,” You answer. “They’re scouts, given the way they’re all prettied up.”
You nudge the white fur cloak of the dead man with your elbow, and the corpse promptly falls to the ground. Everyone winces as the head lands with a wet splat and a fresh spray of arterial blood that dies the snow a bloody red. Pullman ignores that, promptly striking the head with a vicious kick, hard enough to make the neck snap with a nasty crack.
“What?” He asked, wiping his boots onto the snow. “He twitched. Alright, you two. I see that this one’s still breathing. We’ve no room for any prisoners.”
“We will ask him questions,” Urath intones. “Are they alone? Where are their friends? What are they doing here? How many of them are out there?”
Pullman nods. “Good. You might do a better job than my men or I could. We’d probably kill the guy in the middle of our questioning.”
The candid way he says it is not dissimilar to how one would discuss the weather. Then again, he had only allowed mercy for the younger members, ones obviously forced to take up arms by the rebel army. With these bastards’ equipment, it’s clear that they’ve been in the service willingly. And if not, old enough to realize that they should’ve risked the wrath of the Sunken King instead of that of the Lord of the Vale.
“We’ll give you some room,” He mutters, waving for his men to stand down. “But we’re moving, so you’ll have to take him along for the ride. We’re too exposed here. I’ll not risk an ambush. Damn bastards are like cockroaches…”
Once the two of you are left alone with the prisoner, you whisper to Urath. “Okay, here’s how we’ll do it…”
>You’ll be the good guard. >You’ll be the bad guard.
Owen Wood
>>I’ll be the good guard. >>You be the mentally disabled guard.
Lucas Rodriguez
>You'll play the bad guard
Luke Hernandez
>You’ll be the bad guard. Maybe mention he has some evil ingulan witchcraft or something
Cameron Edwards
>>You’ll be the good guard. To be honest I doubt Marcus is in the mood to be nice at all right now.....let's reenact our info gathering from the one guy in the begining :D One inch of skin at a time.
Luke White
*TO CLARIFY* You are voting for which guard Marcus will be. I should've specified that better.
Kevin Evans
You'll be bad guard. I'll be even badder guard.
Joseph Foster
>>You’ll be the bad guard. Here's our chance to vent that sour mood.
Juan Cox
>You’ll be the good guard. The good guard does most of the talking, and Urath is even less of a talker than us.
Jordan Wilson
Fixing this, sorry. >You’ll be the bad guard.
Christian Adams
>>You’ll be the bad guard.
William Cooper
>>You’ll be the bad guard.
Ethan Peterson
>>You’ll be the bad guard. We're in a very bad mood, it would be ideal.
Henry Morris
You pull him in close. “You’ll play to his good side. You genuinely want him to give us answers without any unsavory things.”
He seems puzzled, but nods. “Yes, that would be ideal. What happens if he does not talk?”
“Given where his loyalties lie and how he was going to kill himself, he’s not going to talk easily. If that happens, I may need to step in.”
“What will you do?”
Several possibilities flash in the back of your mind. Without going too much into the nastier details, you say, “I’ll put the screws to him.”
Urath frowns, but nods. “We have no…thumbscrew? Yes, we have no thumbscrew. At least, I do not. But do you have one?”
You smile in spite of yourself. “No, I don’t. I’ll just use one of my knives.”
“I see.”
You kneel beside your unconscious prisoner. “Pass me the rope. I don’t want any of the Crowmonds seeing us talk to the bastard. We’re gonna take him for a ride.”
He nods, handing you a small length of rope no bigger than five feet. None too gently, you wrap it around the Vascieli, binding his arms in place with the twine. Once you secure the final knot on his person, you thread it around his backside and the horn of the saddle.
“Alright. We’re all set. Mount up, we’re gonna get to the front of the caravan.”
“Painel.” You turn towards him, and he affixes you with an unreadable look. It’s both solemn, reserved and incredibly pointed. “You are very knowledgeable about these things.”
It is not a compliment.
At that, all you can do is exhale, as if the chip on your shoulder just got ten pounds heavier. “Yeah. I know. I’m not proud of it…but it’s for a good cause. It’s gonna keep the Crowmonds safe.”
>Later
“Wake up, you bastard.”
(cont.)
Lucas Martin
You unceremoniously throw a bucket of meltwater into the scout’s face. Sputtering, he miraculously comes back to life, keeling over has his legs tangle in the rope. Even you twitch when his unprotected face hits the ground. Hard. The words that pour out of his mouth are enough to make a sailor blush. Not that it seems to bother Urath in the slightest. The Ingulan kneels down beside the prisoner as you affix the bucket to your saddle.
“You are prisoner now,” He intones, a frown on his face. “Tell us what we want and we will treat you with honor.”
“Honor?” He rasps, his voice resembling one who has taken copious amounts of narcotics. It resembles more of a wheeze than a breath, and cracks in too many places. “Can it fix my shoulder? Can I eat it and fill my starving belly? Unless I can physically feel it like a whore’s teat, your honor is useless to me, Imperial scum.”
“Starving?” The Ingulan glances downwards at the man’s obvious gut. “You look unhealthy, overweight. Perhaps your liver is damaged from too much fermented drinks. Over-sexed, possibly. Starvation is a guaranteed way to lose fat.”
Flabbergasted, the man just stares at the Crownguard. You yourself have trouble maintaining the threatening look on your face with Urath’s deadpan straightforwardness.
“But we do not wish to starve you. You say that you are hungry? I have cured meat in my bag. Perhaps that would be of good use to you?”
The rebel continues to stare before spitting at the Ingulan’s feet. “Go fuck yourself, you mud-skinned gulan.”
…he just used the ‘g’ word.
There’s no time to intervene. The scary part is that Urath is still smiling, even as he punches the man straight in the throat. With a terrible wheeze even shriller than before, he collapses to the ground in a puddle of his own piss.
“I do not think it worked,” He says to you. "Your turn, then?"
>Choose one: >Aggravate his wound. >Hit him in the dick. >Take him for a ride.
Ayden Morales
>Take him for a ride. The more exciting option
Adrian Roberts
>Take him for a ride.
Camden Bennett
Left Foot or Right? When he asks what we mean explain to him that since he has no interest in honor, we're going to start cutting off joints of his toes, before moving upwards. A clean death and honorable Burial is an honor after all. since he refuses to talk, and we have other victims to interrogate, we're just going to practice our knifework on him until he passes. Maybe his fellows will get the hint from his screams. Honestly though if they don't that's fine, that means they get to scream, which is the best part. Maybe if we're lucky he'll live until we get up to his guts, now that's REAL fun. So left or right?
Lucas Edwards
I like it
Luis Hughes
Holy shit
Lucas White
My sides have left orbit. Please send help.
William Ward
Rolled 1 (1d2)
Rolling for tiebreaker
1. Take him for a ride 2. Work our way up
Writing...
Logan Edwards
why did you guys not vote?
was 2 brutal enough for you Kaz?
Ayden Reed
So edgy I cut my lip on it Bretty Gud
Writing...
Nolan Miller
I'm not paying enough attention. I'm playing games and periodically checking this.
Dylan Hall
To note, I'd have voted for the ride. The other one is too edgy for me. So the result would be unchanged.
Kayden Watson
With two screens you can have steam up and watch for updates. I can't believe I ever lived with only one screen.
