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On The Boat The air at sea is no less tense than it was during your standoff with The Tyrant. It keeps the captain from straying off topic. The private cargo is destined for a warehouse in Shield. Where it goes from there ceases to be any business of his. If there is anything to be sent back in its place, he would not know until arriving. The delivery was paid for in advance by its sender, via the usual chain of intermediaries needed to ensure professional detachment. Joking about Miss Jansdatter leaving little to the imagination quickly falls aside. Vestin is largely unfamiliar with northern spirituality, he presumes whoever Leif reveres is merely some local divinity. As he understands it, it is quite common for Haslan gods to pay visits to their followers and look well on hospitality. With a little coaxing, he notes that from prior visits he'd judged Leif to be rather private about his faith. That he raised the subject of his mistress so quickly in your presence was even less ordinary than the man's usual behaviour. Back in Town Sammi stands transfixed, eyes slowly drifting between the points of light upon The Tyrant's face. Cloud's words shake him form his trance. He flips about to face the Scourge, landing balanced on his own hair. His coat, it seems, is not yet informed of the change in orientation. "Ah, yes! Mustn't forget. Best see that un-missplaced before another kind soul finds something else that's mine!" A dramatic raise of a finger into the ground flings him to a rooftop. Now on his feet again, he begins to spy about the town.
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Nov 4, 2012 20:37
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Tarn Kavik The motonic substrata of Creation's existence is laid bare before the power of She Who Lives In Her Name, revealing the metaphorical gears turning beneath the surface of visible reality. In the air, Silk and Silver Cloud: fluorescent ribbons of multi-hued vapor, a nest of streamers trailing the shining windblade like the tail of a comet. On the ground, the Glorious Tyrant: blazing radiance that overshadows all within reach, but with a subtle, inner wavering. Next to him, Drunk on Bitter Fortunes: a roiling column of seething vitriol in the shape of a man, sporadically bubbling and erupting with wisps of emerald flame. On the roof above, looking out over the town- *i#Nc!!On&g%R/Uit^Y* Tarn's eyes narrow as the fractured, disjoint mass of impossible polyhedrons resolves into a blatant transgressor against the laws of physics. The elf is a commoner, one that shows signs of evolution from its origins in the faceless masses of someone else's story. Stranger than even its patchwork Essence structure, though, is its garb: as florid and elaborate as it is, the underlying uniform is unmistakably that of a soldier of the Cold Iron Brand. "Well!" he announces, "That certainly is an interesting choice of outfit for a Raksha. I'm sure yours is an interesting tale, and with many a daring exploit judging from your choice of company - care to share it?" Int+Occult 10 to detect elfness = 7 sux. Sammi is an Ess3 Raksha commoner with a number of mutation-like charms. Charisma+Presence+Spec 8 to get him to open up: 4 sux. Thesaurasaurus fucked around with this message at 21:51 on Nov 4, 2012 |
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Nov 4, 2012 21:45
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Gentle Snow "Well, I thank you for that piece of information, and this excellent beverage. Continue to keep your actions and trade so overwhelmingly wholesome and we will get along fine," he said. He slowly rose to his feet and raised his glass to his host. "Betray the Tyrant or betray those you trade with to greed, and no spot on land or sea will be safe." He bid the captain a final drink, and as the Captain touched the last of his brew to his lip, a trace of shimmering lacquer slid invisibly down his throat. He gagged at the strange, unexpected flavor. "My gift. It will protect you so long as you stay virtuous," Snow smiled, and in that smile one could see horrible truth. Larceny to 2, Presence to 2, and learning Mutagenic Poison. Sleight of hand: 6 successes, possibly with a bonus since I just have to look at something to apply poison to it. I want to use that Mutagenic Poison to apply the Pack Instinct and Madness Trigger mutations. I'm also going to develop a positive intimacy to 'Those Loyal to Us' to protect them from broad applications of my poison. In the event that someone is cast out of the pack (or school, what with it being aquatic-themed), the madness triggers and they will attempt to destroy all they own and cast off their belongings. Since I'm a manipulative son of a bitch, I'd like to preserve the ability to cast people out as a Snow-only thing. Snow left the ship, dosing the grog supply as he did so, and headed to the ocean. He spent an hour soaking in the sweet, sweet, breath of Kimbery and summoned a few sea monsters. His manse would need more people to maintain it, so he imbued them with mad intelligence and sent them on their way. Early in his Exaltation he had imbued a team of giant crabs with claws that could dig through stone like it was soft cheese and set them to dig a hundred mile water path from the ocean to his sunken manse. None but a Watery Dragonblooded or a Chosen of Kimbery could follow those secret ways. Mile'ionaha fucked around with this message at 01:55 on Nov 5, 2012 |
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Nov 5, 2012 01:38
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The Glorious Tyrant At first the Tyrant was intrigued, what was it that had transfixed the elf so, and could it be used to conquer them, delivering the irritants into the loyal vassalage that was the proper state of all things, but then Cloud broke it's trance and it proceeded to ignore the Sovereign's question. Anger leaking into his voice, he calls up at the creature, "Answer my question elf, what brought you to this place and why do you wear the colors of the Brand?" Answer my question, elf.: 10d10x7 2 Valhawk fucked around with this message at 04:25 on Nov 6, 2012 |
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Nov 6, 2012 04:20
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Silk and Silver Cloud The Scourge's face falls as his companions hammer again and again at Sammi, accusing him and trying forcefully to wrench answers out of him. For a second he is afraid for his new friend's wellbeing; after all, the others in his not-so-merry band seem to be quite violent. If they are starting to question, they will not stop until they have gotten answers or broken him utterly. But then...Elf. The word chills him, flashing him back to the wails of children and the smell of burning flesh. How could Sammi, the lighthearted, almost ethereal jokester, be the same as those monsters? It couldn't be true. It can't be true. "It can't be true, Sammi! You're different from the hobgoblins; you're not about destruction and pure chaos. You're here for a reason. Tell me; tell me why you're here, why you're dressed as a Cold Iron band. You're here to help, aren't you?" Desperate to find a reason he shouldn't be aching to slaughter his new friend, Cloud flies forwards, locking eyes with the elf while choking down tears. Channeling Compassion, using 1st Adorjan, maxed, for Whyyyy plus 4 successes from Compassion, minus 4 to his DV, and +1 to my stunt rating; I'll take a Compassion channel back instead of the WP if I get an adjusted 2+ die
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Nov 7, 2012 00:34
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Elf of a Different Colour The air is calm, but Sammi flutters as Tarn speaks. He rides this to another roof, intensely peering about the town. His reply soft and discordant, drifting in and out of words of his life being written in every life he's touched, his name and deeds cast as wild grain all up and down the lands. His attention is far from you. Could have plenty to say but his heart's not in it. Heart... and Cloud spoke of a ring. Cup, Staff, Sword. Tarn: No matter how misaligned with the substance of the world he may be, any fey with any semblance of definition has adopted certain rules to give them form. The symbols of five common threads of dreams both mimicked and inspired what would become the virtues, and the will. And he's misplaced a ring... When The Tyrant barks out his command, Sammi is more animatedly quizzical. From his different perches he tries new angles on the burning sovereign. He turns and twists and squints, befuddled. Tarn: Ring, sign of a vow, that which binds one only to himself. The mark of temperance. He wears many little hoops and loops and bangles, speaks well of others finding things forgotten. If his own ring is missing it could leave him forgetful, odd-tempered, impulsive... Cloud's anguish strikes out, digging into Sammi. The elf drifts to the tearful Haslan's side, takes hold, moves close. He speaks in soothing whispers. "I am more than your eyes see, as this is more than you and I. We are the the first bell-tolls of symphonies, the little breaths of coming storms, footnotes who write new legends. We are born of wounds from broken vows, and they will not go un-avenged. I have found a cause today - I'm going to rescue you." With one more sux from a will, just skims your adjusted MDV (for intimacy and high compassion for your BFF) 1WP to resist the call of adventure. Sam rushes upwards, wheeling about to firmly plant his weightless feet on Cloud's shoulders. He faces The Tyrant. "As it seems you'd can't see past those eyes, let me explain," he points down, "He brings me here," he draws his hand to his heart, "for I found him here," his voice flares up in mirror of your own ire "and find you, wanting." The fleeting warmth of the afternoon drops dead as a haze envelops the glider. "You'll find us beyond horizons, our season has returned!" A wall of wind and snow become his shield. Cloud: He whispers, "Let's Fly."
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Nov 10, 2012 23:38
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Tarn Kavik Thaaaaat's not good. An elf without its Ring Grace is a ticking time bomb, and Cloud is decidedly too close to ground zero for comfort. Only one thing for it then. "Hesmissinghisringgraceandhellgocrazyumcrazierwithoutitgottafinditbeforeitstoolate!" With that confused outpouring of verbiage, Tarn tears off across town. Fragments of crystal whirl through the air about him, pausing at irregular intervals to act as magnifying glasses as he frantically scours Aursholm top-to-bottom looking for the lost ring. Bales of hay are flung aside, debris scattered, the well's cover lifted then slammed back down by scintillating extrusions of telekinetic force. Rutherford races alongside his master, delighted at his knowledge that the hunt is on, and finding their quarry is the first and only priority. No stone is left unturned, no animal unstartled, no peasant un-shouted-at in Tarn's frenzied search. Not surprisingly, this is a remarkably inefficient way to look for a lost ring. Wits+Awareness+Coad Bonus+TTC Bonus+Excellency 13 = 2 sux. WELP.
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Nov 11, 2012 00:55
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant burst into a deep and resonant laughter, "You find me wanting? It is you who are blind elf, for I am something not seen in all of existence for ages. If you are so foolish that you cannot see what stands before you then go ahead, but know that you leave behind a chance for you that will never come again. This is what I offer to you. A chance to be immortalized into legend that will span a new age of Creation, a chance to witness things that no eye has ever seen nor will ever see again, a chance to be both new and forever." The Tyrant's aura burns bright as it surrounds him, the coldness of the place withering before the bright hot heat of the suns light. "And for this boon, all I require in return is an oath. Give me your word, your vow that you will serve me and mine, and I will provide all I have promised. You elves thrive on legends do you not? What greater legend could you seek than to side with the scion of the rightful king come to reclaim his throne from those corrupt nobles who stole it from him?" The Tyrant pauses to allow the elf to consider and then continues on, "However, I have little need for one who would turn a blind eye to such opportunity, but if you steal the man before you, not only will you rip from him this chance to be greater than gods, but you will forfeit your own existence in the process. For what king does not owe his subjects protection, and I will hunt you to the ground and drain you of all that you are to power the future of this world." His voice as loud and clear as he announces, "So choose elf: glory, eternity, and the new; or a fate worse than death and the knowledge that you have robbed the one you have found of the full measure of his destiny!" Cha + Presence + Specialty + 1st Excellency(10): 23d10x7 7 + 1wp = 8 sux on the Tyrant's social-fu offer. Essence is from my peripheral pool so KotB goes off. Bjorn and Graves can both bask in the Tyrant's glory to regain 1wp and avoid blindness if they're inside the radius.
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Nov 11, 2012 01:10
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Silk and Silver Cloud The young Scourge pauses for a second, overwhelmed by images of flying free through the cold, bright air, free from he obligations and the seemingly psychotic companions he has been assigned to. A life of endless adventure, where every hill reveals new wonders and things to do! They might be able to even do some real good, serve as an example to the people of what they could be... A crystal flies past his face, glinting in the pale sunlight. From the back of his brain some jumbled words filter in, and his mouth begins to open slack-jawed. His mind races with the new information, trying to piece together what he should do; Tarn seems serious enough that it might be worth it to hel-- The Tyrant's laughter booms, and bright flows of essence begin to gather. Cloud's stomach drops--he knows what comes next, and if Tarn's right...they'll never get the ring back with a blind Sammi. Time begins to slow down, Sammi seemingly floating even more than normal, simply perched on his shoulders. The Tyrant's words come slow as molasses in the winter, and in between syllables Cloud acts. Before a blinding flash, before anyone can even react, the two are gone, hurtling at almost ground-level through the town, dangerously tilting perpendicular to the ground to flit through open doorways and out the back in a fraction of a second. As they pass by, normally flensing winds gentle themselves and become mere fingers, gliding over every surface, rustling curtains and sliding under beds in search of a lost ring. You want to save me? First I have to save you... (in addition to those SICK ROLLS[for love] also using Joy in Violence Approach for 2 auto-suxes to that JB and channeling Compassion for 4 auto-suxes on the ring-searching.)
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Nov 11, 2012 02:37
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Drunk on Bitter Fortunes Fortunes blinks. The elf (for clearly it was an elf), wearing the uniform of a northern mercenary army, was enough to be interesting. And then, he and Cloud were gone, swirling through the village, searching for a thing called a "Ring Grace." Though he does not like admitting his lack of knowledge, he sees no alternative. <There's a surprise. You now knowing something.> <Stick it up your rear end. This might be important.> <Oh, it's important, all right. Go on, go ahead and ask. I want to see the mighty Chukh Fen-Lei beg for knowledge.> <Who said anything about begging? Karvik's always happy to talk about that egghead nerd poo poo.> <You never let me have any fun.> He shoves Bjorn into the Tyrant's proximity; no sense in losing his local drinking buddy to the other Infernal's blinding light. How else would he find the Mistress? "Tarn. For those of us who know how to smash elfs, but otherwise not much about them, what's a Ring Grace?" Int + War = 3 dice to Know Things about the Cold Iron Brand: 1 sux. Might be time to start upping some Social stats, eventually! Also, might not be a bad idea to Learn Things about Elf.
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Nov 12, 2012 18:13
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Tarn Kavik "Well," Tarn explains as he telekinetically flings the contents of an oxcart into the air, psychically scrutinizes them, and replaces them in a sorted pile in the span of a couple seconds, "the thing about elves is, they don't actually have personalities of their own. This prevents them from functioning in Creation, which demands that they have a coherent 'self', so the piece one together out of fragments of dream and Wyldstuff." The Defiler races around a corner and casts his will through the town square, attempting to feel out the missing ring. "This composite has five parts. The Cup: empathy and altruisim. The Staff: the will to power, and to see one's visions to fruition. The Sword: bravery, courage, and strife. The Ring: principles, personal integrity, and stability. The Heart: the seat of self and will." Invisible tendrils of force scour the interior of Aursholm's lodge, feeling out each and every crack and crevice where a ring might have fallen. The stuffed goblin's skin begins to boil and evaporate at the touch of the orderly energies of She Who Lives In Her Name. "The elf that abducted Cloud - or that Cloud abducted, I'm not entirely clear on the matter - is missing his Ring Grace. Without it, his behavior will spiral further and further out of control as his Wyld core bleeds into his self and surroundings. You've already seen the beginning - the lapses in concentration, the erratic movements, the mood swings. It's only going to get worse for him and everyone around him until the ring is found." But where could it be? Tarn has scoured the town from top to bottom, and it still hasn't turned up. Hopefully, it wasn't taken by another member of the Cold Iron Brand when they left, or it could be miles away by now. Tarn shakes his head sadly at Chukh. "If we can't find it, it may be that we'll have to kill Sammi. Elf or not, it would be preferable to keep him alive. I mean, I need specimens for research, and Cloud might be upset for a full day if he dies!" Int+Occult 10 = 7 sux - Tarn knows him some elf facts.
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Nov 12, 2012 19:29
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King, Interrupted Though the main purpose of The Tyrant's flash of glory has been rudely interrupted, his words go not unheeded. As is inevitable, those beneath him are inspired to best serve his will. He senses and immediately endorses Bjorn's desire to speak. The man cannot conceal his uncultured nature, yet his efforts lend him another sort of dignity. "Beggin' your pardons and such, Sire, as I may be sayin' somethin' more obvious to one of your majesty..." Approving this attempt at introduction opens the way for him to proceed. "I've heard tell of this elf, or if not him then others like 'em. Funny sort that keeps poppin' up out this way. They show up when folks're in trouble, off alone somewhere. Knowin' elves, prob'ly trouble they brewed up themselves. So they show up and get folks out of whatever jam they're in. Elf'll say it's no bother and they did it from the kindness of their heart and all that. Sure enough though, if they don't get some kinda reward out of it soon enough same folk'll wind up in another jam and the same elf'll be there in the nick o' time - worse every time - 'till the elf gets his trophy or just shows up too late." There is no lack of scorn in the Haslan's story, yet he maintains some level of detachment. The sort of distaste one has for ill weather. "What gets folks though, gets 'em thinking they owe nothin', is the elf always pretends he's something else. More 'n usual. Says he's a man, or a spirit, or one of the old moon-beasts. 'course elves never quite get their act right, so know what to look for an' you can duck 'em. Seems your magician there's got that down. An' of course, yerself, Sire." "Yeah, looks to me this is one of those, pretendin' he's an Iron." He visibly relaxes, having largely said his peace. "Some folks say they're from that court what's between us and Linowa, other's seen them fightin'. 'Course with elves, no way to know if it's an honest feud or just a part of the show. Funny things, elves." For a moment, Bjorn's earlier bravado reappears, "gently caress 'em." Surveying the results of mere minutes of one's presence, you see wisdom in these words. The Hunt <Tarn, I had a thought. One that's still here, even!> With the way his search has gone, Tarn can think of worse ways to proceed than listening to the voices in his head. <If someone stole it, they would hide it. And if they hid it, they'd put it where no one would look. So anywhere we look, it shouldn't be. So if we look everywhere but one place, then don't look there, we've found it!> Logic was never Dancer's strong suit. <Wait, what's it even look like?> A slouching sigh is called off in favour of staying clear of the Scourge's path. Maybe Cloud is having better luck. A streak of light rampages through the town. Between heartbeats, Cloud scythes through mountains of potential finds. Things irrelevant sift through his fingers, falling from sight and mind as grains of sand. Each equal in irrelevance, as none are the subject of his fixation. Gert? The world is distant, without focus. Quiet. The open field, the rolling sea, the sunlight sky, all as near and distant as the palm of his own hand. Gert. A falling leaf which dreams it is a man slips to his side. With or without his prey, in time, the dream will end. Shall he fail, and let it wake, or find the key t- "Gert!" Concerned, excited, and confused, Cloud stops short of a wall of ice freshly sprung from an overturned water barrel. There stands Sami, looking up at Cloud. His up, Cloud's over. "I'll say no wrong of packing well before a trip, speak no ill of being thorough, and will not leave what's mine unfound, but this," his sweeping arms leave Cloud more cogent of the mayhem in his wake, "This. Will. Not. Stand." "You have invaded this," a quick glance through the wall, "lady's abode, violating the sanctity of hearth and home which forms the heart of this nation and we..." He trails off as he cycles through some poses. Each breaks as he looks, expectantly, aside at nothing. Strange that a thing without temperance would suddenly... be the voice of reason. When did he start complaining? Elf in pursuit, Cloud doubles back to where that voice first echoed through his trance. A shed he'd quite turned inside out, its many contents scattered on the dirt and thin grass. None rang true to him in passing. Because it's not his ring to find. A storm of outrage rolls in, Sammi's caught up with his friend. He's not nearly out of things to say. Until his wind begins to whistle. Both lock eyes on the sound. Pinned partly on a pile of miscellany. Finely carved and painted bone, hanging from a chain. A tempest sweeps debris aside and hurls the necklace home. He stands awestruck as it slips around his neck. There is a moment's silence. The elf speaks, at first slowly. "You'll still have to make it up that lady, and the others on your path. You'll not escape that so easily." Sammi cracks a fiendish smile. "But that can wait. There's bigger things afoot." He jerks a thumb the general direction of The Tyrant, "Like that one's ego. He had some things to say, 'kneel and tremble for I-I-I am king of all things come again' and the like yeah? Yeah. Because you're some sort of... demon-men, and the big one's spent five thousand years pretending he's not been shoved up his own rear end." That smile's quite made itself at home as he rubs his hands in glee. "Oh, this will be something. So much for us to see and do that's only just begun." He clutches the whistle tightly. "Why, Gert, you've not even met my better half!" Sammi flutters to Cloud's side. "Shall we be off?" Adventure? Idle Hands Standing to the edge of all this nonsense, Drunk on Bitter Fortunes is sobering on idleness. He is soon joined a familiar, if entirely unremarkable face. One of those folks he'd found tagged and bagged on arriving here. From the look of him, you'd not think the cultist was standing by the man who'd suggested caving in his head and feeding him to the sea. Maybe this guy's more of a dumb pup than the dogs. He lays something wrapped in plain cloth at what could be a safe distance from the Slayer's feet, sets it alight with flint and kneels to pray. <There, look, is that so difficult? It's all we ever asked for.> Chukh feels the faintest inkling of a primal spark as one man's praise is given to his face. <And he's so good at it. So happy to do it. Who could call this wrong?> Not like Dissolution to get all sentimental, most times. <Chuck that's not-> Not like him to panic either. Or get cut off. <Shut up a minute!> And that's definitely a new one. The horrid, scratching noise chastising your coadjutor relaxes into something that sounds like you'd regret it by morning, but enjoy it by night. <Well, at least one of you caught on. I'm not the usual voice in your head, but that's not what's important here. Like what you see? Like what it does? Like how it feels? You're welcome. Take it. You'll love it. Plenty more to go around.> Not like him at all. A_Raving_Loon fucked around with this message at 13:14 on Nov 14, 2012 |
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Nov 14, 2012 05:20
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Silk and Silver Cloud After a moment's thought (which seems to be happening much more often these days...) Cloud flips his windblade right side up. "Yes, let's get away from here--though we shall return, some day." The young Scourge helps Sammi up to his ride, an unnecessary gesture that allows him to catch the elf in a tight hug. "I'm glad you're back with us...eventually we'll fix the others, but not today I think." With that, the two are off, swooping and diving in the sheer joy of flight and freedom as they head off toward the wild blue yonder. "Have a story for me while we ride?"
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Nov 14, 2012 22:03
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The Glorious Tyrant Watching the Scourge fly off, the Tyrant deigns to let him leave. Now that He knows the elf's trick, He knows that sooner or later the Scourge will return with an elf trying to collect his debt, perhaps more willing to stuff the creature into Tarn's device. In the meantime he was in no true hurry to set forth for Stump. So ignoring the insult for one who had proven unworthy of His attention he turned to Bjorn. "You have done well today by revealing the creature's schemes. You have thrice this day proven your loyalty unto Me, and so I will reward you. Kneel." The hairy Haslan complies, falling to his knees as his King approaches. The Sovereign places a hand on the man's head His thumb tracing the mark He had carved onto Bjorn's forehead with His daiklave earlier that same day. "I name you My first Knight, favored among My servants." The Tyrant already surrounded by an aura of light is suddenly at the center of a great green bonfire, as He elevates the northerner infusing him with some of His holy will. "Now, pledge yourself to Me once more, this time as with vows befitting a Knight and not merely a Subject." Spending 1wp and 5m from Periph(setting off KotB again as the Tyrant's anima goes up a step meaning Bjorn can fall to his knees and bask in the Tyrant's glory for an action to avoid being blinded and gain 1wp if he hasn't already this scene) to activate Right-Hand Ascension on Bjorn, using my Urge as the base.
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Nov 15, 2012 07:29
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Drunk on Bitter Fortunes Fortunes frowns. For all that his coadjutor was a snarky, petulant pain in the rear end, Dissolution of Innocence was not given to overreaction, or to steering him into overly dangerous decisions. He had to admit, though, that the worship... felt good. But if this Mistress could block Dissolution out, what else could she do? Only one way to find out, really. <Chukh, please tell me we're not going to actually go meet her. Bad idea. Very, very bad idea.> <Hey. She's somewhere around, and if she's loving with my head, I need to either figure out what she wants, stop her from doing it, or both.> <This is going to end badly, Chukh. You don't have any real defense against the powers of the Raksha. Please don't be stupid.> <No real choice, buddy. Cloud's gone and disappeared with that elf-thing, and the Mistress is messing around with me. I don't like it, but if we can get something good out of it, I don't have to like it.> <I just hope your optimism doesn't get us both killed.> <You and me both, friend.> The Slayer nods at the mortal, hefts the Boom Stick onto his shoulder, and leans down to face him. "You're going to take me to the Mistress, and you're going to do it now. Time's wasting, and we don't have all day." He straightens up, raising his voice. "NOW, buddy! C'mon, chop chop!" Off to see the Mistress, the crazy Mistress of Aursholm...
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Nov 17, 2012 21:21
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No Mere Subject The chaos of the minute fey incursion is banished from the minds of those assembled. The air itself stands silent witness as The Tyrant's first subject takes up the mantle of his first champion. May he be the first of many to stand one step closer to the light which leaves no shadows. King takes knight, enjoy your Bjorn The Low Road Home Far from the light of ceremony, in the cold and dark recesses of the world Snow drives headlong towards his sanctuary. He forgive the tunnels the odd twist or bend where the earth has closed in just enough to scrape his edges. Could they be blamed for some dumb creature of the depths failing to carve that one extra swipe? Yes. But he could engineer his vengeful renovations from the comfort of his home. With a captive audience to run it by, no less! Perhaps some day he would drag Kavik down and have a little work done. If nothing else, he knew the man could mix a mean drink. Sometimes you want to go where everybody fears your name. A Lady Awaiting Joy at the attentions of divinity carries on overpowering the terror a man should rightly feel about the situation. For the words of their new masters to return them to the presence of their last is simply sublime. The cultist sets off with great haste to prepare the others for the next leg of their journey. With how much he's heard about the great spiritual emptiness between these folks heads, Chukh begins to suspect they know gently caress all about how they'll get there unless a smile can be a compass. drat if they won't give it their all, though. Then again, he's invited. Expected. Maybe this lady will use the grip she's got on their heads to drag 'em the right way. At least he'll know how to find one if they wander off. You're sure living up to your names. One For The Road At the moment, it amuses Sammi to flutter in the breeze. Secured by a few bangles and a length of ribbon to Cloud's shoulder, he breaks from savouring the view to speak with his new friend, "Better - I remembered all the good parts of the other ones!" He breaks from laughing to speak softly, "Although, Gert, there were other things you wanted to hear. Now that we're away I'm free to share them." Then, a touch more serious, "And for that, there are some things unwelcome and unsaid that we will need to scare out into sight and settle." Indeed, two tiny shards of ancient, primal enemies whose struggles shaped the history of all the world are not the most likely of companions. Slow breath, calm eyes, steadying hand at the other man's side. Better say it now than never, "Do you have any more name?" It hangs a moment, he flushes blue, "Well, I can hardly introduce us as Sammi Gray, Who Dares Outrun the Wind - Slayer of Nightmares, Confounder of Titans, Hero of the Endless Wilds... and Gert." His coat forgets to flutter as he grows more flustered, "Not that there's anything wrong if you're... just Gert. But I could help you find more names. If you want them." An odd pair to be sure. Off to Elfventures! End of Prologue - 5xp all around
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Nov 20, 2012 03:45
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Silk and Silver Cloud The Scourge smiles and ruffles Sammi's hair affectionately. "I have a few--most I can't say in mixed company. I am also Silk and Silver Cloud, Scourge of the Silent Wind, but I would love to get a few more." --- Within a few days, Cloud seems to have gone native, with fantastically nonfunctional-looking armor in no less than half a dozen colors (he got advice on matching them properly from Sammi!) and various beads and feathers in his hair. Getting Fond Remembrance of Adrian immediately, but having fun.
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Nov 24, 2012 01:22
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant smiles as Bjorn once more swears himself to his King’s service. The northman was the Tyrant’s creature now, more than anything else in this world. He could see the firm determination that had found its way into the northerner’s gaze, the divine drive that now burned within him to see the Tyrant crowned as undisputed divine ruler of all Haslan. The new knight quickly takes charge of the preparations to leave. Seeing to it that provisions were set and orders given. Once all is ready, Bjorn, seeing that his King would be forced sully himself on treacherous and mud strewn northern paths, has a suitable palanquin assembled from the best supplies the Tyrant’s followers could obtain. When the mobile throne was ready and the Tyrant seated in all His majesty upon it the group set out. Quite the opposite of what an uninformed observer might expect, there were more volunteers to carry the palanquin than spots available. Soon shifts were established, so that all could have their chance to bear the god-king’s blessed weight as they moved towards His destination. As the days passed, several things seemed to spring up on their own, each almost subconsciously brought before the Tyrant for His approval, and each moving forward with full gusto on meeting with his allowance. First, the Hymn carried by Graves was spread to the caravaners, and voices raised in prayer and exaltation to the Tyrant became a constant background. Soon after, Graves began to observe the group with a careful eye. Eventually pulling aside those of superior talent and devotion to train them as the Tyrant’s royal guard. By the time the caravan arrived at the meeting point they were already beginning to take shape as a group, though they were not yet up to Graves’ exacting standards. After all, Graves would not be satisfied until they were guards worthy of the King they served. All the while, the Tyrant turned his focus inward. Using the devotion of his subjects to stoke the white fire within himself. As the fire grew so too did his own power, as new applications of his holy essence came to him in dreams and revelations. He had taken the first steps towards claiming the mantle and the legacy left to him within the spark of his Exaltation, and to returning the shadowless white sun to the world. Spending 8 XP to buy Imperishable Majesty Stance.
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Nov 25, 2012 02:56
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Tarn Kavik Had someone more sensible their way, this trip would be highly uneventful. Tarn is a genius, but 'sensible' is something he's never been accused of. Many an hour is spent wandering far from the Tyrant's palanquin, and with Rutherford and Dancer to help him search, he takes the time to visit the local attractions. Aursholm's records point to possible demesne locations. Tarn follows up on these leads. Holy mother Gaia does he follow up. By the time he's finished, he has some truly excellent ideas for where to throw down some manses, and maybe build a miniature replica of the Realm Defense Grid. Sweet Jesus 15 sux on 15 dice to survey.
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Nov 27, 2012 02:56
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Gentle Snow Many feet below the earth, Snow emerged from the water, water coursing off of his armor and clothing and pooling on fine imperishable stonework. Out of the water behind him came a legion. Great walrus beasts with servile intellects, jellyfish given the form of wyld-touched maidens, crabs with four great arms that would scythe stone as if it was heavy cream. They came, on ones and twos, in and endless wave. One for every hour traveled beneath the waves. One for every stop in an underground grotto, one for every murdered deep thing in streams lit by glowing fungus, streams that had never known the touch of daylight. They came, and they were put to work. Fully half of them walked into the deep places of the world, never to be seen again, to make space for the stone that would be moved. A tenth of their number began to carve a semicircular tunnel that led to the northeast. Most of the rest moved the stone that they carved. The orders were given, and Snow rested in the heart of his manse. One of sea-courtesans fed him delights from the darkest places in the ocean, and slowly the manse roused itself. "A new tunnel?" it asked. "To a new project. One of my number wishes to be a hero, and I am content to aid him. He has a mind like a lightningstorm, and I enjoy seeing it work," Snow replied. "And the rest of your number?" "Ah, them. Mostly insane. A couple of them genially so. That I wouldn't worry about, but two of them are ruled by their insanity, rather than ruling it." "And you are master of your own mind?" "No. Not yet. But I will be. The spite that bubbles within my soul has purified me, and I will be master of that spite." "Very good, Master." And so Snow rested for a week. He rested, feasted, studied, directed, and handed control of his minions over to the spirit-thing that was the heart of the manse. Then he walked to the surface through solid rock, wielding his essence through his hearthstone to do so. Once he reached the surface he squinted against the brightness of the day, wrapped his cloak around him, and marched to rejoin the others. A week was a very long time. An army of snow-colored manta warriors arrayed themselves behind him, vanished into the snowy ground, and followed in his wake. tl;dr: manse maintenance, starting a seaway tunnel from the manse to Stump, summoning, oh, 70 monstrous humanoid manta-ninjas, and rejoining people at some point along the way. At some point I need to stat out my manse guardian. Mile'ionaha fucked around with this message at 03:40 on Nov 27, 2012 |
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Nov 27, 2012 03:38
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Drunk on Bitter Fortunes - Trapped with Primitive Screwheads Chukh is, to put it mildly, irritated. No matter how loving simple he makes the explanation, no matter how much he breaks it down, they still manage to gently caress it up. Milling around like a bunch of sheep without a shepherd, eagerly expecting him to know where to go. And at the same time, assuring him that they're going in the right direction. Kind of a pain in the rear end, when they're collectively trying to go in about six separate directions. His coadjutor is full of smirking I-told-you-sos and Try-not-to-be-so-bloody-stupid-all-the-times. Fortunes grits his teeth, frustrated. He tried and he tried, but did anyone help? Did anyone listen? No, he just had to keep on going, suffering so that they could... He takes a deep breath, ignoring the Kimberian urges welling up for the time being. Whoever this "Mistress" was, she'd drat well better be worth the time and trouble these primitive screwheads were putting him through. As he hikes, occasionally sallying forth to retrieve another chucklehead who'd gone missing, he grows more comfortable with the gifts he's been given. First order of business: no more hangovers. Wouldn't do to start plying the mistress with drinks and not be able to keep up. <And what if she's Raksha, Chukh?> <Well, then. Gonna have to do something about that, aren't we? Got any suggestions, o wise and beneficent one?> <As a matter of fact I do...> The journey to Stump continues; Slayer and mortals, occasionally crossing paths with the rest as they seek the Mistress. As mentioned, getting Fathomless Poison Haven (first Rank only), and Purity of Madness Defense. I'll get the second rank of FPH once we have sufficient XP. Also, taking an Intimacy: Primitive Screwheads (Beloved). I get bonus successes to track their asses down and pull them back into the flock.
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Nov 29, 2012 15:07
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Gentle Snow Travel by day, burrow into the warm earth by night, Snow made decent time. Where there were streams, he and his crew cracked the ice and travelled stealthily, cracking air holes every half hour when he needed a breath of air. When the streams veered from their destination, they padded through the snow, a speedy legion of winter ghosts. He was proud of his ‘creations’. It was not that he had made them, per se, but he sent his wishes into the ocean and the ocean provided. They needed little sustenance, were preternaturally adapted to the north, could hide as well as Snow himself, and were lethal in the fray. They were, of course, his school, his tribe, his pack, and they were loyal to him. It was not the most difficult thing in the world to track down the pallenquin. People were more than happy to gossip about the strange entourage, whether they thought it was a blessing for the future or a bad omen of things to come. It went about 30/70, and Snow took some small pride in his people’s cynical views. Afterwards, he’d pay in jade bits and vanish into the snow. A few villagers, often dismissed as too deep in the drink, would later report that, just outside town the snow seemed to gather around him, then form into a hill-size cape as he vanished into the night. He’d planned on beating the Tyrant to their destination, but was more than a little pleased and surprised to spot a little camp far south and east of the Tyrant’s course. He gave a few instructions, then strolled casually into the camp. He peered over Tarn’s shoulder. “If you’re doing geomancy, I have a few jade needles and a set of very high quality trigrams I use for that purpose.”
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Dec 3, 2012 19:09
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Tarn Kavik - Roughing It "Very kind of you," Tarn acknowledges, "but I've put together a very functional workaround." He directs Snow's attention to the curious arrangement in his workspace. A shallow pool of water, perfectly circular and exactly a meter across, lies at the center, and is bounded by five narrow rods of marble embedded vertically in the ground. A braid of multicolored twine winds around this perimeter, wound three times around each stake, and silver pins of irregular length jut out of the pool's surface. At the exact center, a ceramic bowl filled with whale oil burns, pouring greasy, black smoke onto the water. "The strings pick up the vibrations from aspected Essence sources and amplify them; the marble, which is Essence-inert, prevents feedback interference. The pins represent geomantic loci: standing stones, footpaths, wells and such. The interaction between the twine and the landscape markers causes a minor resonance phenomenon, causing the smoke to flow in currents and vortices that approximate natural Essence channels. The water, of course, is there to cool the smoke, drawing it down to the map and keeping its strong Fire aspect from skewing the reading." Tarn frowns at the puddle, evidently trying to divine some significance from the ripples and smoke patterns. "It's giving me a rough picture," he announces after a minute of observation, "but something is still causing interference. What could that be?" Totally up for an assist to make that roll even more ridiculous. Also, a stunt!
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Dec 3, 2012 21:30
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Gentle Snow Snowlooked over the incredibly elaborate mechanism. “You’ve put a lot of time into this, but you want help?” he inquired, and looked very closely. The smoke began to drift in his direction, briefly. “No, oh Tarn, I’m so glad you asked my help, but this is clearly not the right place for this design, you would be much better suited to Five Fold Philosophy diagram, not a Stone Harp assembly, and even if it were…” fueled by a desire to help, essence, and tempers, flared. Barely recalled bits of occult lore sprang eagerly and uselessly to the forefront of Snow’s mind, but this only served to catalyze arguments. When all was said and done, a great deal of informative debate had occurred, but very little real progress was achieved. Zero successes Mile'ionaha fucked around with this message at 01:07 on Dec 4, 2012 |
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Dec 3, 2012 22:41
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Survey Says... ...quite a bit. While this contraption of Tarn's doesn't show his expert eyes anything he'd not already worked out on paper, it provides those averse to decrypting the mad mystic's notes a handy visualization. The lands southeast of Haslan are, in a word, gentle. As one moves farther from the White Sea, the rising influence of wood and earth makes workable pockets of land more common. Though not quite approaching the lush coasts of the inland sea or thick black forests of Linowa, in the hands of people trained to scrape a living from the rocks and shoals of the far north they become able to compete. But, while food and shelter are well and good enough for mortal folks, Tarn seeks a richer bounty of the land. In this, the land is again, gentle, but the very existence of Snow's Lair testifies that some jewels lay buried in the mud. He ventures beyond the beaten path, to places sensible folk'd rather not tread as it seems more bother than it'd be worth. Within his senses' formidable reach of the march east he directly spies three sites unseen which could host minor developments- a quiet lowland far too foggy for its own good, an extensive lukewarm spring of adequate refreshment, and a hilltop shaped just so surrounded by five others shaped just so, naturally inclined to air, water, and earth respectively. Thar be one-dots here! By indirect observation, Tarn forms ample theories of what lurks beyond mind-arm's reach. First, the obvious, the Thunderspire is without doubt a place of great aerial power left uncapped. Second, when he was a mortal man Tarn was well and truly in over his head. Great efforts are in place to occlude the spiritual footprint of his hometown, implying greater power than he'd hope to harness then within. That was then, this is now. Once this curse was unravelled something quite respectable could be made to take its place. And speaking of occlusion, he is relieved to find the methods used to drive attention from the ill fortunes of his home quite distinct from those shielding the hellgate on the coast. And signs of other spider holes of varying size all along the countryside. Stump and the Spire are 3'bies, Stump would default to Sidereal aspect if safely disassembled. You're quite unlikely to find a natural site bigger than 3 on the frontier. Tis the Season Relieved that his new friend's identity is respectably, Sammi finds new heights of carefree...ness. Still, somewhere in the great haste to end up nowhere in particular he returns to old questions. Air is still a substance, after all. "Well, Scourge of Silent Wind, I'm no more dressed-as-irons than you're dressed as an airman! I'm dressed as me." His pride in such a simple statement nearly grants it the weight he lacks. "And in the north a man who serves no crown, fears no god and draws no borders looks like this." The Gray Fae loves this land. Its rolling hills dare eyes to find its horizons. Its mighty trees spring defiant from the ravaged soil. Its people steel themselves against the frigid wastes to safeguard the inner warmth of their dear hearts. For that, he fights. Some of his adventures left him fast-friends with some Irons, from whom spring many friendly gifts. Gifts, hearts, adventure, and odd taste in friends slowly drag Sammi into circling back to something else left hanging. Rather, someone. A few days a-many miles from where they met, the two fight uphill against the push of a nor'wester. They skirt the tops of clouds which ride as vanguard to the first proper snow of the year. The sort that settles bets on who put off digging in too long, real beast of a thing even this far off the coast. Standing high above the storm, Sammi rechecks all his buckles, reties and tucks away his scarf, and on reaching for one that isn't there notices he doesn't wear a hat. With that, he is ready. "See you at the bottom!" And with an unprecedented show of downward force, he dives. Cloud finds some challenge in both keeping up and keeping sight of him in the blizzard. He has no trouble hearing when the Faerie's whistle howls. What meets Cloud at the bottom is a hut he suspects hasn't been there for long. Inside, his friend warms himself aside a little fire, and pinned under a large blue wolf. The standoff fails to interrupt Gray's recounting of last few days. "...and then I got the two of you introduced!" The wolf glares down at him, he laughs, "Because I make you smile." The storm proper has passed by daybreak. The drifting snow is hardly noticed as the hut is swiftly disassembled by what now looks far more woman than beast. Sammi stands guard behind her, not moving a step until every plank and pole and stretch of hide is neatly tucked and folded away into bag a fair bit too small to fit them all, in a fair bit less time than such a task should take. Cloud has made a snowman. When the work is done, Gray leaves his post to see Cloud's work. She follows, moving to escort him. They speak, she listens. As the two begin to bore of this she rummages for something deep in the bag that should be by all rights overfull. When he turns to call her to adventure, she firmly plants a Tricorne on his head. She smiles. Meet Misha- Worker Caste, Quiet Sort. Dressed like an untamed man's best friend And These Fucks They say you can't fault a man for trying. They are wrong. When a man tries chasing rabbits at sundown after a long day of it looking like the weather's about to go to poo poo without telling anyone or wearing his full coat or recovering all the way from the last time he did something this loving dumb, yeah Chukh would fault his loving brains out. He'd left the rest of them nestled in good and tight for the night, hopefully enough that none would wander off while he was tracking down... Well blond, thin and stupid describes half of 'em already, if they're gonna be this much of a hassle he may have to beat names into them. Sure enough, Chukh knows his weather and the storm drops hard enough he can barely see the dumb mutt's steps. Sure enough, he knows that mutt and presses on 'till he finds the dope curled up under a tree. When he doesn't spring up shoutin' praises right away, Chukh's not so sure about. Well, he's sure it's bad. And the wizard's not around to zap him back to health. drat. Doesn't take long to weight his options - there's jack all he can do out here. <We could just leave him.> A suggestion raised and thrown out every time this one wandered off. <He's been nothing but a problem since we left.> Like clockwork, if the clock were made of spaced out Norsemen. <And no matter how many times you drag him back and 'set him straight' he will not learn.> Maybe Dis'd be less antsy if he could just melt things he didn't. <If you'd sit still long enough to complete your training you could find out for yourself.> Nagging aside, he slogs back to the hole he left the others in. They at least had the sense to keep a fire going so he drops the stray beside it. He's learned not to bother sitting down until after the headcount. At twelve he flops down by the fire, there's a pot of something bubbling. Smells like hare. He looks up, a new face looks back at him. A pleasant smile and a lot of cheery eyes leave the sense that he'll regret this in the morning.
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Dec 5, 2012 00:30
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Tarn Kavik - Wilderness The last rays of sunlight shimmer on the pond's surface as night begins to fall and winter finally makes its presence felt. Roughly equidistant from the three little locales where Interesting Things tend to happen, there's a sort of magic to the place; not the kind a savant or thaumaturge would bother to note and catalogue, but nevertheless undeniable. In the moment between Sol leaving his post and Luna taking up hers, the wind mingles the lights of sun and moon and gives the water's surface the appearance of a rippled, silver mirror. A kind of magic Tarn appreciates well, and knows better than to overlook. Shining with the colors of the Maidens (and maybe, just maybe, a tiny fraction of their power), a scintillating aurora fades into view in the sky above just as the first flakes of snow begin to fall. The Defiler, for his part, isn't dressed nearly as warmly as the season would warrant. A risk, but a necessary one: if he's to work with such power to save his home, he needs to better understand the forces he's shaping. He needs to feel them on every level. So it goes as he begins his work. Coils of water and chips of hard stone rise into the air and mingle, willed into the skeleton of the final shape. Snowflakes gather on the suspended water and spread into elegant lattices of ice and frost, weaving in criss-crosses into inner and outer layers of silvery spindles. Air gathers in the hollows of the object, condensing into a cloth so fine it may as well be mist. An elegant suit of armor woven of stone and water and frigid air floats above the pond, lovely, but useless. No longer. The north wind howls just as Tarn's body is engulfed in emerald flames, holding the chill at bay as they wreathe and infuse the working. Stone becomes steel; water hardens to tough leather; the snowy surface, interlocking platelets; the very air, fine mesh. All weakness is burned away in the flames of Malfeas, all imperfection, scoured by the edict of She Who Lives In Her Name. The water rises up in a sudden wave, swallowing the armor, but the fires of Malfeas cannot be quenched; only forced into quiescence. With nowhere else to go, they abide, locked within a prison of their own design. The water recedes. The work is done. Hanging in the air above the rippling pond is a beautiful suit of lamellar. Silver inlay covers its surface like whorls of hoarfrost, refracting the aurora's light into a prismatic dance across the water's surface. The plates and padding, sturdy as they are, look to have been spun from the ether itself, rather than forged. This is a piece that a mortal warrior would kill to own. Tarn deems it acceptable. Craft action with Principle-Invoking for the raw materials, several bonuses, max Excellency and a WP for an extra sux. 23 dice + 1 sux = 10 sux, enough for an Exceptional suit of lamellar.
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Dec 5, 2012 21:33
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Gentle Snow Snow clapped as the creation was finished. "Bravo! That is a wonder, practically gossamer," he said. "I might have a few very minor requests of my own, if you would be so very kind. Not now, mind you, later." "In truth, I have been working on my own, ah, craftsmanship. A bit different from yours, of course, but you may find it interesting all the same. How much do you know about mutation?" He helped Tarn pull up his essence apparatus when it was time to return to the convoy. "How has the trip been thus far? Are you excited to return home?"
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Dec 7, 2012 19:29
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Tarn Kavik - Wilderness Straps cinch and clasps fasten as an unseen force drapes the lamellar over Tarn. It fits so closely as to follow his every motion, the gaps in the plates so fine a mosquito would have trouble finding them. Still, it bothers him to know that the range of motion could have been a little broader, the steel a little more tempered. "Actually, there's a project I'm planning with you in mind." He goes on to describe the springs of perpetual tepidity and their mystical significance. "A very mellow balance of influences, all moderated by the dominant Water aspect, and therefore somewhat less likely to spontaneously detonate should anything unfortunate happen to a manse built on that spot. A fine chance to test my theories. I can create nearly everything I need, save for the hearthstone basin itself. Black jade or moonsilver - nothing else will do." On the subject of mutation, Tarn rubs his chin. "Interesting topic, but not my forte. With a judicious application of Primordial energies, it should be more than possible to induce or revert them. What exactly do you plan to make?" When the conversation wheels back around to homecoming, the Defiler's face takes on a rigid set. "Ready...to begin my grand working, no. But before anything else, I need to assess the situation, see what I can do to keep things stable while I deconstruct whatever curse has been laid on the village. I need three things: practice, time, and plenty of raw materials." Powder snow crunches softly underfoot as the pair treks back through the northern wilderness to rejoin the caravan. "Shall we see what we can make of the place?" Besides the 32 XP I need to fill out the crafting tree, Tarn also needs white jade for the earth demesne, moonsilver or blue jade for the air demesne, and moonsilver or black jade for the water one. White's probably the easiest to come by since it's what's used in Realm currency. So, who wants a magic rock?
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Dec 8, 2012 02:57
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The Glorious Tyrant The caravan had arrived at the meeting point far earlier than the Tyrant had anticipated. He had for several days been content to bask in their reverent worship. Bjorn, as one of the few to dare to come close to his fellow subject’s new god, was the first to notice the most recent growth in the Tyrant’s power. Within a certain area surrounding the Sovereign a sense of rightness pervaded, as though the world itself had accepted the perfection of the Tyrant’s form and the righteousness of His servants. For the knight, the feeling was somewhat addictive and he’d found himself finding whatever excuses he could to stay in his Lord’s presence when he wasn’t carrying out His orders. Finally, the Tyrant grew restless. His servants had made admirable time, however it meant that He had been the first to arrive at the meeting place. Once this feeling peaked, He decided that perhaps some scouting was in order. He had heard much of the sights surrounding Stump, but it was one thing to hear of them and quite another to see things for yourself. Once He had made the decision there was nothing that would dissuade him, and He was ready to depart in short order. Graves, upon hearing of the plans for this royal excursion and realizing how impossible and presumptuous it would be to try and convince his King to consider another path, quickly wrangled together a small group from the royal guard he was training to escort the King. So it was that the not so stealthy group set out to survey their surroundings, the Tyrant, His knight, a contingent of guards, and some servants to carry the necessary provisions. Lead from the front by the Sovereign in his shining silver armor, his white-gold sword at his back. The Tyrant decides he’s tired of waiting and heads out to check out the surroundings. Wits(2) + Investigate(2) + 1st Theion(4) = 8d: 8d10x7 3 Also, spending 8xp on Empyreal Invincibility Declaration.
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Dec 8, 2012 03:43
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Gentle Snow "I suppose the better question is what don't I plan to make?" he replied, slightly impish. "I have a few ideas, for starters." he reached into his pack and pulled out a little camp knife. He looked at it, and the blade suddenly began to sprout beautiful, warped patterns in scintillating colors. "My poisons can grant Kimbery's gifts, as well as Kimbery's torments. While my sea-beast butlers have returned to the seas from which I called them, I've rallied new beasts in their wake. The new Flotsam and Jetsam are twice their size, and bear a thick shell tougher than the armor you wear. You focus on your machines, I have an entire laboratory of the essence of living things at my fingertips." He flicked his blade at a passing butterfly, and as the liquid touched its wings it grew to the size of a small bird and plummeted to the traces of snow. It flopped around a bit before righting itself, then began to lick at the snow with its probiscus. A moment later, it dove into the snow and was gone, the course of its passage barely visible from the surface as it 'swam' through the snowdrift, which was now as finest nectar to its altered metabolism. "My 'laboratory' cannot create, but it can alter in ways ancient savants only dreamed of!" he said, and grinned. "You can, of course, borrow it from time to time. You merely have to ask. If you want any enhancements for your own person, I would be happy to oblige you, but I do not have the means to remove the gifts I give." "What I might ask from you, then, is a simple thing. A tub. A tub exactly my size and not a finger's breadth larger, that I might be wholly submersed in as small an amount of liquid as possible."
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Dec 8, 2012 06:05
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Silk and Silver Cloud Standing there, in Sammi and Misha's hut, is simply amazing. The surroundings are crude and fairly commonplace, but there is something about it more appealing than all the opulent palaces of Malfeas--Home. It's been a long, long time since he's felt that, not since the hobgoblins took all of that away... NO! These two were different, not mindless killers, not haters of all shaped life. He looked up and gave a wan smile to Sammi, who was looking a bit worried. And all that falls away as Cloud concentrates on enjoying himself with his new friends. ----- As the tricorne is placed firmly on Sammi's head (if he wasn't Fair Folk Cloud might've suggested tying it on with string), Cloud decides to make a little speech. "I have a history, you know--we all do, in the North. I remember cowering in fear as a little boy as scouts gave reports on which emeralds had been raided by hobgoblins, which friends had not survived the winter because of them. I was there when all of our worst fears were realized; I was there to hear the last screams of my family as they burned alive, defending our home from the invaders the only way they could, trying to take a few with them--" His voice cracks, and he pauses for a moment before continuing. "I easily could have become nothing but an instrument of vengeance, spending my life as fuel to wreak destruction on all the Fair Folk. And I almost did, but for the grace of the Killing Wind. She and I disagree on many things, but one thing I have learned from her--to not dwell on that which would destroy you, to move past anything that would warp you into something you don't want to become. Take hold of the good in life, but let that which is not slip between your fingers." He chuckles for a second. "Not quite how she would phrase it, I'm sure. But because of her, and because of your persistence and understanding even in the face of my co-workers, I can be here with you today." The Scourge begins to pace as he continues. "Sammi, you said that you love this land--Misha, I hope you feel the same. I know I do: even the mountains themselves fight every season to stay up against the power of ice and snow slipping into cracks. Life here is struggle, but that's what makes it so beautiful. And I don't want to take that away, but I believe that we can best preserve the soul of this land and all its peoples by doing something rather unprecedented. I believe we can work together to make something new with all the good and none of the bad." ---- A village is on the brink of starvation, oppressed by local bandits and lords alike. Its young folk escape or join the bandits instead of banding together to fight off their enemies. By now there are vanishingly few under the age of forty, and so they face an existential threat. Enter: A masked man and jaunty, hat-wearing compatriot, flying in on what appears to be a floating disc of black metal. They stay at the head man's house for a night, graciously accepting their meager hospitality (but secretly slipping the cooking staff a large haunch of elk-meat and some rather strange but delicious grain to make sure their presence is not a burden on the town's foodstuffs) and listening to their plights. Two hours before the crack of dawn they and what appear to be a large wolf are in the grain silo, lightheartedly joking around as they corner and pounce (humans? and wolf? alike) on the mice and rats that steal from the townspeople and tie their tails together so they make a large, squeaking ball of flesh. On to the bandit camp, where several dozen men sleep or keep watch around a lazy fire. Their sentries are alert, but unsuspecting of what comes next: a faint squeaking sound is heard from above, and suddenly THWUMP! A blaze of sparks erupts from the fire and the most awful, keening wails assault the bandits, as if a hundred tiny creatures are being burned alive. Which they are. A flaming ball, chest-high, begins to roll around desperately, clawing over sleeping bandits and setting even them on fire as Death begins to ride. Those who run immediately survive; those who try to stop the madness are suddenly found to be without heads. On to the lord's manor house. The same two men (?) appear, walking calmly up to the house. When asked what they are doing, they respond simply that they have a proposition for the man in charge. After much posturing on both sides, it is revealed to be thus: a game of skill and chance. Three cups are overturned, one with a single coin in it. The lord, suspecting that he has already been had, reluctantly calls out that the coin is in the rightmost cup. Of course, it is not, but this merely frustrates the man. Within an hour, the strangers have won all the lands and authority the lord had possessed, though he merely splutters and orders his guards to kick them outside. That night, a keening wail resonates through the dark manor house. A chill wind has blown out every fire, every candle. The lord's sleep is assaulted by dark dreams, and when he wakes the smiling mask-face of Death greets him, then disappears back into the shadows before he can decide whether it is real or not. A wolf howls, and the doors slam open--all the guards and servants have disappeared, unresponsive to the lord's shouts for help. By morning he and his family are on a wagon with just their nightclothes, traveling anywhere far from here. A bag is hidden under the seat, thoughtfully packed with spare clothes for all and enough money to survive while they start their new lives. ----- News spreads that there is a new force to be reckoned with, that the poor and downtrodden should take heart, that the rich should beware. Ally-4 and as much Reputation/Influence/Infamy/Cult?/Spies as I can, as well as possible Enemies as you see fit.
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Dec 8, 2012 20:22
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Drunk on Bitter Fortunes A new face. Huh. That's inter- <Chukh. Get it together. It's her.> "Well aren't you the sweetest little thing?" Fortunes remains in a position of apparent relaxation. "Talk is cheap. I have an expensive ear. So let's make this worth my time, hm?" Just a quick post, here; laptop might be salvageable if I run Ubuntu instead of Windows. Will keep you all appraised
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Dec 10, 2012 01:54
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Gentle Snow They headed towards where Tarn had estimated Tyrant’s camp would be, and were a bit surprised to learn he had picked up the pace in Tarn’s absence. They would probably be in Stump by tomorrow, but the wind was whipping up into a storm. Bad luck already descending upon them, perhaps. “We’re in no hurry. Let’s bed down for the night,” he said. He touched the stone set onto his bow, concentrated for a little bit, and then, other hand outstretched, marched into a little stair-stepped cave that formed in front of him as he walked. Once below, he widened out the space until it was comfortable, shaped the earth and stone until it didn’t let in quite as much wind, and quickly got a fire going using some wood he’d collected along the way. He laid out some dried spices, meat, and some dried hardy winter lentils. “I’ll gather a bit more fire if you’ll do the cooking honors,” he said, hopped out their little chimney hole, and went to inspect his troops. He whistled and they gathered from where they had been trailing them, stealthily moving far behind. Each of them had a few logs, whatever they could easily pick up while walking, but it was enough for a bonfire in aggregate. He jumped down the hole a few moments later, practically overloaded with firewood. “So, do I know how to make a cozy spot on the road, or what?”
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Dec 12, 2012 19:38
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Cozy Spot on the Road Tended by creatures from forgotten depths of old, Snow and Tarn rest well. With his homecoming so close at hand, it would not be out of the ordinary for the young mister Kavik to be uneasy. What is strange, is he is not. At least, not as much as he could, within reason, be. And in not quite the way one would expect, no less. Anxiety born not of the unknown, but from knowing all too well. Not that he knows everything, not yet at least, he'd get to that in time but <that is way too much thinking about thinking for a night - drink.> Applying the proper social solvents enables swift precipitation of sobering thoughts, to be collected and safely disposed of at a later time. Left behind them is a certain prized purity of thought easily reached but as easily despoiled. A delicate balance of chemistry dancing on the edge of sanity which- wait, no, not quite there. Little more, little more, lot more? Close enough? Somewhere around that vital point he begins to speak, at great length and with great spirit, of the challenge before them. It begins with an understanding of one of the great ironies on which Creation stands - That Fate is the realm of chaos. That which is truly certain in the world needs no guiding force to set it on its rightful path, for were it so dependant it would not be certain. So it is that fate exists to govern things uncertain, to sit in judgment of potential outcomes and in its rulings dictate which shall and shall not be. And like any court, the stars will only judge so much before retiring to their estates, and are not averse to accepting one could say 'unconventional evidence' into their reasoning, and will not lay down the fullest force of law in every ruling if you know who knows to know those in the know, and an extensive rant on the subject lays the groundwork needed to meaningfully discuss the curse nearby. Once one stands high enough above the world, Fate is a matter of numbers. The potential states of worldly energies can unfold countless ways, but they always unfold. What could yet be becomes what is, and passes into what has been, all by the movement of essence. This curse deals in events, when some degree of fate must settle matters it is there to meddle. But when it tampers with the scales, it is very careful not the let them tip. Its acts breed consequences, which it then rewards to its master. For every influence it exerts upon its victims, an equal and opposite one becomes assured to balance it. In this way, the Ever-Smiling god could turn the town's misfortune to the benefit of his clientele without dirtying his records. But it was not quite so simple as that. Having spent time removed from the heart of the storm, able to look back from a higher understanding with more critical eyes Tarn could read between the lines. By his assortment of knowledge, Tarn knows that a community of Stump's size and composition could sustain greater hardship than it endured in his time there. The implications follow. First, that a combination of any of a thousand potential factors place some limit on how much Piànzi could or would collect from this. The other, a ray of hope - that what it takes it can return. There is, in principle, no reason that the zone could not spread blessings on those within its reach to gather curses. These would be as much a commodity as other fates, though perhaps less in demand, enough that Piànzi may at times sow small mercies. Having the good grace to not press all the way down every time he steps on the throats of an extensive tirade which is allowed to run its course. Under Gelatinous Massage, Tarn returns to the points at hand. What it all means for the plan. The good news - the great efforts taken to conceal this place strongly imply similar obfuscation of other parts of the system. That is to say, it is unlikely one at the other end can tell precisely which conflicts are used to serve its functions. The fundamental principle of inserting a decoy population is sound. The bad - this is a matter of fate. Beings from beyond the stars' reach will prove resistant or outright immune to its effects. Less able to feed its demands. Elves are not the best choice of bait. At least, not immediately... Further words will follow in the OOC Cozy Spot off the Road A few days from the danger zone and a few days off the beaten path, The Tyrant's search bears fruit. His scouts spot signs of habitation and soon confirm the presence of a homestead. He is informed it must have endured in this place for many years. A group bold enough to take root so near danger and so skilled as to prosper there is a fine sight, surely they are well suited to serve his purpose. However, they would certainly be wary of intruders and well prepared to drive them off. To move with the full force of his presence and accompaniment would cause needless unrest and speak poorly of his nature. In his wisdom, he sends his knight to meet them. While he waits for Bjorn's return, his guards survey the surrounding land. They find it quite defensible, and defended. As he knew. The following morning, Bjorn returns. "Well, sire, if you're set on movin' in round these parts you'll have fine neighbours." They will meet him. Not long after, word arrives from his scouts. An ice ship on the horizon, closing fast, flying familiar flags. On arrival, Vestin's report is swift and simple - Sale completed, Vessel wintered ashore. Details available on request. Cozy Spot off the Radar "Chukh, please," It's just a little too warm in here. Just enough to start getting uncomfortable, not enough that anything you could do about it wouldn't be too much the other way. <I don't need your ears, but> The idiots don't seem to mind, all huddled close around her sipping stew. "There's no need for that." "We're all friends here." She drags the cold one closer by his collar. A sharp tap on the head leaves a little red mark, from which colour quickly returns to the young Haslan. He's just as quickly drawn into the crowd. She drifts into the old tongue, softly spoken words lull the little cult to rest. They don't know what she's saying, even if they did there's little chance they'd care. They're just glad to be around. "I'm not the one who left you to babysit the highest-of-high-unholies over there, and you're not the one who dropped him on my doorstep without so much as an ill omen sent ahead." She gives gives a nearby dope a gentle squeeze, "Won't stop me from keeping the place hospitable, or you from getting him a drat lampshade." Meet Brass Orb Weaver, Moon-Akuma. Agent of the reclamation. You're Welcome. Cozy Spot Over the Rainbow "... which I'd be glad to show you, but I've hit a little snag." Sammi Gray hangs, held in suspense between two worlds. Though Cloud would gladly drag him off to strange new horizons, Misha stands defiant on his coattails. "But you like the midglades." She presses deeper into the snow. "Nonsense, you look fine." She bares her teeth. "Then what would-" She points at Cloud. It is very quiet. A Ribbon breaks, Sam drifts to the ground. He bounces to his feet. "Well, we'll be back." Misha draws an excessive length of rope from her bag, "Find you when we do!" One end around her, one around Sam, "Bye!" And they're off. So, further exposition will follow OOC, ask for details there. Feel free to rendezvous near-stump and we can get on with adventure.
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Jan 6, 2013 00:24
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The Glorious Tyrant The Tyrant notes the success of his subordinates. Vestin had once again proven his worth as an administrator, and the Tyrant spent a moment or two admiring the clean lines of the ice-ship much to the trader's delight. After dispensing a few words of praise to the merchant, the Tyrant turned back towards Bjorn. The northerner had passed his first test, managing to carry out his King's will even when the Tyrant was not watching over his shoulder. "You have done well, my knight. Now let us meet these hardy folk, and perhaps they will see their rightful place as you have." Heading towards the homestead to meet the residents.
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Jan 6, 2013 02:21
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Silk and Silver Cloud The Infernal waves goodbye to his new friends, staying still to watch them go for long instants, perhaps an entire minute. When he turns away it is not to forget them forever; it is to find himself in new and exciting ways, to have wonderful stories to tell when they meet again, off and anon--new people because of the intervening experiences, but comrades through it all. He smiles gently, then kicks up a plume of snow as he jets off to meet the others again and tell them the good news.
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Jan 8, 2013 07:02
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Drunk on Bitter Fortunes Fortunes arches an eyebrow at his new companion. Her ability to drown out Dissolution was a bit shocking, and set his coadjutor clawing at the figurative walls of his brain. The sensation could best be described as "insufferably annoying." <Dis, knock it off. I'm a guest here, and you're being a cockblock.> <Kimbrey's love, Chukh, can you think with something OTHER than your dick for once?> Per usual, Fortunes ignores his coadjutor's bitching. He lowers the weapon, and puts on his most winning smile. "Dig up a bar of soap and a bottle of booze. And not in that order. If you can do that, consider yourself officially exempt from my wrath, sweetcakes. If you're lucky, a little later I'll let you play with my boomstick." <...So that's a "no," then.> <If it ain't broke...> The Slayer studies the crowd of primitive screwheads and the spider-woman of the secret wars, and allows himself a smile. "So. What can you tell me about the existing state of Reclamation up here?"
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Jan 13, 2013 19:51
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Tarn Kavik - Ramblin' On Winding down from his inebriated rant, a coherent thought strikes Tarn. "That stone..." he mutters, gesturing at Snow's hearthstone. "Manses usually take a lot of excavation to get the geomancy just so, and it's possible for more than one person to attune to a manse at once. If you have time later, adding me to the list of authorized users could drastically cut construction time, once we have the raw materials. It might well be the difference between weeks and months of work." "But first things first. To work in Stump, I'll need to observe the phenomenon directly, and it would be best if we had a base from which to work well outside of the curse's reach." The rest goes unspoken: If there is such a suitable place, the Tyrant likely either has or will try to claim it for himself. This mission requires discretion, and with the Tyrant, discretion means "intervention". Failing that, it'll take lots and lots of bribes. Either way, the Defiler's going to have his hands full. Good thing he doesn't need hands to work. On the Road Again Although it's been a few days since they parted ways with the Tyrant and his entourage, Rutherford has no trouble picking up the Sovereign's trail. On the rare occasions where his sense of smell fails him, his uncanny eyes track the mystical energies left in the wake of the Infernal's passage. Halfway there, they receive confirmation on their bearings as a windblade and its eclectic rider soar overhead. Tarn waves to Cloud, but the Scourge is already gone, a speck vanishing into the horizon. He makes a mental note to ask Cloud about his excursion, and learn what he can about the State of the Raksha. Also, check for signs of progressive Elf-Induced Crazy. Hi-diddly-ho, neighborinos! Nice, cozy little place on the frontier. Remember, though, northern hospitality: help whom you can, but don't take on any burdens that can't carry their own weight. This time of year, the benefits of any extra hands would be outweighed by the attendant extra mouths. What can we do to make ourselves welcome? Per + Craft to see any room for improvement that would ingratiate us to the homesteaders: 8 sux. No benefit for Architecture specialty, since that roll came up zilch. Thesaurasaurus fucked around with this message at 20:04 on Jan 14, 2013 |
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Jan 14, 2013 18:35
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Gentle Snow "Hmm. I think we could come to some sort of arrangement to that end," Snow replied. "It seems like just the kind of toy you would enjoy." While nowhere near the Savant that Tarn was, Snow did a decent job of keeping up a small discussion of how the hearthstone worked and the ways it could be used and abused. Snow was a one-man sapper squad, and was always happy to learn the finer details of how best to achieve that end. As they finally approached their destination, Snow considered how best to blend in, and then decided that he could do better than a lie. For so long as the Tyrant was his shining, obvious self, Snow would be himself. It would be best to hide his nature a little, and so called on the darkness within himself. It flowed out of his mouth and eyes, enveloped his body, and then faded. When it passed, he looked much the same, but his armor now had the dull gleam of steel, and his bow the smoothness of horn. It would suffice. "I'm going to scout the settlement, I will see you inside." He split from Tarn and looked for what scant game was available. He'd need some goods to trade for shelter, and could pretend to be a hunter caught too far away from home to make it back before winter hit. What does a five success hunting roll get me? Maybe bag me an Ice Weasel pelt? Whatever I find, going to scout out the town. Stealthily, at first, and then openly, if the mood looks inviting: Stealth Roll: 5
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Jan 15, 2013 20:59
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State of Reunions The idiots are soon at rest, piled neatly as out-of-the-way as the shelter allows. Given what Brass keeps on tap, they won't be up until well after the storm's blown through. Sure to sleep through business. "Oh, there's none of that up here. Nothing up around the White Sea but honest, hard-working, hard-dying folk living by the sweat of their brows. Not a one among 'em'd ever think to so much as look side-on at any hellish thing, wizard busines that they'll have not a word of," She could not sound at once more or less sincere, "lest they be dragged aside and reminded of their people's proper values." "Much as they'll wail on and on denying it, this is silver land. Anyone lights up out here, they soon get a little visit. You don't glow white, they chase you off. Supposing the Bear's not at the wrong time of month. You do, you have 'till they've shot you full of silver to start self-flagellation for the sin of caring hard enough to call the moon. Then, if they like your attitude you may well get to pick which strip of blasted waste to stare at while you fight the wicked urge to do something with your blessed life." The facade of jollity takes its sweet time slipping away. Far from breaking under stress, the illusion of content is neatly folding until tucked away, "Until something happens that they can't ignore. Then they borrow the balls to step up and take charge long enough to get things done. Then they slink back to their corners to pretend they're proud to be a pack of frozen widows." Nearly there, "This corner's mine. I keep it clean. I keep them out. I give you room to make yourself at home." "You found your door prize well enough." She gives a little head-tilt as the stack of fools. "I've got a little collection going. You'd be amazed what gets misplaced out here. It's yours when you need it." Nearly there, "And you will need it. You will be noticed. And if you're known before you're something they can't deal with they will put you down. Then I go back to waiting." And it's gone. "Now then, I owe some things a visit. We'll be in touch. I'm a lot of folks around these parts." And she's gone. Between blinks of an eye the coat of fur she wore collapses, falling directly into the fire. Something on its surface catches instantly, fire takes it end to end just in time for Chukh to be too late to let it go. He drags the blazing hide outside, where the blizzard kindly buries him in snow. When he stumbles back inside two things await - a bar of soap and a bottle of booze. The screwheads sleep till morning. Brass will handle the logistics of invoking anyone's hellish backgrounds, keeps an extensive network of communication, surveillance, and supply caches all around the frontier, and will do more than you deserve to monitor and mitigate outside interference. At Present heat level, you have till season's end before anyone notable may investigate you. Survey-Lands Rocks, Trees, and Rolling Hills, were all the words required to describe the last few hundred miles, and quite probably the next. Until the spring at least, where at the peak of thaw one could add 'Mud'. The monotony makes it all the easier for Tarn's mind to spot where the pattern breaks. Breaks. Yes. Just the right word for what he's found. Ahead a gentle upward slope ends in a sharp descent. The peak extends in an arc some ways in each direction, eventually turning back upon itself some ways away. Such a depression is a natural trap for bits of soil on which to found a farm, as is evident. However, this particular dent may well be far from natural. Looking closely at the lay of the underlying stone (thankfully without having to drive off the overlaying snow) Tarn finds signs of history. Though age has done much to smooth its rough edges, it cannot fool Tarn's expert eyes - this is a crater. <Like the one you left in Stump! I bet yours was bigger though.> Certainly not, as a blast large enough to form this would have nothing of Tarn for Dancer to inhabit. Furthermore, it is a tad askew, implying some direction to the force that made it. Perhaps a somewhat uneven explosion, more likely a steep impact. Either way, long enough ago to leave no residue of its creator, and more practically to be sure the rock has all resettled. There's a few hundred acres within the dent in all. Good base soil retention. Good for catching water, though it may risk flooding in especially wet years. Easy enough to get to bedrock to set down foundations, and if you wanted to raise a perimeter fence the job's practically half-done by what's left of the splash-zone. They have a wall, but it's farther in. Fair enough, no point fencing what you aren't working. No good ramps along the edge, hard to sled or sail in or out of, good that Vestin's parked some ways off. Most folk would call keeping guildsmen out a feature. Or other shady characters. Now that he thinks of it, it's odd he's paced the edge of someone's property so long without so much as good shout or a warning shot. Must be going well in there. Such are the thoughts interrupted by a man returning from afield, dragging the carcass of a deer. Why yes, he did kill it himself. Of course it's to share. No need to thank him. Could have been more, but no one came to flank, or chase, or take another shot before the rest ran off. Alas. One man, one kill, one meal for the rest of them. No, he doesn't live here, but perhaps whoever does will appreciate someone who hauls in decent game. And so, a man who is most certainly only that and nothing more trudges on, unnoticed, towards the little houses on the Taiga. Visitation Rite Here dwell men of character, of strength of mind and body befitting those who work these lands. Here live the sons of Egil who, in years long gone forsook the greenfields of the shore for parts unknown, there to carve between the earth and sky a place to wear his name and bare his legacy. So it passed that this place rose to the challenge of one man's ambitions, to lay roots for future generations. So it is that they now stand before The Tyrant, prepared without doubt to guard their home with that ancestral ferocity owed by their duty to the clan. So it is that they do know, on sight, the presence of a man of that same unshaking purpose which brought them into being. That they do know commands respect. The eldest of four brothers, Stienn, stands ahead. Between The Tyrant's party and the gates, for a moment they wear the well-deserved scorn any man may hold for one intruding on his hard-earned land. It is soon gone. All weapons hang aside. "Well, you sure look royal. And coming out this far to say good day's more good than half the spirits do out this way." Cautious optimism. He withholds judgment until proof, for good or ill appears. He looks confident this would-be-king will not disappoint. "So you're off to lift some sort of curse?"
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Jan 23, 2013 21:29
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