RE: ~*Getting To Know You*~


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10/20/2015 21:28:27

Remaint
Member

"Oh. By the way, Woyadei. Where'd ya put the egg I gave you to hold? The brown one, you did lose it did you?"

The mentioning of the egg handed to the undead stirred a mild curiosity. The standard When will it hatch, how does the beasts’ young appear and so forth accompanied a Where may we hatch the thing.

“The egg’s within a saddlebag. It’s cushioned with...soft stuff,” false cell tissue, gauze, flexible bottles, bodily repair things... “-and should be safe. Again, where do you intend on storing the Grabbi and its produce?”

As with most campaign-capable undead or demonic, the conquistador was allotted with a fair amount of supplies with the idea that one may not always part battle unscathed. Woyadei specifically was unique in that he utilised molniromancy as opposed to alchemy or handiwork as the core tool in repairs. Running a current of lightning in mimicry of flowing blood with medical operation matter solves most issues caused by damage.

Observing the dragon-kin, the conquistador noted again how easily may it be to confuse Arche for some form of devil or vampire. Many of demon-kind within Noctenvale and Karaser favoured to flaunt such features as wings, fangs, eyes and horns. To be honest, they often do look good in doing so. He wondered what demon-kin may be associated with the noble hunter, which spurred another question.

“Do you know the population of ‘Drakels’ and dragon kind within Lore?”

AQW	Post #: 101

10/20/2015 22:14:32

Draycos777
Member

“The egg’s within a saddlebag. It’s cushioned with...soft stuff, and should be safe. Again, where do you intend on storing the Grabbi and its produce?”

Arche was about to answer the undead, when he asked another question, seemingly out of the blue.

“Do you know the population of ‘Drakels’ and dragon kind within Lore?”

Arche was slightly confused about what that had to do about her storage of the creature, or why he'd want to know that at all. Putting down her map, and turning her head towards Woyadei, Arche answered in reply.

"Huh? What's that suppose to mean? Well with the creature. Studying within a closed space would do more damage to my senses than we've already done to it. I plan on keeping it behind the inn, which is why I've already paid for a room on the bottom floor. Maybe the only room, I don't know."

Arche faced forward and lifting the map back to face-height.

"As for your other question. I've said before the Drakels, keep to themselves, only allowing those that are invited or famous heroes into their cities. But i believe them to be as numerous as humans. They just aren't as spread out. Supposedly, they are descendants of Dragons that took on a more 'reptilian-like appearance than half-breeds like myself and Rajiri. Though, no one knows this for sure and the Drakels aren't saying anything about it."

Arche waved her left hand in the air at the end of her talk about the Drakels, as if their origins didn't truly matter.

"And as for Dragons, well, it's kind of hard to get an exact number of a species that can travel around most of the world in less than a week if they were to fly non-stop. Plus some live at the bottom of the ocean, others deep within the earth and other fly non-stop, coming down to the tops of mountains only to nest for about six months. Long enough for eggs to hatch and for their young to start learning how to fly. Yeah... if you ever grow wings, I suggest never to ask a wind dragon to teach you how to fly. They may be the best, but their methods are... questionable to say the least. 'Dive right in', is their motto. Well, even so, it's still well know that dragons are just as rare as they are powerful. Because of our long lifespan, the rate in which a dragon will lay a brood of eggs is considerably long. And half-breeds are even rarer. Although next cycle will mark my thirty-third year on lore, I only have one other sibling that is about half my age."

< Message edited by Draycos777 -- 10/21/2015 1:22:58 >

AQ	Post #: 102

10/20/2015 23:15:45

Ted Zlammy
Member

Thatch was astounded at these people! Such sacrilege against the goodness which are socks spewed from their lips! Thatch figured he must try to show them the way of the sock! "I'll admit sock degradation, sadly, is a fact of life! But you can fight it by having more wondrous socks, and by wearing, well, shoes or boots. And if your feet are at the point of festering, just having them bare isn't exactly going to help either! Also socks will keep your feet warm in the cold and they'll... Pah!" Thatch spoke out, trying to correct these people, but gave up near the end, and opted for a swig of his drink instead. If these folks were weren't enlightened by socks in this point of their lives, Thatch doubted they would be swayed by his words. The thing the Sockless One said about footware being restrictive really made him want to put his foot on the table and show his socks with individual toesies though!

Wait a moment, Thatch could simply just slide one boot off and poke the Sockless One with one of his socked feet! So, as he wiggled one of his boots off, Thatch looked up at the group and said, "Ah, I give up on you people! Let's just get to this little game of yours Nilby! Though I gotta ask, when we "use" one of our non kingly cards. what happens to them? Do we set em' down or what?" By the time Thatch had finished asking Nilburke about some of the rules, he had finished wiggling his boot off and poked his socked foot at one of the Sockless One's non-socked feet. As he poked, Thatch started to stare at his hand, thinking about how fun it'd be to try and steal all the Kings for himself, even though it wasn't exactly his job to do so.

AQW

Post #: 103

10/21/2015 0:05:00

Remaint
Member

"Huh? What's that suppose to mean?...And as for Dragons, well, it's kind of hard to get an exact number..."

“I see, thanks for the descriptions. I simply get curious, is all.”

It was true, the undead was simply curious. Woyadei wanted to see if further comparisons between Lorian, draconian factions and the nations of the Confederacy could be made. New technology developed within Karaser allowed for fairly accurate measures regarding population censuses throughout the Archipelago of Fog, and even the surrounding waters and seafloor. It was also perhaps the same, or similar branch of new technology that allowed sharp estimates of the Confederate landmass. The exact details were omitted, prevented from reaching most sentient beings within the chain of isles, but submitted reports easily verified current records. Some couple of ships and giant moths were sighted patrolling water and air, having been fitted with heavy metallic equipment.

Information garnered by the technology was truly astounding. Time before, population censuses were either regarded as suicidal upon the Dominion, or declared a very delicate thing. Noctenvale vampire elites charged notoriously, but comprehensibly, high to be ordered running across the whole 14 million square kilometres of treacherous bog, ice and brutal spikes, holes that make up the archipelago, just to count single residents who would sometimes attack them.

The more recent census of the Dominion could hardly be understood by Woyadei, which was likely why his superiors made the report easy-to-access; he found it in an unrestricted library within Morseren. There were 183 million significantly sized sentient beings on the archipelago itself, and a further 40 million surrounding the isles. Such a vast amount was completely unexpected, and he was certain very few could take advantage of the knowledge, which obviously included said superiors. There were however two details the conquistador found strange. One being certain numbers were allotted to the territories that totaled 75 million; 22m for Karaser, 21m for Harrowshreik, 11m for both Noctenvale and Remilon, 8m for Shuischeier and 2m for Morseren. The other detail being an explicit description, that numbers fluctuated to wild quantities when measurements were taken underneath Morseren, and had to be left out; only surface values were considered. The numbers seriously puzzled Woyadei, for 75 million out of 183 cannot be arbitrary.

The explanation regarding the lack of precise answer on Lore’s major reptilian population was expected. A world less developed wouldn’t easily have the resources to conduct efficient censuses nor would the intelligence be known among many even if it could be gathered. The remarks upon wind draconians are kind of...uplifting. Heh heh.

“Wind Dragons would get along great with young moths in my home isles. Those arthropods, being durable as they are when young, and fluffy to boot, would have great fun in plunging or soaring alongside dragons. As for me, I’d stick to travel by ship. Ship by water. Underwater would also be nicer than far above. I don’t drown, and pressure’s tolerable with me, but plunging from the sky isn’t to my comfort.”

< Message edited by Remaint -- 10/21/2015 0:16:33 >

AQW	Post #: 104

10/21/2015 18:31:05

Sigil
Member

The exasperated tone in which socks were being discussed seemed a bit silly to Keystone. Socks... most people from the civilized lands wherefrom he hailed had some form of sockery available to them. Even the very poor (a state he clawed himself out of, to simply being financially inconvenienced) had access to the warm foot-coverings. When hard winter set in back home, it was one of the few things distributed to them by more charitable organizations.

His own socks were thick and woolen, darned in several places, originally naturally colored but since darkened to a dull grey. They served their purpose admirably, protecting his feet from excessive chafing from his hobnail boots and insulating him from the colder weather to which he was accustomed. Recent years found his feet resistant to chafing, among other odd physical changes since his training took a more structured direction. Still, they were comfortable, and he was used to the feel of them.

As silly as the conversation seemed to him, participating in it made him more approachable by those around him, something he was trying to accomplish with this crowd. Ordinarily, being approachable was the opposite of his goal; it was easy to succeed in this endeavor, owing to his size, upbringing, and reputation most places in which he'd spent any time. However, lacking any practical sock experience, he could not contribute directly to the discussion as it related to footwear. Nonetheless, he tried:

"I seem to recall a tavern, one of the places I've been during one of my more cockedup nights, served a beverage called a "Flaming Ogre's Sock". Had to be handled with a pair of smithing tongs, that sock did, 'less it bleach a hole into the bartop." His gaze rested on his cards, though it was apparent he was not focusing on them, lost in the struggle of recalling a blurry memory.

"The fellow with the tongs had to tie a kerchief 'round his face so as the fumes wouldn't render him unconscious. Bloke what ordered it demanded the sock be at least a week old, too. Where they got it confounds the likes of me, lemme tell ya. It was deposited into the distilled fermentations of honey and rye, it was, and turned it a sickly shade of greenish-grey. It immediately burst into flames. After a few seconds of bright blue fire, the mug was covered with a cast-iron to douse it, and the stupid git took a big swallow, careful to tuck the sock back with a metal spoon."

A look of regret briefly crossed his features as he continued, "I'm not proud of it, but curiosity got the best of me. I politely asked the bastard if I could give it a sampling. He agreed, and popped out the sock like some manner of infernal teabag. Gave it a squeeze, he did, back into the mug and pushed it my way."

"I remember a horrifying feeling of my bones ripping their way out of my skin and trying to make sweet boingy to the nearest piece of furniture. Liquid ants biting their way down my throat-hole, making a nest in my innards. It was like my tastebuds grew into tiny tentacles and started ripping my teeth out, using them to play a percussion inside of my brain. I remember waking the next morning, naked, hanging off of the side of a church roof, my danglies exposed to the incoming parishioners below and venting the most foul fluid from my bung-ring."

"...bloody socks..."

< Message edited by Sigil -- 10/21/2015 18:33:15 >

AQW	Post #: 105

10/21/2015 18:57:06

Bastet
Member

Rajiri nodded as Arche thanked her while handing her the bit by which she was carrying the Grabbi’s carcass. She wasn’t particularly attracted by the prospect of having to carry the dead beast by herself, feeling that her senses had been attacked enough for the day. Her sensitive nostrils were about to give out between the undead and the rotting Grabbi, under constant assault by the smell of death. Dragging the beast wasn’t much better, extending the unpleasant sensation to her touch, but she had offered to help her kin and she definitely wasn’t one to show weakness. She didn’t have much experience with such creatures: she mostly fought humanoid species in the form assassins, hunting more conventional game to sustain herself.

She was distracted from the negative sensations by the fact that Arche began transforming while handling the bag that previously was on her back, attempting to find her map again. Unless she was reacting in an excessive manner from the frustration of not immediately finding what she was looking for, Rajiri was almost impressed at how differently their respective transformations worked. Rajiri could only show her draconic limbs by tapping deeply into her blood, while Arche seemed to be able to do it at a whim. This meant that she either had better control over her powers or that they simply worked differently, and the red dragon was not one to easily admit that it could’ve been the former.

Arche used her prehensile tail to keep a strange egg out of the way of danger as she searched her sack, finally finding what she was looking for an pulling it out. She stretched her wings, and kept them in that position, as she tried to determine just where the group had ended up, then asking Woyadei where he had put the other egg. Rajiri had no idea what creature laid the eggs Arche was talking about, although guessing that they came from the Grabbi itself would have been reasonable, but she wasn’t going to ask unless it was information that her kin thought she should relay.

Woyadei gave a positive answer to Arche’s question, confirming that another egg was indeed in his possession. Then he asked a question that seemed to come out of nowhere, as if he couldn’t let go the previous conversations. Considering that those previous conversations almost brought a fight on his head, Rajiri listened carefully to what the zombie was saying.

“Do you know the population of ‘Drakels’ and dragon kind within Lore?”

If Rajiri’s tail had not been currently hid by the fact that she was not making active use of her powers, it would have been swaying nervously. It felt out of place for the undead to be asking questions at that time, particularly when Arche had been concentrating on another subject. The shadow-aligned kin’s answer wasn’t anything that Rajiri didn’t already know, but she still focused on the possible reasons that could have led Woyadei to keep asking questions. Either he was curious and very bold, or he was looking to gather specific information.

The undead’s remark about the moths of his homeland didn’t faze Rajiri: it was more information about a country that she would’ve never visited on purpose, and the local fauna wasn’t of much interest to the red dragon. Rajiri spoke up, aiming to interrupt Woyadei’s attempts at conversation as much as she wanted an answer to her question.

“So, Arche, if you’ve managed to figure out what our position is, how far are we from the town?”

Post #: 106

10/22/2015 16:52:19

Apocalypse
Member

"All right now we have a game!" Each word was emphasized with a fist pound on the table. His excitement stemmed not only from the addition of a fourth player but at the quick wit Candles displayed in her conversation with Thief. If her playing was half as clever as her tongue, then Candles would be sure to be a challenge.

Thief dissolved into a speech about the merits of socks and the vast improvement they gave to one's life. Softies always got riled up by the strangest things. Perhaps it was a cultural difference as goblins had no need of footwear for everyday use or traveling, but in Nilburke's encounters he had noticed the majority of softies had a touchy subject about which they sensitive and over-protective. Then again, sofites were also more sensitive in the physical sense and in need of more protection than other species. The alchemist wondered if the correlation was not just coincidental and if the fragile nature of their bodies had influenced the developments of their mind. Or was the reverse true? The brain was a strong tool, and it has been proven to be a factor in major changes of the individual in physical terms. The placebo effect was the simplest and strongest piece of evidence for this phenomenon. Could a sensitive mind lead to the development of a sensitive body?

Nilburke's musing on softie quirks was put to a jarring halt as Thief switched to questions about mechanics of gameplay. He had been half-paying attention, but the goblin had caught the gist of it. "Right, I go first and play a card." Nilburke glanced at his hand and tossed down the seven of diamonds. "Cards play different for the King Catcher. I ignore the suits and focus on the number. Thief, show me four of your cards. Brute, show me two, Candles just the one." It was a guess that the white woman would pick up on the game faster than the other two. Knowing less information about her now would serve as an advantage in the long run if Nilburke was correct in his suspicions of her aptitude. "Slide'em face down across the table so no one else sees. As for the cards played, they are played in a stack in the middle." He tapped the seven of diamonds in the center. "Once everyone plays a card, it is considered a round and the cards are put off to the side face down. No looking at them. I'll explain wagers and played kings when they come up."

The goblin returned to his drink as Brute spun a personal tale about his experience with a different sort of sock. Somehow Nilburke both lost and gained respect for the big man who had been bested by the Flaming Ogre's Sock. It was an act one part brave and two parts stupid. If more softies had been like Brute here, then human and goblin relations would have been improved many-fold over. The tankard landed on the table with a thud after Brute's tale. "Gotta be careful with tavern specials. Most are idle threats with an exaggerated name, but some will get ya."

"Get bested myself once, when I was a younger gob," said Nilburke. He paused to take another drink. "Little pub far out west. 'The Pig's Trough', if I recall correctly. Gathering for the local ruffians, imbibers, and ne'er-do-wells. My kind of scum. They had the Creeper - nothing as fancy as Flaming Ogre's Sock, mind you. Looked just like blue mead. Had a nice fruity yet tarty flavor to it. During my second, I had a mind to ask one of the serving girls why it was called the Creeper. She said, 'Oh, because it creeps up on you.'" Nilburke snapped his fingers. "And that's my last memory of the night."

"I'll tell ya, waking up in a soft bed surrounded by good ol' stone walls is not a bad way to wake. Waking up with some female softie woman screaming bloody murder is quite another." He paused to take a swig, moistening his mouth and throat. "Turns out the house belonged to a wealthy merchant and his wife. Thought I was their son who had been transformed into a 'hideous swampbeast' by one fae or another. Had me locked in that room for three days before I could make an escape. Once I did manage to make it out, I found myself in a town some thirty-odd leagues from the tavern I started in."

Nilburke stared into his his tankard as he swirled the contents. "Food was plenty good during my stay, though I never did learn what happened to their son."

Post #: 107

10/22/2015 23:29:59

Krey
Member

The newcomer, Thatch, simply couldn't seem to let his thing about the socks go. This, of course, sparked numerous mischievous ideas in Verna's mind, as a man so hung up on a garment could be very easily toyed with, simply by toying with the object of his obsession. Perhaps, were he to pass out, she could steal and hide his socks. Or should he retire and stay in the inn, perhaps she would sneak into his room and steal them. Childish, perhaps, but certainly amusing. Little did she know, the opportunity to mess with him was to present itself much sooner than she'd expected.

As Thatch was, unbeknownst to her, preparing to poke her in the foot, the goblin began to explain the rules of the game. She listened well to his rules and direction, even as she felt the socked toe touch her foot. Her response came in a flash, the practiced ease of recognizing and seizing opportunities. She knew the feeling of fabric, could feel through the contact the intent, and reacted. With unnatural dexterity (Or, more accurately, particularly well-trained dexterity) she opened, curled, and closed her toes on the fabric of his sock. Her first and second toes latching onto it tightly, she gave a sudden, mighty pull in an attempt to yank the sock off his foot.

Even as she reacted to the assault on her foot, she listened to the goblin as he directed them, her face reflecting nothing of the mischief happening beneath the table. It seemed that this was to be something of a practice game, at least to start, seeing as neither she nor, she presumed, any of the others knew the game. With no concept of the rules from which to build a strategy, she pulled a six from her hand, and slid it across the table to the goblin.

“I for one prefer to serve the drinks what leave a man senseless. Events are much more entertaining on my end, days like that.”

AQ	Post #: 108

10/23/2015 2:39:08

Ted Zlammy
Member

If one were able to see Thatch's face through his mask after Keystone's overly detailed tale, you'd be able to notice he was absolutely slack jawed, and was staring incredulously at the man. Thatch himself was no stranger to waking up in places he had no business in whatsoever, but he'd yet to have an awakening as, uh, raw as Keystone's. Closest experience that came to mind for Thatch was something involving the Lord of a town or something... Wait, it wasn't the lord but his old mother! Right, Thatch had greeted a new day from a night of drinking by rolling and falling out of the rafters of a gazebo, right on top of the local lord's mother. Poor old lady.

Thatch's musings of the past were cut short by Nilburke stating more rules and saying that someone called Thief had to show almost all of their hand save for one card and.... Wait. Was the blue substance guzzling goblin insinuating that Thatch was a thief? Why Thatch oughta.... Well, not much actually. Thatch did liberate a mug from a patron, but for the goblin to call him a thief for it? Absolutely crass! "Now now Nilby! Thief is a bit much of a word to call someone such as I! And besides, I don't care much for the term thief. Instead I very much prefer "Liberator of All Things Good" instead!" Thatch went on to say, trying to correct Nilburke on his name calling. Thatch was going to say more, and add a bit about being vivid about him being forced to practically show all of his hand, but than the Sockless She-Devil struck.

The red headed fiend had somehow taken some of the individual toesies of Thatch's sock captive with her toes, and performed an unexpected yank on Thatch's wondrous creation! By the time Thatch realized this cruel assault had been performed on his holy sanctuary against the cold by the Sockless She-Devil, a third of his sock had been yanked loose and taken! Not intending to lose anymore ground against his foe, Thatch tried his darndest to hold onto his sock by pulling on the inside of it with his big toe and the one beside it. Unfortunately, Thatch did not like his odds, for the woman had a fierce grip!

As the epic struggle underneath the table raged on, Thatch realized he ought to hand over four of his cards to the goblin, else the group might notice the battle of great importance that went on under the table. Realizing that he actually had one King, Thatch slid the other four cards of varying symbols over to Nilburke, much like the Sockless She-Devil had done, who was somehow showing no sign of the fight underneath the table. Thatch himself wobbled side to side every now and than from the secret fight, but it looked more like his two drinks were getting to him than anything else though. Trying to cover of his behavior even more, Thatch took a new swig of his drink and spoke up, "With all this talk of horrifying beverages, I wonder if this place has a "Special" drink as well. Hmm. Shall we spice up some of our future games? Make the losers try the no doubt "wondrous" special brew there is here?"

AQW

Post #: 109

10/23/2015 19:19:53

Afina
Weaver of Epic Yarns

Sana leaned back in her chair observing her comrades; at least that was what she was referring to them as now in her own mind. Sure they had not fought together yet but they had managed to sit down, converse and just sit together without anyone pulling a weapon as of yet. That alone was better than some situations had started out for her in the past and all of those had ended up with her defending people with her very life. Perhaps this group would not be too bad to deal with for whatever amount of extended time she would need to spend in this forsaken realm.

“Well this is certainly a more pleasant beginning to a group than my last several,” Sana admitted absentmindedly as she sat there looking over at the bar as her head dropped lazily back and just hung there. Her hair falling back to reveal the full extent to the massive burn scars that traveled up to her jaw line and down to her elbow, covering both her chest and back half way down; as well as the large single blade scare on her cheek. She seemed to focus on one knot of wood on the bar as she thought back to previous adventures and how they began. She started speaking, not really paying attention to if anyone else was speaking already and not speaking to anyone in particular.

“This one group I was with started out in a tavern not much different than this one. Let’s see there was Hugh, a former paladin; he wasn’t a bad guy, seemed lost too much in his past though. Then there was this elf bard, forget her name but will never forget her voice; dumb woman ended up singing this song in the middle of a battle that put the entire group to sleep. We woke up in a dungeon and I nearly got sacrificed by a Lych. That was fun.

Then there was a drow, had way too much pent up… energy and I don’t mean the running kind. One of those high borns who thought they were all powerful and all knowing. Like casting this dark spell that, sure kept beasts from being able to see us to attack but also kept us from seeing crap. Had a dwarf that I used as an elbow rest, he wasn’t too bad but had way too many anger issues to be a priest. A little Halfling that thought he was some sort of match maker. He ended up running off with the Lych, that was a couple made in hell.

And then there was Drizzak. He was a hoot, little goblin who wore this red dragon cloak and thought he was a dragon. Little pyromancer. Would drink these horrific concoctions and set himself on fire before leaping like a rabbit who drank way too much wizards tea. Will give him this, he was an artist when it came to a kill though,” Sana rambled on and chuckled to herself thinking back to little Drizzak, he had always been her favorite in the group. “Threatened to gut the dwarf if he laid a finger on little Drizzak but seems I didn’t need to. The elf slapped him with her harp so hard it broke,” Sana added laughing remembering the look on his face when he got harpslapped.

“Now, let’s see, the ones I am trying to get back to started out in an Apothecary. Drizzak and Hugh were there, we kind of stuck together after the whole Lych incident. Ended up in a small town to help out a Nun who ran an orphanage. They came down with a nasty sickness we call Cinder Sickness. Poor kids, what happens is you get these boils and then they burst and erupt like a mini volcano, spewing this sickly lava like substance. These keep happening until the whole body burns away,” she said grimacing.

“A few more joined us. Lob, this half orc guy who really loves his bone and for some reason calls me Alpha. Then there was Fiona, a fiery red headed sword swinger. Great in battle. Then there was Tobias, poor thief with a bad sense of when to open his mouth, was always getting into trouble. There was also Vaeri, nice battle elf, would fight with her anytime. Hrm, who else. Oh yeah, there was Derrix, guy claimed to be a poet but he sure knew how to use a lance.

We were getting ready to leave and this band of slavers showed up and had the nerve to put their hands on me. Well needless to say that didn’t end well. We learned there were more. Half of us went to take care of them and ended up finding their camp. More to kill, found the slaves and were able to free them. Well most of them,” Sana said in a grim voice as she pulled at the wedding bands around her neck. Sighing her head finally righted itself.

“That whole mess ended up with us battling this Anti-Paladin and a Hellhound….” She said pointing to the scars. “We had just finished him and hit beast off, left the village to find what we needed to take care of the cinder sickness. Then the fog rolled in….” she said and shrugged. “That was the first one to get me,” she chuckled to herself as she leaned up.

“I wonder how many more fogs I have to deal with, they are getting a bit bothersome,” she added rubbing her face and resting her elbows on the table.

Post #: 110

10/23/2015 20:38:42

Remaint
Member

“So, Arche, if you’ve managed to figure out what our position is, how far are we from the town?”

Though important, Woyadei found the question to be redundant. The noble hunter pulled out a map, it should be typical to follow-through with a report, once she is done. It could simply be that Rajiri fell to an idle mind as well. Comprehensible, for no matter where one may be--besides the Dominion’s East…-journeying at a crawling pace while carrying cumbersome cargo easily robs one of vigour and heart. The conquistador almost thought to suggest running; plopping the Grabbi onto Comrade Pedes and having everyone charge at full speed. Toward humans, it would have been easily an insipid idea, but with Kampfgruppe von Valher, as Woyadei amusedly referred to his little group, it could be a decent idea. Three super strength beings and two individuals who do not tire could achieve many a difficult delivery.

Looking about, the undead conquistador allowed his mind to wander onto matters concerning tactics. He knew there will not be allied relief or assistance for a significant amount of time, maybe for years, even. He could not trust those in this realm to effectively resupply or repair him despite adequate funding. This meant attritional combat, and by extension, melee, must be avoided. Simple obstacle to surmount, on the surface. The tactic will then be remain on Comrade Pedes and throw lightning, falling back if required and using cover. In hypothesis, such a method can be sustained indefinitely, provided opposers deal in only magic and low caliber archery.

Finding his gaze on a line of trees, Woyadei introspected further. His recent history of conclusions had been potentially very unfavourable. Mere hours have passed and two fights with sentient locals could have occurred, himself having been a notable cause for them. Have to relax more, have to maintain posture, less jumpy. This isn’t the Dominion, it isn’t That dangerous, can’t afford to spoil the societal norm. Damn the soft humane types, damn the squishy emotional types.

In foreign lands, it was so much easier to raid and conquer, as opposed to socialise and fit in. He could be untouchable when fighting, shocking fast responses and deeply varying effective range allows for effortless multiple wounds against enemies before they could land one blow on the conquistador. Between foreign swordsmen, archers, mages, spearmen and even small groups of fighters, few could stand up to the dragoon should he linger in combat instead of simply riding away. To appear harmless and friendly was something akin as a kilometres tall, insanely steep mountain to be scaled, yet still more arduous! At least mountains aren’t damned spontaneous and prejudiced. Avalanches and falls could be prepared for, humane entities are bloody wildcards! It has already been amply demonstrated he stuck out like a standing corpse in the middle of a tavern full of regular folk! -wait...

The molniromancer wished the same fog that had dumped him here could warp him away already. He gets it, this world is ripe for a landing should there be a need to transfer millions. He gets it, he royally sucked at gaining allies. He gets it, ‘normal’ sunlight is annoying as all hell. Why am I still here.

< Message edited by Remaint -- 10/23/2015 21:34:31 >

AQW	Post #: 111

10/24/2015 22:07:21

Sigil
Member

Sana's musings about her recent adventuring partners and their colorful antics got Keystone thinking about his most recent Prime Material Planar lateral movement. He too met and befriended interesting people, had memorable (if frightening) times, and learned much from them.

The main difference between their misty-eyed tours into the Land of Memory was that most of Keystone's friends were dead. A hulking undead Knight, one larger and more powerful than the pugilist himself, and his army of the dead and damned saw to it, one companion at a time.

The wizard Erepar: Talented man, trustworthy as far as wizards went, friendly. Artificer, he called himself. Guy could make wonderous magical items, and did when the occasion called for it. Produced various scrolls, wands, the odd weapon, and a few satchels that were amazingly larger on the inside than on the outside. Even made a golem once, Keystone used as a sparring partner.

The large fighter had to manually dismember Erepar's corpse when it (and five others) rose to murder him, shortly after his lungs were destroyed and half of his face removed.

Tarver, the Halfling: Light-fingered little temper tantrum, good with a knife. They bonded over dagger throwing while heavily intoxicated. Tarver played at a handicap, owing to much lower body mass. While not the fastest of friends, they complimented each other in urban settings.

Keystone wasn't present to see him stabbed to death by a mob of animated skeletons, but he did lead the charge to recover his body before it could be used against them.

Finally, Raa the Half-Orc Paladin. He was the last surviving companion, and the one that put him on a better path. That path wasn't with his order, like he had hoped, but it was more appropriate to a man of his skills. They were friends, after a fashion, despite their initial opinion of each other. Keystone respected the man's courage.

The Undead Knight killed him in single combat, after he sent a detachment of his army to wear him down.

"Bastard got his." Keystone growled to no one in particular, squeezing his powerful and heavily scarred hands into seemingly ham-sized fists. A cold light seemed to burn in his eyes, his expression stony and distant. Suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious, he cleared his throat and raised his mug, signaling a toast.

"To fallen comrades."

He drank deeply before following up with, "And the nightmarish things we done to those what made 'em fallen."

Keystone thunked his mug back onto the table, before waving for more. He had consumed quite a bit of alcohol so far. Between that and the side of not-quite-beef he dined on earlier, he didn't feel quite right. His speech wasn't slurring yet, nor did his coordination appear to be influenced unduly. Still, it was probably not within his best interests to drink more.

Unfortunately, his better judgement was subdued by unpleasant events he had not quite accepted. Logically, it occurred to him that this was a good hunk of the reason he had an overtly negative reaction to the dead guy in the fur-trimmed coat. That and it just didn't seem natural for a corpse to hold down a conversation with him. Either way, his head wasn't really in the card game going on in front of him. He stared into the presently refilled mug in front of him, angry thoughts playing in his expression.

AQW	Post #: 112

10/25/2015 18:28:42

Bastet
Member

Waiting for Arche to find an answer to her question, Rajiri’s mind wandered off. Unless she was focused on fighting, or something had attracted her wrath, the red dragon kin tended to have a fairly short attention span. The woods were quiet, but the calm did little to help her nostrils from crying out in response for being so close to two rotting carcasses. In a way, Woyadei’s life was spared simply because the one whom he chose to follow was one of the few people that could be expected to be able to ask something of Rajiri. Even considering the deep respect she felt for her kin, she still had some trouble holding herself back from attacking the undead out of sheer annoyance and boredom.

Her first thoughts went to the last assassin she had met. He had managed to unnerve her like no other had before, because he fought with words rather than with weapons of the conventional kind. Rajiri never learned his name, but his first attempt involved a purely rhetorical speech about her nature, condition, and how much she would have to gain by turning herself in. The red dragon figured that that kind of verbal assault could easily sway those of weaker minds, but when the man saw that his words had no effect he began using magic.

When he did, Rajiri began feeling like her mind was no longer her own, as if she was trapped inside her own consciousness. She relished a hand-to-hand fight with the usual contract killers that were sent after her, but no other had quite managed to scare her as much as the one that fought indirectly. The only thing that prevented the trickster from convincing Rajiri to turn herself in without a fight, losing control of her body, is that her natural defenses against magic eventually managed to shake the illusory assault off.

Underestimating his target’s defenses was the man’s last mistake, for as soon as the controlling cantrip was nullified he found himself in front of a dragon-kin who was equal parts angry and horrified, due to the scarring experience of losing control of one’s own body. The only thing that prevented Rajiri from unleashing her full powers was the fact that the man proved to be absolutely defenseless in a fight: he was so confident in his magic that he didn’t even carry a weapon or armor with him. Yet, the red dragon was driven by such a desire to kill that her first act was to run one of her claws through his heart, subsequently maiming his body until he was nothing more than an incoherent mass of blood and ripped organs.

Rajiri had had such little chance to see the man, either blinded by magic or by fury, that she couldn’t even remember his general features, or what race he belonged to. It was something she was almost glad of, because it meant that it was much easier to forget about him if, for some reason, he came back to her mind. She was deeply thankful that he was the only individual who employed such tactics that had ever come after her, and her first instinct after dealing with his remains was to get as far as she could from the region she had met him in.

The red dragon shuddered, cutting off any more such memories. Of all the things she could have thought of at the moment, or at any moment at all, that memory was the last one she wanted to have present in her mind. Returning her attention to the outside world, she was glad to be back in the company of Woyadei and Arche, though she would have rather eliminated one of those two.

Post #: 113

10/25/2015 21:41:26

Apocalypse
Member

Wheat delved into the brief story that was...well, that was Wheat. After all, what else would you call the the sum of one's experiences and bonds? An individual was made of more than flesh or bone, chemical or electrical impulses. A body could be dissected and separated into its physical components, emotions could be traced back to chemical reactions, but all that still lacked the personality and essence of a person. Give any proper alchemist the right ingredients and power, and perhaps a being could be created. But never could one be replicated.

As Wheat went through the list of her previous companions, Nilburke perked his ears at the mention of Drizzak. Not because he was a fellow goblin, but at the mention of him being a pyromancy and an "artist when it came to a kill". The description brought to mind the orc Agnir'roc, whose massive size would even put Brute to shame. Known as Bloodfyre and Flamefist, killing was not so much an art for him as it was a faith. When they had parted ways, Agnir'roc had a collection of 327 scars. Ask the fist shaman the story behind any of them and he would do so in detail as well as tell you the day it had happened. Warriors from his line defined their lives by the scars they had earned. Nilburke let his eyes roam from the burns on Wheat to the tested hands of Brute. They all carried their scars, though not all on their skins.

Our hides are tough but the blows still hurt all the same.

The barkeep had replaced his empty mug, and none too soon as Brute made a a toast to fallen comrades. As he waved for more, Nilburke locked eyes with the barkeep before pointing to Brute and then jerked a thumb to himself. Brute would be drinking on him tonight.

Nilburke raised his own mug. His adventures were nowhere near as exciting as Wheat's, nor had he lost brothers-in-arms like Brute, but the alchemist had suffered his own losses. Even now he could hear her voice singing sweet like honey, as if the last fourteen-odd years had just been dreams. Kona. "To lost loves and love lost. May we overcome the failures that hindered us then." He quaffed his brew, the liquid now feeling icy as it flowed down his throat, or was it a chill from something else?

'Well, aren't we the merry troupe," Nilburke said with a laugh. After taking a quick peek at the cards, he returned them to their owners. "All of us carrying our own scars. Perhaps the Cogs of Fate brought us here today to compare 'em, and decide whose are worse?" Another laugh, another swig went down, this time bringing the comfort of its usual warmth. "Or perhaps I'm to invite the lot of you to Hrah Thorn? Much can be learned there." He cast a sideways glance to Candles and Thief. "Plenty of valuables and things to mess with, too," the goblin said with a flash of his pointy teeth.

Post #: 114

10/25/2015 22:52:17

Remaint
Member

After the series of rather unpleasant interactions between Rajiri and himself, Woyadei couldn't help but to always keep one non-existent eye on the dragon-kin. The moment she shivered, the undead's eye-holes flashed toward her direction, before glancing about again. No exterior threat. No orange scales. What caused her to have chills? A though came to mind and was quickly discarded, that the dragon-kin felt cold. How amusing, if dragons are bothered by a lack of heat. Maybe then, I'll see some in coats, scarves and hats. He inwardly grinned at the image of a full-sized dragon in a luxurious greatcoat, magnificent top hat and multi-coloured scarf. With a shining black, horse-head tipped walking cane!

"Hey, Orange Dragon. Do you ever get cold?" The conquistador wouldn't be surprised if she returned something akin to Do you ever shut up. He would also be tempted to simply stand still, if a fist were to fly his way, just because he was morbidly curious as to how hard her strikes were. That would of course be counterproductive, given his strategy of not-dying, so a sidestep should she act is the plan.

AQW	Post #: 115

10/25/2015 23:44:04

Draycos777
Member

Arche spent the time of silence after Rajiri's question, read her map. They had walked a good distance and without any noticeable landmarks around this boring area, it was a little difficult telling exactly where they were from a glance. Soon enough, Arche was able to figure out the location of the group. The silence was broken by Woyadei's questioning.

"Hey, Orange Dragon. Do you ever get cold?"

Arche turned her head towards the undead.

"With the exception of Ice, Water and Wind Dragons, ya, really easily in fact. One of the reasons why Dragons invented magic to take on humanoid forms. Clothing is surprisingly warm. Contrary to popular belief, the caves of Darkness Dragons are very warm. Also, as pointer for future conversations with Dragons. If you don't know their name, or don't feel like saying it; it's best to say their element instead. Call us by the color of our scales is a good way of having your face planted into the dirt by most Dragons."

Arche rolled up the map and reached into the pocket of pants.

"As for where we are. The clearing that we came from was a half-mile away from town, and we've clear a good bit of it. From where we are now, it should only take another hour or hour-and-a half to reach town. In about fifteen we should reach the main road."

Arche pulled out a small, smooth, obsidian stone. It was warm to the touch thanks to an enchantment placed upon it. She offered it Rajiri.

"Heat stone?"

AQ	Post #: 116

10/26/2015 17:41:44

Bastet
Member

Rajiri wasn’t surprised to hear that Woyadei had caught the fact that she had shivered, though she obviously couldn’t also expect the undead or Arche to realize that it was not because of cold. What did surprise her was the fact that the zombie showed a total lack of appreciation for the plethora of warnings he had been offered by both Arche’s words and Rajiri’s own behaviour. Either he had a wish to be returned to the earth, or he was completely careless.

“Hey, Orange Dragon. Do you ever get cold?”

At that point, there were no more theories to be made. The zombie didn’t simply have a rotten brain, he was attempting to taunt Rajiri on purpose. A mistake that would’ve cost him his un-life in a much shorter time, had Arche not been present. If he continued on that path, however, not even the presence of the shadow-aligned dragon-kin could spare him from a direct assault. Thankfully, Arche spared Rajiri from having to answer the dragoon’s question by answering it herself.

"With the exception of Ice, Water and Wind Dragons, ya, really easily in fact. One of the reasons why Dragons invented magic to take on humanoid forms. Clothing is surprisingly warm. Contrary to popular belief, the caves of Darkness Dragons are very warm. Also, as pointer for future conversations with Dragons. If you don't know their name, or don't feel like saying it; it's best to say their element instead. Call us by the color of our scales is a good way of having your face planted into the dirt by most Dragons."

Arche spoke truthfully, but Rajiri herself wasn’t excessively attached to the idea of having to wear clothing. Though the leather suit she wore had been tailored for her, she was confident enough that her blood alone would be enough to keep her warm outside of the most freezing of climates. And she would’ve disregarded it, if covering herself in scales wasn’t so dependant on unleashing her powers. To the red dragon, it was no surprise that Woyadei had referred to her by the colour of her scales: he was surely smart enough to understand that Rajiri could’ve taken it as an insult, since she had been generous enough to let him know her name.

"As for where we are. The clearing that we came from was a half-mile away from town, and we've clear a good bit of it. From where we are now, it should only take another hour or hour-and-a half to reach town. In about fifteen we should reach the main road."

Rajiri was not sure if she could stand the undead that was accompanying the dragon-kin for that long, but at least she now knew just how far the town was from their current location. She would’ve found it for herself had she not met Arche, though she probably would’ve strayed as far from it as she possibly could, unless she had something gain from it. She looked at Arche for a moment as she was offered what she called a “heat stone”, enchanted objects that Rajiri had previously encountered. She never had much use for them, but she accepted the gift that came from her fellow kin. She moved it to one of the pockets of her beige armor, well appreciating the heat that came from the rock though she wasn’t cold. Rajiri gave Arche a thankful nod before turning back to Woyadei.

“Zombie, I’ll give you one last warning simply because Arche is trying to protect you from yourself. Stop attempting to anger me, unless you want your miserable existance to end on this very road. I have been generous enough as to communicate you my name, use it.”

The red dragon sighed, knowing that even one of her rare warnings would probably not be enough to deter the undead from acting inappropriately.

“As for your question, I only get cold if the climate around me is absolutely freezing. Though I may be susceptible to low temperatures because of my element, that usually only applies to offensive magic of the kind. My blood is warmer than that of a common human, and it keeps me warm in any but the most extreme of cases.”

Post #: 117

10/26/2015 19:56:10

Krey
Member

T'was a melancholy group this day it seemed. While the unseen battle raged beneath the table, the thief's precarious grip balancing his precious sock on the edge of a knife (While Verna shifted her ankle to and fro, almost like a wolf toying with its prey), Verna's eyes watched the room around her. Folks were solemn, each in turn revisiting their own lives, either in their minds or aloud. The bard, recounting the companions she'd traveled with in the time leading up to her arrival here, in this realm. Companions colorful and wondrous each in their own way, a truly entertaining group as she imagined them based on the archer's descriptions.

The card game went on, distracted as its players were by their musings. It seemed the game would be slow, as each found themselves lost in history though, as the goal of the game seemed to be the formation of solidarity between the group, she imagined it would be accomplished just the same. The big one was quiet, that man whose gaseous emissions would remain forever etched into her nostrils, even as just a memory; that one scent she might never smell again, and be perfectly content. Quiet, until he growled, lost to his own memories, his own demons overcome, if his words and expression were an indication.

For her part, Verna had had an interesting enough life, but the emotions she read on the faces of her acquaintances... Those were emotions she'd not had cause to encounter. Her challenges had been the physical. Weakness and frailty as a girl, something she'd not have overcome on her own. That had come at a price... One which she'd not yet paid, and one which, every now and then, when she began to think about it... When that day, some unknown time in the future finally came to fruition...

And that was the end of it. She blocked that line of thinking, and with one graceful pull, yanked the sock the rest of the way off of Thatch's foot. Without reaching down, she curled her leg 'round to pick the sock from her toes, holding it lightly between her fingers. She lifted it above the table, one eyebrow raised. “To socks!” She added to the toast, tossing the garment back to Thatch with a grin—just a touch smaller than usual. “Though truthfully it looks to me more like a glove,” she added in reference to the individual toes, and tossed back her drink.

She took her card, shifting her eyes towards the goblin, “Hrah Thorn? Sounds like a party.”

AQ	Post #: 118

10/26/2015 20:19:38

Remaint
Member

To be frank, Woyadei would find Rajiri’s threats to be nothing more than amusing if his paranoia wasn’t so constant. From what he knows, unarmed power should only be feared if the opposing individual is extremely dense, extremely massive, extremely voluminous, or extremely advanced technologically or reality-warping-wise. He does not see the relatively soft-looking dragon to be any of the above, given the lack of deep footprints, reality-tears or oppressive auras. Extremely magical would be an option, if years of being tied up or impaled to bloody iron posts and being shot at by all manners of spells showed any notable effect. If the undead were some other, more carefree undead, say a certain Qarusis, he might have scoffed. But as it is, he supposes Rajiri had enough of his mucking-about. Woyadei bowed his head and raised his polearm-holding hand with a partly opened palm to signal the end of his conversational attempts. “All right, Rajiri, my misery’s not terrible enough to crave permanent rest.”

The undead conquistador inwardly sighed. He wondered how could long-living and highly potent entities alike dragons remain in such an unchanging fowl mood. Must be incredibly annoying. Shouldn’t Her existence be absolutely miserable? If it were him being arrogant as Hades incarnate and perpetually agitated, he would of simply stopped caring scores ago. There are other, more elegant ways of telling lower beings You are not worth even touching the ’neath of my heel. Although the matter is, despite how sane and easy that sounds, the conquistador knew an alarming amount of undead, demonic or humane with attitudes resembling Rajiri’s. Paladins, undead paladins, vampires, devils, divine spirits, unholy spirits, yuki-onna, demi-gods. on and on and on…

Woyadei allowed himself an actual, soft sigh. Here all these beings intentionally act ever-scornful and imperious, yet, there was a comrade of his, the Wendigo known as Hakam, who is always on the run from these maddening emotions. His comrade could never cease the primal rage due to his nature, however. Wendigo are cursed with an insanity unstoppable, a force uncontrollable. Whenever the odd moment arises, there occurs a high risk of someone, whether beloved friend or neutral acquaintance, dying personally at the hands of a spontaneously enraged, violent-eyed Wendigo having again broken the long-corroded dam that is humanity. The towering, seven feet high beast that is Hakam is typically anti-social because of this. He is a kind fellow, never failing to assist when anyone asks, but there is an ever-present sadness to his eyes. He never stayed long in anyone’s company, and so he is endlessly alone.

Once again focused on a line of trees, a slight frown was expressed by the conquistador. These arrogant fools have it easy, their power is completely advantageous and effortlessly maintained, yet they squander it on meaningless and petty expressions. How would they feel, if there omnipresently exists a risk to annihilate all those considered dear?

< Message edited by Remaint -- 10/28/2015 3:46:19 >

AQW	Post #: 119

10/28/2015 2:23:36

Ted Zlammy
Member

As Thatch slowly felt him lose the war of attrition for his sock, he took notice of the rather gloomy atmosphere. From what Thatch could gather, as his sock inched slowly from his toey grasp, The Archer with Scars had started the mood with a spiel about her rather curious partners and how she was whisked away, which had seemed to set big ol' Keystone off in some way. Thatch thought so anyway, what with the big guy cursing before sluggin' back a drink and toasting to the dead, which only added to the melancholy mood. The goblin joining in with another toast to the dead didn't really help either! That Bow Lady really knew how change the mood of a place.

This gloominess over the dead was even getting to Thatch of all people. Although as of late most of Thatch's "friends" ended up wanting to kill Thatch, he could still remember a time long past when he was able to fully depend on someone... Man, this mood really was getting to him after all. He had to change this dreadful mood at once!

Granted, Thatch didn't get far with that thought, for that was when the Sockless She-Devil struck! With horrifying skill, she had performed one final yank which had released his wondrous foot garment from his protection, and into her evil presence. This sudden yank, added with Thatch pulling back with all he had with his foot and his hands on the chair, had left him horribly unbalanced! He tried to gather himself but failed, only to topple backwards with his chair onto the ground with a loud crash.

As Thatch groaned in pain on the ground, mostly from when his hidden sheathed hatchets dug into his back from the impact, the Sockless She-Devil had the nerve to toss his beloved sock back to him and taunt him with a toast to socks! Granted, Thatch did fully heartily cheer to said toast, but the nerve of the cheeky woman! Thatch wanted to speak about this sudden injustice, but couldn't help but focus on the injustice of his whole day so far instead. He had been forced to do a job which he knew nothing about, was chased by metal hell hounds, went dimensional hopping and slid on the ground of a tavern floor and straight into the bar of it. Than he had the wonders of socks slandered, had one of his own socks taken and was once again, on the ground. "I... I think I quit today." Thatch said aloud to no one in particular as he laid on the floor uncomfortably, with his bare foot leaning against the table top.

Thatch thought to respond to Nilburke's earlier suggestion to go mess around in Hrah Thorn as he laid on the ground, but he was occupied with his own self pity at the moment.

AQW

Post #: 120

10/28/2015 11:18:22

Apocalypse
Member

The card game was interrupted by a crash as Thief fell backwards onto the tavern floor. Nilburke jumped at the sound, not expecting what he thought was one of the more sober ones to be the first to fall. The goblin put a hand to his mouth and called out "SOFT" before descending into a chuckling fit. "Hyurk-hyurk-hyurk-hyurk-hyurk-HYURK!" The insult would carry less weight here in the actual softie-world; goblins and other hidies often used it when members of their kind would let small nuisances get the better of them. Over time, it had expanded to include almost anything dumb, insensible, or pathetic.

"That's one way to put it." Nilburke took another sip as he glanced towards Candles, enjoying the pleasant lightness of his head. It was similar to the sensation one experienced in the beginnings of a fever, but without the nauseating side-effects or bedridden state. Though he supposed this way could also lead to a bedridden state if one was not careful enough (or too soft). "Half have sticks lodged up their rears, believing the arcane is sacred and not to be trifled with. The other half lit their farts on fire as soon as they learned a halfway decent spell." He shuffled in his seat to get comfortable, perhaps swaying a bit more than what was necessary. "Both have their merits, though I found it more fun to play 'em off of each other."

He turned his attention to the empty air where Thief had once sat. He called out to the fallen companion. "You can quit while you're dead, get your softie arse back up here." To motivate him, Nilburke tossed the contents of his tankard through the air and towards the location where Thief would have landed.

Post #: 121

10/28/2015 12:24:59

Afina
Weaver of Epic Yarns

“To fallen comrades, to risen comrades. To socks and shoes and toes that bend and break against bar stools. To old friends and new, to death, mayhem, man slaughter. Tonight!” Sana exclaimed as she stood up and raised her glass into the air before downing the contents and slamming the glass upside down back on the table. She looked over at the thief and chuckled slightly to herself, not exactly sure of what to make of the situation before turning her head as felt a tug in her midsection, a ball forming into a knot, a feeling she knew all too well. Slowly she stepped out from between the chair and table and pushed the chair beneath it.

Her head tilted from one side to another as her bow unslung from her back and an arrow was drawn from her quiver, nocked quickly into place as she stepped towards the window to look outside. The wind around the town seemed to pick up somewhat and the leaves rustled in the trees a sudden chill cut through the room and Sana shivered slightly.

“This can’t be good,” she muttered to herself as she watched a fog quickly rolling in. This was not a normal fog that slowly forms during the night, this one seemed to have a life of its own as it followed the path from the woods and pushed under the crack between the taverns front door and the floor. Pushing into the main room and sweeping up the walls into the rafters. Sana breathed in and narrowed her eyes as she smelled sulfur. She knew the smell too well, her calf twitching slightly in remembrance of the jaws of a certain beast she had faced not so long ago.

A demonic growl cut through the tavern from within the fog and as it pulled away there was the beast. The creature stood on four legs and looked like a dog of sorts but stood very much larger. Being the size of a draft horse at the shoulders. Its fur was red and singed and everything within its jaws were black as nothingness. Eyes of fire glowed as its claws folded up and gripped the sets of rafters it stood on, each one creaking under the weight of the beast.

“Seems the fog likes to bring beasts from my realm into this one,” Sana said as she stood there watching it, waiting to see.

Post #: 122

10/28/2015 19:41:48

Apocalypse
Member

With Wheat's jaunty toast, it seemed the group had rebounded from its brief bout of sadness. Nilburke allowed his eyes to wander over the archer's scars for a moment. If this group was to travel together - to Hrah Thorn or elsewhere - he would have to ask about the stories behind them sometime. Ever since meeting Agnir'roc, the goblin had acquired a taste for hearing their tales.

Nilburke had been waving his empty tankard to attract the barkeep's attention with such enthusiam that he almost did not notice Wheat readying her bow. The alchemist's waving slowed as he squinted his eyes at the archer's stance. It came to a full halt as smoke rolled in under the door and streaked up the walls and across the ceiling. His tankard came to a rest on the tabletop as a growl was emitted from the supernatural fog. There was one last stranger to join the party, and this one would not be swayed by cheap drinks and card games. The cloud dispersed, revealing a canine creature with scarlet fur and a maw that was the void of night. The beams strained under the weight of the foul beast.

“Seems the fog likes to bring beasts from my realm into this one.”

"One of yours, huh?" Nilburke clambered up onto the table, knocking over his tankard in the process. The goblin paid it no heed as he reached a hand into his tunic and pulled out a small vial containing a brown liquid. It had the appearance of dirty water, but looks could be deceiving. In alchemy, that was the the rule rather than the exception. "Let's give it a proper welcome." Nilburke wound up his arm. "Oi! Down, beastie!" With that he flung the vial with all the force his little arm could muster. What was of importance was not the impact, but the follow-up. This vial was a Tangler of the rosebush variety. The glass would break on contact, supplying the catalyst for the reaction. Red flowers and thorny branches would envelope the beastie, wrapping over its body and around its limbs. After a couple seconds, one might wonder why there was a dog's head protruding from the rosebush resting in the rafters. The fauna would not survive the half-hour, but it could be quite the nuisance as its thorns tore flesh and its flowery limbs constricted movements.

And resting upon those rafters? Quite the precarious position. A wicked grin splashed across the goblin's face. A fall from there could be quite nasty.

Post #: 123

10/28/2015 20:03:17

Afina
Weaver of Epic Yarns

Sana could only nod in reply in the moment it took for the vial to leave its masters grasp and go flinging through the air. The beast growled as it shattered against the rafters near its front left paw. The greenery was quick to form, slithering over the fur of the hellhound. The thorns scratched and pulled through the matted fur and caused an aggravated howl to come from its jowls, the sound was hollow and low, like the echoing call of spirits from the abyss. The vines would not last long though, for as they formed, they seemed to smolder and singe where they touched the beast and a flicker of hell fire began to form in the back of the abominations throat, looking like a witches candle as its jaws opened.

Post #: 124

10/28/2015 22:04:06

Sigil
Member

The morose mood in which Keystone found himself was compromised suddenly, by means of a loud THWACK as Thatch's chair tilted backwards, allowing the cruel mistress known as Gravity to claim yet another victim. Some guffawing later, he caught sight of a tankard's worth of hoppy, red-amber ambrosia reflecting the illumination of the tavern’s firelight with a soft, liquidy glow as it rose into the air, seemingly pausing at the apex of its arcing path, ever bubbling and twinkling, before descending without ceremony upon the hapless, sock-deprived youth below. The distinctive wet plopping sound, fully expected but humorous beyond imagining to the slightly ale-addled pugilist, sent him into a spewing bout of partially muffled laughter. Keystone raised his free hand to his face and thumped his head to the table, trying simultaneously to not laugh and wipe his beverage away from his face.

He failed miserably at both.

“Second bloody time! You lot stop doin’ that whilst I’m mid-swallow!” Another laugh turned into an abrupt cough, sending a delicate, brewery-smelling mist that across the table. “Sorry…”

Keystone raised his glass again, drinking to Sana’s exuberant toast. As he lowered his glass, he noticed the fog rolling in through various cracks and openings at a maddening pace. The fog, whatever it was, seemed to move of an independent will, either with malicious intent or merely to test them, at a coin toss.

His peripheral vision keeping note of the actions of the Archer, Keystone mentally got back on the clock the instant an arrow left her quiver. A shot of sense-sharpening adrenaline coursed through his veins, burning away a good bit of his habitual excesses of the last couple of hours. The large man stood, thrusting his hands into his coat. A glint of metal caught the tavern’s ambient light as he retracted his hands, gold-bronze metal covering the fingers of his left, five fingers of sharpened steel held gingerly in his right.

Hellhound. Keystone had witnessed them before, but never had the need to defend himself from one. Precarious place, the rafters. Perhaps the beast didn’t choose to be here, either – the mists playing a trick on yet another creature unable to change the circumstances of its presence. Regardless, it was time to rise and defend. A passing thought, one that caused him grave concern: Hellhounds usually hunt in packs. Be on guard.

The Goblin, Nilburke, struck before Keystone had fully readied himself. Slightly jealous that the diminutive alchemist reacted before him, he was satisfied that, nonetheless, the threat from above would be handled by the judicious application of something pseudo-magical and probably quite painful. His satisfaction turned to disappointment as the thorny vines withered and burned away, replaced by a defiant, flame-threatening roar.

Keystone was a close-in fighter. Probably one of the best around. The problem was, he couldn’t step into his best zone of competence if he was reduced to blistering ash in the meantime. If there was any one advantage being born into destitute circumstances and raised among urban decay, it’s that you learned to handle a knife early on. He rarely used them anymore, himself, owing to his superior unarmed skills; putting a weapon in his hand actually disadvantaged the massive pugilist. There were some occasions, rare as they might be, where a short blade was still the best option.

Just as soon as the Hellhound’s sweeping roar gave him an opening, Keystone hurled his dagger toward its gaping maw, and passed one set of metal knuckle-dusters to his now open hand.

AQW	Post #: 125

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