The Tempest (Full Version)

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Ryu Viranesh -> The Tempest (1/10/2013 23:10:28)

Empty, enveloping, eldritch. All of these words apply to the Badlands, yet somehow fail to capture the true essence of the place. As it is, such might be beyond the grasp of mortal speech.

At first glance newcomers see only the emptiness, nothing to suggest that the rumors of wealth and power that brought them here were true. They feel cheated, as if all of their time and effort was meaningless: how could there possibly be anything worthwhile in such a barren wasteland? Nonetheless, they have traveled all of this way, so might as well trudge onward and see what these Badlands have to offer.

Before they know it, they have been scouring the land for weeks. Their supplies are running low, yet they still continue on. Why? No one truly knows, but those who have been there say that the land calls to them. It promises them something more. That is why they always return, no matter how long it takes. This “call” is what has turned the Badlands into a nexus of adventurers, debtors, thieves, and so the rumors say, the very souls of the dead.

To be honest, I find the notion that a location could have that type of effect to be absurd. However, I must admit that the Badlands do have a certain charm to them: I've found many a little wonder amongst the dust and detritus, each one fascinating in its own way. To me, these are the treasures of this land, not any weapons or valuables that might be hidden right beneath my nose.

Simply put, I suppose that the Badlands are what one makes of them, and perhaps that is why they are so fascinating.

-Excerpt from Sage Ulcius' Treatise on Lorean Wonders

*

As delving into the Badlands has turned into a more popular venture, more and more businesses have set up shop on its borders. These "Border Towns" have everything from general stores to axe-sharpeners, all there to meet the needs of the delvers; that is, if they're willing to make the trip to access these services.

For those who require a more immediate source of aid, there is naught to fear, as several particularly enterprising entrepreneurs have been bold enough to locate their establishments in the heart of the Badlands. The most famous of these is the Tempest, formerly known as the Crossroads Inn, built at the junction of several of the most-traveled paths. The inn’s proprietor, Garth Eesos, worked for years to build the Tempest into a bastion of safety and warmth, and its sprawling snake-like complex is capable of providing rooms and nourishment for hundreds of guests at a time.

There is only one rule: Keep all roughhousing outside of the Inn. In the Badlands, the Tempest has the blessing of being a truly neutral facility, a courtesy that Garth extends to all of his patrons.

*

Yet another day draws to a close, the sky black and murky with clouds. The air is damp, a chill breeze picking up as twilight closes in, the sun's warmth leaving the Badlands behind. The world grows uncomfortably still, the silence weighing heavily on your mind; just like any delver, you know that it's dangerous to travel at night. Even though shelter isn't too far away, you still take each and every step with care: a foolish delver is a dead delver. Suddenly your ears perk up, a faint sound carrying to them from further along the path: the patter of footsteps. As you draw closer, you catch a glimpse of the walkers, figures flitting about in the shadow of the great colossus before you.

As you approach your eyes crane upwards, admiring the construction of the massive stone edifice. A particular bit catches your eyes, the texture different than the smooth stone that covers the rest of the building. You stride closer to try to get a better look when this strange surface suddenly parts at the center, its two halves flying apart. Light spills out from the opening, blinding your eyes and sending you several steps backward. After enough blinking, a pair of figures resolve themselves on either side of the brilliance: one male, the other female. Their garb is clean and uniform, deep crimson red married with a dark charcoal grey; a doublet and slacks for the man, a long dress for the woman. They bow and bellow in unison, their voices cutting into the newborn night.

“Welcome to the Tempest!”

Through the doorway you spy a massive oak desk, a line of clerks ready to deal with any incoming guests. To the left lies the way to the rooms, a path that many will take as they inevitably retire for the evening. However, to the right lies the most eye-catching sight: a grand common room, massive in scale, a gigantic semicircular fire pit dominating its center. Sturdy wooden tables lie scattered in droves across the room, each one lovingly set with silverware and a candle at its center. The inn is already doing brisk business tonight, more and more people flocking to its welcome warmth. The largest congregation of guests lies to the far end of the room, where a bard is on stage regaling the crowd with story and song. Their armored appearances aside, most of the patrons appear to be calmly enjoying the camaraderie that the common room provides, each one of them a brother or sister in arms. Workers constantly slip between this great mass of people, delivering food and drink and spiriting dishes back to the kitchen; open to public view, this culinary corner is an attraction in and of itself.

As more and more make their way inside, you decide that you should as well, your feet quickly carrying you out of the darkness and into the light.



Riffus Maximus -> RE: The Tempest (2/3/2013 20:06:38)

How many days has it been? Glenn was asking himself this question, pondering over the time spent in the desert of the Badlands. From his point of view, it seemed like an eternity. This travel was dull, boring and didn't met his expectations. When he signed up to be a part of a travelling group organized to get through the Badlands' desert to get to an inn named 'The Tempest', he had heard of the dangers lurking in the desert. When hearing about dangers, he thought of savage beasts and creatures roaming the lands in search of people to rey upon. Sure, they encountered a few threatening creatures, but none were up to the challenge of Glenn's steel and martial prowess. This caused Glenn to actually think that these so-called dangers were about the heat and the risk of getting lost. The very thought of it was simply depressing.

Even the environment wouldn't be a challenge. Indeed, among Glenn's companions, there was a ranger. Getting lost was out of the question. The man's expertise and years of adventuring gave him quite a reputation, and they were well-founded during this trip. The Ranger knew exactly where he was going. In fact, the man told the group he had traveled back and forth from the city they were to the Tempest as a result of being often paid to guide people throught the desert. Even worse, the ranger knew exactly where to avoid areas full of monsters. Added to the merchant's wealthy equipment, the adventuring group didn't fear suffering from the heat, thirst or starvation.

Glenn found the trip to be quite boring indeed. He had his plans to arrange that though. As soon as he would reach The Tempest, he would ditch his partners and find more daring people to explore the wild plains of the Badlands.


A day later, with not much monstrous encounter, much to Glenn’s dismay, they arrived in front of The Tempest’s front door. Most of the adventuring party had wide smiles drawn on their lips as they observed the inn, lost in the middle of these arid lands. Some let out a sigh of relief, glad they managed to get through this far in the Badlands with their life. The merchant and his bodyguard seemed rather pleased, and handed a handful of gold pieces to each and every member of the adventuring party, as a token of his gratitude. Indeed, he took part of the crazy adventure to assess the situation in the Badlands, and see if there’s something he could do in there. Hopefully for him, he will find what he seeks.

As most of the adventuring group parted ways after exchanging friendly handshakes and pat on shoulders, Glenn Ledgermain stood silent outside until he was alone. He faced the opposite direction and raised his head to the sky, feeling the hot rays of the high noon’s sun on his face. A blade extended from one of his palm, blood from his hand dripped on the sands. Glenn brought the blade close to his face, examining the reflection of his face on the bloodied steel.

“Is that all these infamous ‘Badlands’ have to offer? Or was I unlucky during this travel?” Glenn simply sighed before turning back and entering The Tempest.


As Glenn entered The Tempest, he was welcome with a few looks for the inn’s patrons. The locals were curious as to what type of individual managed to survive a trip from the Badlands to reach this place, but soon their gaze returned to whatever they were doing in the first place. Clothed in a hooded light sand-colored outfit to protect his whole body against the sun’s dangerous rays, he looked like an average traveler or mercenary.

After examining the inside of the inn, Glenn walked slowly towards the bar’s counter. He sat at the corner of the counter, where it was less crowded. After getting himself comfortable on the stool, Glenn removed his traveling bag from his shoulders and set it on his knees. Digging through his bag with his hand, he provided a small leather bag and a simple wooden box from his gear. He set the small leather bag and the box on the counter, and then roughly tossed his backpack at his feet. While he was waiting for the barkeeper to finish serving the other patrons at the counter, the blade mage opened the leather bag and the small box. Inside the bag, there was minced tobacco and fine cigarette papers in the box. By the time the barkeeper arrived, Glenn was putting tobacco on the papers with surprising care for someone as crude as him.

“What will it be, traveler?” the barkeeper asked.

“Whatever you have.” Glenn simply answered.

The barkeeper nodded and came bac a few seconds after with Glenn's order.

As he finished filling and rolling a cigarette, Glenn reached for his pocket and provided a lighter from his pants. Shortly after he opened it and brought it to the cigarette in his mouth, he cursed as there was no fire coming out. He shook the light, bringing his ear close, noticing there was no fluid movement in the lighter. It was empty.

“For hell’s sake! Why didn’t I buy fuel back there? Now I have to make the whole way back to the marketplace and buy fuel.” Glenn shouted, slamming his fist on the counter.

A few patrons raised their heads and watched as the blade mage was infuriated by his inability to light a smoke. After a minute of cursing and swearing, a small match box dropped on the counter. Glenn raised his head to see the barkeeper who threw the matchbox on the counter.

“Just keep quiet here, stranger. Wouldn’t want someone to start a fight because you are being loud and troublesome.” The man said.

Glenn sat back on the stool, a slight grin across his face as he opened the box to get a match and rubbed it against the counter to light his cigarette. A few puffs later, calm returned to the bar. Glenn was enjoying his drink and his cigarette as he made more of those.

“Isn’t it ironic? The gods gave me a strong dependence to smoking, and yet they didn’t provide me with fire powers to light them. Instead, they gave me blades to cut them. Talk about a bunch of jackasses.” The blade wizard said aloud to no one in particular, leaving the barkeeper speechless as to what to answer.

On the outside, it was hard to tell if Glenn was just a bitter man, or simply someone who would’ve preferred his life to be simpler.


Being calm and rational as he enjoyed what simple things he cherished, he listened to the locals speaking about everything and nothing. He wasn’t interested one bit in gossiping, but he was all ears to rumors about what lies in the Badlands. He hoped, after spending his afternoon smoking, drinking and listening, to hear something interesting that might prove to be worthy of his skills as an experienced fighter.

Indeed, it took a while before stumbling upon an interesting story. It was a tale told by many locals about a creature lurking in the Badlands. According to most rumors, it was a creature preying on unwary travelers, ripping the poor souls to shred without giving mercy. It was infamous for being a violent, rampaging and merciless beast, dangerous to anyone travelling in the Badlands. Few lived to tell what the creature looked like, but some who managed to survive told it had some sort of demonic appearance. It had claws and teeth made to murder, spikes on its hide to impale attackers, and a wicked grin to send shivers down onlookers’ spine. What made it even more interesting was the rumor that the creature stole treasures from many slain merchants, and amongst those treasures was an artifact of great value from a supposedly wizard that perished in trying to fight the monster. It was truly an incredible tale, Glenn thought, but it was more than enough to get his attention. Rumors of its last attack on unwary souls pointed it northeast, the opposite direction from where Glenn came from.

With a wicked grin and a bold idea, Glenn turned to the barkeeper.

“You got any ink and paper?” the blade mage asked.

“Sure, there you go.” The barkeeper lent Glenn a parchment, a feather and an ink holder without asking much question.

Quick as lighting, Glenn wrote his idea on the parchment the bartender gave him. Getting up quickly from his stool, Glenn walked towards the entrance of The Tempest, where he remembered having seen a billboard near the entrance. Indeed, as he walked up near The Tempest’s entry door, there was fairly big billboard with notes and other papers pinned. Glenn unsheathed a dagger from his belt, placed the paper on an empty spot on the board and pinned it there with a swift and mighty thrust of his dagger.

The blade mage returned to his stool with a grin. But before returning to his previous activities, Glenn called the bartender to approach him with a wave oh his hand.

"If you're asked for 'Glenn Ledgermain', send them my way." the scarred man told the bartender, flipping a few gold coins in front of him.

The bartender simply nodded and left Glenn to his occupations. Now, all the blade master had to do was to wait for adventurers to read the note he just pinned on the board.

On the paper, it was written in big and crude lettering:

quote:

INTERESTED IN FIGHTING A DEMON FOR GLORY, STOLEN RICHES, FAME OR A CHALLENGE?
ASK FOR GLENN LEDGERMAIN BY THE BAR.



TJByrum -> RE: The Tempest (2/5/2013 9:28:52)

A mother bird hopped along the ground. She was looking for food, a worm or a grub - anything to feed her newborn hatch-lings with. She was up bright and early, as always, hoping to find some early-morning meal. And finally, in the corner of her eye, she saw movement. It hopped over, fluttering its wings to help her move along. There it was, squirming around on the ground as if it were trying to find a way back into the hard ground. She picked it up in her beak, turned around and began to fly off to her nest a good distance away.

Interesting, thought Torik. Even in a land as dangerous and strange as this, their is still some hope. Torik watched as the bluejay flew off into the distance, disappearing behind the entanglement of branches and leaves. When the bird had vanished his gaze reverted back to the fire that still lightly burned before him. The fire had lost its strength, the nighttime air and wind dwindling it down to almost nothing. A strong enough wind could come through and extinguish what was left of it. But this fire was sort of like Torik. Torik was once a strong and capable warrior, a person who would go to great lengths to accomplish what he set out to do. But now he was losing his will and his strength. He was so tired, weary, so far away from his homeland. But what would extinguish this man?

There were times when he thought about giving up. Times he thought about throwing the chainmail, the sword, and shield and everything else on the ground. He just wanted to go home, he wanted to rest. But he always dismissed those thoughts. He was no quitter, he was a fighter. He would not give up, not until his job was complete. Torik would feed as many branches into his fire as he could, for he would not let anyone or anything extinguish him. Not yet.... he thought, not yet... He stood up and stretched his body, breathing in the fresh morning air. He picked up the small amount of belongings he had and turned east, the direction where the Tempest would sit. He needed a good rest; the gods knew he needed it.



Torik's short journey through the wilderness was similar to his previous travels: tiresome, lonely, and seemingly pointless. He'd wander for days at a time, though forests, over mountains, into tunnels, and all just to find nothing, or at least nothing of interest to him. He would be so happy to finally make it to the Tempest, get him a warm drink and a nice, cozy bed. The relieving thought made him grin with a flicker of hope. He looked around to see if anything of importance was around him. Just a few trees, dead leaves, fallen branches, and an open field in the distance. So much nature, he thought, surprising I can't smell it. Birds were chirping in the air, squirrels scrambled for food on the ground, and leaves lightly made a sound as they dropped onto the earth. It wasn't hot, nor was it cold. The Badlands actually felt quite good to Torik, a nice change from the chilly region of Asgeir, his home.

All of a sudden a swirl of yellow light appeared in front of him. It twisted and it turned, its shape warping and transforming into many other shapes. It was a portal, opened up by one of the members of the Order. The Order had kidnapped Torik many years ago, trained him, and then sent him off to find something. In a way Torik hated them for ruining his life, but he also understand their purpose and the importance of his mission. Stepping out of the portal was a tall and slim woman. Her blonde hair was straight, cut perfectly, hanging all the way down her back. Her clear face represented nobility and royalty. Her shiny blue eyes represented purity and honesty. Lady Amira, co-leader of the Order. A purple cloak was draped over her body, hiding anything underneath.

"Shield is intact, armor is to, and so is the sword," she said to Torik, smiling at him. The portal behind her closed and disappeared, as if it were never there. "...but, is the man still intact?" It was a mysterious question, but she asked it with the determination to receive an answer.

Torik looked at her curiously, "Excuse me?" This wasn't the first time they had met. Torik saw her many times back at the Order's headquarters, spoke with her a lot too. She was an important person, making some vital decisions in the Order's rule. She was always one to come outright and say exactly what she meant, no riddles with this woman.

"We know you've been expressing doubts about your mission Torik. Everything you do, everything you say, everything you think about - we know. And you know this to, don't you Torik?" Torik simply crossed his arms. "But we also know the man beneath that armor. The man behind the shield... the man who wields that sword... you're no quitter Torik... so do not give up. You're actually quite close to it."

Torik's eyes widened. Close to it? Was he really close to the item he so long searched for? Over mountains, through deserts, into caves and tunnels, was it finally about to come to an end? "Close? By the gods, all this time I've been looking it's been here the whole time?"

Amira only laughed, "Who knows? It might not even be an item Torik. It might be a person... a place... even I'm not sure. But we could sense it's presence even back at the headquarters. But you're not going to make it long here without help. Their is a building, 'the Tempest' I believe it is called in your tongue. Go there, find some treasure hunters or something - anyone who knows this place well or is in high enough spirits to search the... this waste of land." Amira smiled and stepped backwards, another portal opening behind her. "Goodbye Torik, see you soon."

Torik looked down, a bit dismayed at Amira's sudden come and go. Still, he was relieved that his journey would probably end soon. An item... of great power... But he quickly looked up and asked "What if the others try to claim the artifact for themselves?" If this item, or person, or whatever, was as powerful as the Order claimed, it was only obvious his partners would try to claim it. Amira turned around, partway through the portal, and said two simple words:

"Kill them," and then she disappeared into the portal. Depends, he thought and continued on.



If the average traveler had seen the Tempest he would be relieved. A merchant would be anxious to sell his goods. But Torik? Torik was no average traveler, nor was he a merchant. Torik was beyond relieved, beyond happy. When he stepped on the peak of the small hill and saw the Tempest in the distance he could not help but smile and laugh with joy and relief. His legs felt like rocks, as if they were so heavy they would fall off. He was so tired that the wind, if it blew hard enough, could have rolled him on down that hill. But the wind was not blowing hard on this day. The sun was shining high above him, the grasses barely moved in the gentle breeze, and the sky was clear. Torik began the short walk to the building.

He could see others gathered about the doors, discussing stories and talking about events. Horses were hitched to some posts at the side of the door. A horse was what Torik needed, but his last mount was mauled and killed by a pack of wolves months ago. The stone building's great doors seemed to beckon Torik closer, inviting him in to enjoy a nice bed and drink. He could smell mead coming from inside, and the loud chatter of the other patrons. When he walked in he could see many more travelers all having a good time and drinking fine amounts of mead, a homeland favorite of Torik's.

Torik happily trotted over to the counter to ask for a room. Nothing in this world could wipe this smile from his face, not even a stab in the back. But Lady Amira was not exactly from this world. No rest for the weary, Torik. You turn right around and go to the bulletin board. Don't miss your chance. Do what you're meant to do. Torik gritted his teeth and began to breath heavily with anger. But he stopped, closed his eyes, and let out a big breath. Amira wasn't trying to be cruel, she was only doing her job and expected Torik to do the same.

Torik twirled around and walked over to the bulletin board. He looked over several pieces of paper before finally landing on a final one. He read it in his mind. Interested in fighting a demon for glory, stolen riches, fame, or a challenge? He grinned at the opportunity. Ask for Glenn Ledgermain by the bar. The great warrior turned around once more and walked to the counter. The bartender looked up and grinned at the newcomer. "What can I do for you today? A mug, or a bed? Or some gossip?" He was bald-headed, old, and rugged with age. His eyes did not speak wisdom, they were dull and boring. He was a simple man living a simple life.

Torik was so ready to ask for a bed. "I uh..." need a bed, "...I need to speak with Glenn Ledgermain about this demon problem he's having."

"Right over there," the barkeep said, pointing at the end of the bar. He picked up a dirty glass and began to clean it out with an already-dirty rag. Torik nodded in thanks at the man and proceeded to pass by the other patrons to make it to Glenn. There were stories of great monsters, treasures being found, betrayal, and more. But none of them mattered to Torik. He couldn't do anything with a lot of gold if he had it, and he sure didn't want to be 'famous' or anything of the like. Finally he made it to the man the barkeep had pointed at. Glenn Ledgermain.

"Er, Glenn? Glenn Ledgermain? I here you're looking for help with a demon? If so, I'd gladly lend you my sword and shield to help you defeat such a beast. I want no gold, I seek no glory, only to defeat this demon." Of course he needed to obtain the item, or whatever it was he was after, but Lady Amira would no doubt intrude and take the item herself.



superjars -> RE: The Tempest (2/7/2013 20:13:01)

A cool breeze whistled through the brush, pulling at his clothing and sweeping off into the desert, swirling loose grains up around him and out into the desolate wilderness spread out before him. The sands stung at his eyes, pulling several tears as he wrapped a loose, tattered scarf around his face. As he gazed out upon his future path, his mind whirled back to the events that led up to this point. His family, his past, all of the teasing and his experience in the crypt came flooding back, mixing some actual tears with the sand-produced ones. Memories of the last few months welled up within him and his foot went forward, pushing him out onto the desert sands.

Forel Gerazo glanced back, taking a long, last, lingering look at the stalls set up at the edge of the Badlands, waving towards the shop-owner who now possessed the majority of his earthly belongings. Reluctance pulled at the skin between his fingers, sweat moving down as he thought about the purchases which would now determine the fate of his journey through this wilderness. He clenched his fingers into a loose fist, trying by force of will to push down his emotions and fears, bury them deep within his psyche and not let them emanate to those around him.

He looked to the left and right, glancing at the men and women who were traveling the same way: family units and mercenary bands heading into the deserts of the Badlands all with the same goal, the Tempest. He had heard of the place from several of the others gathered in the common areas last night and throughout his sleepless night, he debated if that was a place he wanted to go. Their words had weighed heavily on his mind, and it wasn’t until earlier this morning that he had finally made up his mind, deciding to join them and head towards this semi-mythic place. It was obviously going to be a very dangerous journey, but if he understood them correctly, the possibilities that opened up at the Tempest in terms of his ability to learn about his new-found powers and to find work were greatly accentuated.


And so, he found himself in the midst of a large group in the mid-afternoon heat, moving slowly, like a herd of buffalo across the plains, down a well-trodden path into the desert. The sun beat down upon them all, causing loud complaints from children and beasts alike. Quite a few members of their party had turned back already, forsaking the promised rewards of their eventual destination for the quiet and cool of their temporary oasis at the desert’s edge.

“There must be a better day, a better path, a better time to make this journey” they said, peeling off from the main group in droves to head back the way they had come.

And, when the noises started, more people turned tail and headed for the relative safety of the stores and stalls they had come from. Loud clicks and moans emanated from the desert surrounding them, sounding ghostly and haunting as they whispered of death and pain just out of sight of the look-outs. Forel could feel the sounds sending shivers through his body, sweat drying cold on his brow as he felt himself making furtive glances, trying to catch sight of something that was endlessly just out of sight.

As the afternoon passed into evening and the group made the decision to set up camp, the sounds grew wilder and more intense, coming closer to the group as the darkness deepened around them. They set fires at the edges of their circle, hoping to banish the creatures back into the night, but they loomed ever closer, never coming close enough to be visible, but keeping their presence known to the group as they attempted to rest for the night.


Forel awoke to screams of panic and terror, watching as huge shapes came looming out of the dim half-light of the grey morning. Thinking that the worst was most definitely over, several of the guardsmen had drooped in sleep, allowing their need for rest to overcome their good sense. And while their line of protection weakened, the beasts from beyond struck, ripping into the group and scattering them like refuse into the desert. People rose quickly, trying to bring weapons to bear, to fit armor to themselves for some semblance of protection, but they were never quick enough. The beasts sprang from the edges of vision to plunge into their frivolous forays of destruction, ripping and tearing so that blood and marrow flowed freely.

One leapt at Forel, strong jaws snapping at his chest and face, promising to give him a quick, yet painful end to all of his misery. He instinctively put his hands up in front of him to guard against the attack, hoping his death would be swift, but after a few moments, nothing happened. Forel opened his eyes and lowered his arms, surprised to see a demonic beast a few feet away, covered in water and panting on the ground. Unsure of what had happened, but scared nonetheless, he took several steps back, tripping over his pack and sprawling onto his back, staring wild-eyed at the thrashing beast before him.

He scrambled to his feet, collecting bag and belongings in one fell swoop and took off running into the desert, not following any set path, but simply running for his life. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, panic rising within his breast until he could hear his heart beating in his ears, blocking out all other sounds, except those of his breath and his heartbeat.

He may have run for hours, or possibly just for minutes, but before he could react, his foot caught on a stone in his path and he fell in a heap on the ground. He tried to repress the tears that welled up in his chest, but could not. He began to sob uncontrollably, the visions of those dead and dying remaining forefront in his mind. He tried to get up and continue on, but his body felt leaden, his emotions cutting a raw path of pain and fury through his soul and pushing him down into a deep depression. Laying there for what felt like an eternity was all he could convince himself to do.


A growl sounded nearby, raising him from his self-inflicted drudgery and putting his mind and body at full alert. He slowly turned his head, easing over until he caught full view of the thing which had made that noise; it was the demon from before, bestial claws and teeth glinting in the mid-morning sun, looking equal parts hungry and angry at what he must have deemed escaped prey. Forel tried to call out, but his voice felt raw and broken from both the crying and the heat of the sun which had beat down upon him. He put his hands out in front of him, hoping that would somehow save him once again, but nothing happened.

The beast appeared to lick its lips, its careful prowl moving it closer to its prey as it sidled back and forth, as if stalking Forel slowly, playing a game with its food before it set out to consume the creature. Forel took a few careful steps back, willing his body to turn and run, flee from this beast and the promised death which awaited at its snapping jaws. He gulped hard for air, feeling his dry tongue and throat complain against the uncomfortable grating feeling this action caused. He felt his own tongue roll over his sand-chapped lips, feeling the coarse grains as they rubbed into his dry and cracked skin.

If this was what death felt like, he was not looking forward to the prospect. Help me, he spoke within, trying to summon whatever strength had saved him previously, trying to summon some inner reserves of energy or power which might stop this horrific fate.

As if in response, water welled up in his throat and shot into his mouth, soothing his dryness and pushing a cry for help out of his now-restored mouth.

“HELP!” he cried out as the beast leaped into the air, crashing down on top of Forel and pushing him onto the damp sands beneath. The creature snapped at his arm, tearing a long gash into his arm and causing blood to start flowing from his body. His eyes went wide in fear and panic once again as he let out a long, loud cry again.

“SOMEBODY! HELP ME!”



TormentedDragon -> RE: The Tempest (2/7/2013 20:15:16)

Not two days out from the Nassha, and there’s tracks where there shouldn’t be tracks. Or rather, there’s the wrong sort of tracks: shoes. The only shoes around here should belong to the legged merchants, and they don’t travel alone. This one, whoever it is, is on its own. I slip down to the tracks, nostrils flaring and tongue flicking, to get a sense of the air. They aren’t too old, or the winds would have vanished them by now, but they are old enough to make the scent faint. There’s leather, of course, but also the peculiar musk of sweat that they always have. Something a bit different about this one, but I can’t put my finger on it.

I look up, and put my hand over my eyes to shade them from the sun as I judge its position. It’s getting low, now, the shadows growing longer with the passing of the day, and the tracks are heading off to where the sun sleeps. That’s the right way to reach the road, so maybe it will be fine? It will head straight through Gristhla territory, to be sure, but they don’t patrol so often. Not like the Solassna do.

I nod, and turn away. It should be fine. The Tempest awaits, with its people and its stories and its Ian Eesos. If he’s there.

And not keeping someone out of the belly of a Gristhla.

Not that that’s a bad way to end. They don’t eat things alive. It’d be shot first. Or stabbed. It’s probably a skinner, anyway.

Skinners work in packs.

I heave a sigh, and turn, sliding my way over the sparse grass to where the trail heads. Hopefully it’s at least an interesting one.



It moves quickly for a lost thing. Two days and I haven’t caught it. I have to go slow, of course, to keep the trail, and the legged ones are always too quick for their own good, but I’d thought to catch it before now. No matter. Today, what with waking in the dawndark before the leggeds like to to get a head start, I should catch it.

And good thing, too. We’re too close to the Gristhla, now, and there was an itch in my scales when I put out the safesleep hex the night last, which means there’s some sort to be wary of out there. Not a problem for me, but the legged won’t have the right hexes. Never do, any of them. Not even the Ian.

Yes. I’ll catch it soon. I can smell it. The sweatstink is stronger, mixed with the leather and the something odd; like it’s recent, just passed, not the stale of before. I look up for a moment, sweeping my eyes over the grass for shapes, but I don’t see it. Is it blending? Or maybe its over the hill out the yonyon. No matter. Close eno-

I stop, and frown, testing the air I’ve just crossed into. What’s the this? This stink is new. Foul and foul, like fear and blood and death and waste. There’s a bit of legged in it, different from the one I’m tracking, but there’s a stronger something else, a something wrong, a something I don’t know. My eyes hit the ground, and I see the tracks: boots, different from the shoes, and following the boots a thing with claws. I hiss, and reach for my bow and my string

No Gristhla, this, no talking to a thing that smells so. I put string to bow and twang it, to make sure it’s taut like it should be. It’s the right hum. Good.

I coil up, laying me on me to make a heavy pile of me, so I can rise up and up. Man-height, then more, and more, up until I can see over the hill. But the hill's not where the stink leads, and I narrow my eyes, looking out over the grass and willing the thing to show itself. That’s when the scream comes.

I swing my head that way, and there it is; a beastie thing with claws and strange and the swirls on the skin that make my head go a little wonky. I know this thing, somehow, though I’ve never seen or smelled it or fought it. It’s a story thing, I think, a thing of the Tempest tales. More in the now, though, it's got a legged under it, and his was the scream, and I’m reaching for my arrow and sighting the shot.

The bow strains against my draw, and I let the string go. My arrow zips through the air and slams into the side of the beastie, knocking it off the man and sending it sprawling in the dusty grass. I draw another arrow and nock it against my string, but don’t draw the bow just yet. The beastie’s not down. It was a good hit with that arrow, good enough to take down a man, but it’s scrabbling to its feet and looking around for what hit it and I don’t know what another arrow will do. More with the now, though, I need to get it away from the man.

My chest expands, and my jaw unlocks, opening just a little, just enough. I loose the war cry, and it echoes over the plains in all its brassy boldness, a challenge that the leggeds can only make with a war horn, lacking as they are. It works, of course – the beastie is looking at me now, its eyes wide and its mouth snarling, and I give another short blast.

Come on then. Run, or fight me. I’m a bigger deal, aren’t I? Better armed. Better armored. Bigger meal though. Come, little beastie. Come fight Silissa.

It hesitates, then charges. I draw the arrow, sight, and fire, but it leaps off to the side and the arrow hits dirt. Third arrow, sight again, pray it hits. The beastie moves fast. Be in spear range before too long. Best be ready.



Mirai -> RE: The Tempest (2/9/2013 15:11:19)

A day’s walk from The Tempest’s welcoming walls, a dark haired young woman stood alone. Clothed in azure silk robes, overlayed by warm white furs, the noblewoman cut a regal figure even as she silently wept.

I hate werewolves.

Alyssia absently brushed tears from her bright blue eyes. The princess’ soft fingers flicked the droplets away as they trickled down her angular nose. The noblewoman was only vaguely aware of the sensation of salty wet water on her fingertips, chiefly preoccupied with the task in hand of giving her brave warriors a final goodbye.

The evening moonlight glimmered down upon the woman’s long dark hair. She slowly circled a makeshift funeral pyre, a burning brand clasped in her pale left hand. Orange light flickered back and forth from the torch, spilling out into the gathering gloom. With her skin drained of colour by the evening’s chill, the noblewoman went about her work.

At the torch’s touch, damp twigs gently smouldered, before slowly igniting into warm flames, flickering in the dusky light. Wisps of flimsy grey smoke began to gently seep from the clumsy stack of gathered logs and leaves, easing over the dozen bodies piled across the ramshackle bonfire. Slowly, warm red fires began to flow over from the smaller wooden logs. The flames gently lit up the gloomy darkness, illuminating a rocky hillside.

Several hours ago, Alyssia’s guardsmen had made their final stand upon this hillside. A dusty pathway meandered up the steep slope, snaking its way around a ravine cut into the terrain. The grey trail was dotted here and there with red flowered vines, which shivered in the light breeze that blew through the gathering gloom.

The Princess glanced across to a formation of rough grey boulders, about ten yards from the funeral pyre. Those stones had provided the royal party with a natural shelter against the storm of claws and fangs that broke against them. Splintered spear shafts still lay scattered here and there over the remains of the battlefield. A few of the wooden weapons stood upright like gravestones, having been earlier staked into the ground. The spears had been arranged as a hastily assembled barricade against the werewolves’ fury. But the defence had been futile.

Bile rose in Alyssia’s throat alongside memories of the attack, and a moment later what little food remained in her belly was expelled. The painful stomach acid scorched along her throat, and she spat wretchedly to clear her mouth of the horrid substance.

When the battle began her loyal guardsmen had sought to slow the werewolves’ assault with crossbow fire and spears. The bloodthirsty creatures had advanced in human form at first against the royal party, led by an extremely tall man with very dark brown hair. Shadows had obscured much of the powerfully built warrior’s face, but the Princess had seen a sadistic glint in his brown eyes as he raced toward her.

Assuming that their enemies were mere bandits, Captain Kielhen’s troops were not greatly concerned. As professional soldiers, they were wary, but they had fought off two raids before they even entered the badlands. Her warriors were few in number, but they were amongst Cawhend’s elite: veterans of a dozen conflicts each.

But then their attackers had transformed into monstrously huge wolves. Bones had snapped and elongated in horrific fashion. Dark fur had swarmed across four legged bodies, and ghastly fangs sprung from gaping jaws.

The brutes raced forward swiftly, quickly bringing the fighting into close quarters. Fangs snapped against steel daggers. Claws swiped at a hastily scrambled defence of short swords. Alyssia’s warriors were disciplined and courageous, but they were overwhelmed by the werewolves’ supernatural speed and strength.

They never stood a chance.

The princess swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat. The funeral fire was really beginning to take hold now, hungry flames licking along the strewn logs. Purifying waves of heat washed over the mangled corpses scattered about the pyre, igniting them into a blaze. Wisps of ash drifted into the air, glowing embers floating amongst the light evening breeze. Alyssia’s tears sparkled in the reflected firelight as they trickled down her cheeks.

The pack’s leader had broken through the Cawhend lines in minutes. He had transformed into an enormous black wolf close to Alyssia’s own height, and torn into her poor guardsmen like a bloodthirsty fox in a chicken coop. The Princess’ blood had run cold as the nightmare-made-flesh leisurely loped forward. Icy terror had crawled up her spine, and she thought she saw death stalking toward her on four heavy paws.

But then her faithful protector had surged into being.

For even without her guards, the noblewoman was not defenceless. Locked within an amethyst gemstone about the princess’ slim neck, dwelled a sorcerous being known only as ‘The Defender.’ The magical creature was supernaturally strong, taking the shape of an armoured knight when summoned. Instinctively driven to protect its mistress, The Defender had intercepted the pack’s leader as it raced toward Alyssia.

The pair had struggled back and forth around the battlefield: the paladin’s magical broadsword driving the wily monster back; the werewolf darting left and right, constantly searching for a way to round the ethereal knight. About them, Alyssia’s brave guardsmen had fought to their last. Captain Kielhen had coughed up thick red blood as he buried his steel dagger in a werewolf’s midriff. The dying officer yelled at his princess to stay back, but she raced forward regardless, brandishing a snatched-up spear in his defence. Seeing the last of the soldiers down, the werewolves stalked forward, surrounding the noblewoman.

She would surely have died then, had the pack not suddenly lost its leader. The vicious animal had leapt up, trying to savage The Defender’s throat, but instead found itself grabbed in mid-air by the mystic knight. With the last of its energy fading, the paladin launched itself into the ravine’s abyss, dragging the werewolf down with it

Shocked at seeing their leader’s fall, the remainder of the pack had broken a moment later, fleeing in disarray down the hillside. Alyssia was left alone to care for the dead and dying.
The princess raised her hand to her throat. For an instant she held the amethyst pendant that hung there, as if was a talisman to protect her from memories that swarmed about her. After its fall, The Defender had magically returned to its resting place within the gem.

With his last breaths, Captain Kielhen had begged her forgiveness at leaving her stranded in the Badlands, and advised her to continue her journey through the wastes. A tavern he named The Tempest might offer her a chance of recruiting a new group of bodyguards.

For a moment Alyssia felt a flare of anger, rage flaring through her veins in an inferno that matched the blaze now formed over the pyre. Kielhen had led her into this disaster, convinced that the bandits which attacked them in Tharance would not follow the royal party into this barren land.

Idiot man. I should have let you rot on the ground Captain, left your body where ravens could peck at your eyes. It’s a better fate than I or my child will get.

An instant later she felt a wave of guilt rush over her at the uncharitable thoughts. The Captain had done his best, been a loyal friend until his death.

The least I can do is honour his memory.

But more than that, she felt a surge of raw, focussed determination to survive, and travel back to Cawhend. Not so much for her own sake, but for the unborn child growing inside her slowly swelling tummy. She needed to honour the memory of her fallen guardsmen, but she also had to journey onward and live.

We’re going to get out of this place little one.

The princess gently placed her left hand softly upon her midriff, recalling the swell of emotions that swarmed through her when the Tharance wise woman pronounced her pregnant. Compared to the sedate, familiar affection she felt for Prince Marek, her blonde haired husband, her love for the child was like a raging river.

Somehow, someway, your mummy will get you home.

Even as tears continued to trickle down, a ghost of a smile played at the corners of the Princess’ soot-swept face. She slowly traced her palm against the sapphire silk of her fine robes.

Perhaps you’ll even bring me closer to your father little one.



Starstruck -> RE: The Tempest (2/17/2013 20:07:38)

Lizzy was perhaps a little lost, but she absolutely refused to admit it to herself or to anyone. "To be without direction," as her father said, "is to be without purpose, both literally and figuratively. You must never lose your motivation." She had no idea where he'd pulled the quote from, or if it was even accurate, but she thought it added up.

Anyway, she wasn't lost. Her path was just...erratic, that's all. And perhaps she didn't have a destination in mind. There really wasn't anything specifically wrong with that. Well, okay, there was. And the problem appeared over every other hill as a shadow on the scrubland behind her, twisting and slithering in a way that seemed entirely unnatural, but Lizzy could not pin down what exactly she found so frightening. In all cases, she simply redoubled her pace, and the thing disappeared behind her. It always reappeared, though, as though it were following the minute traces she left behind. Lizzy knew a thing or two about tracking, and had tried several times to obscure her true pathway, but the beastie behind her seemed to be a fantastic tracker.

So she pulled out a cracker from her pack, placed a travelling cake on top, put both on a note reading "still cant cach me!" and promptly turned to run from her pursuer when suddenly there came a cry for help so overwhelming, she fell over in her hasty attempt to heed to it immediately, stumbling and finally catching a terrific stride and speed. As her lungs sucked in air and her legs pumped, boots thudding against the packed ground and sparse vegetation, her mind processed the call she had just heard. The caller was clearly male, and clearly in trouble. As she came within seeing distance, she noticed a dark shape against the gray, overcast sky, coiling higher and higher. Her mysterious tracker had arrived and was loosing arrow after arrow into the thick hide of the attacking beast, who she immediately decided was deserving of the title. Monstrous and indescribably frightening, it was a beast of nightmares. It had massive claws, and it seemed to be extremely resistant to the tracker's arrows.

And the tracker herself was interesting, too, though more identifiably so. She had a relatively human torso, but the rest of her was accurately described with the words "giant snake." Lizzy had never seen the like before, but the tracker was determined to be helpful. Lizzy decided to be helpful, too, whipping out her blowpipe and selecting a pipe without dropping her eyes from her target. She was searching...perhaps a bit of hide that seemed vulnerable...she slid to a stop beside the original victim and, spacing not allowing her to proceed any further without seriously jeopardizing her person, she took aim and fired.

As the dart whistled through the air, Lizzy prayed to Nar'Nash of the Fourth Wind (this was the correct compass direction for Nar'Nash, right?) that the dart would strike a vital area. All her hopes rested on the idea that the creature would be too sleepy to savage her and spread her organs to the crows. The dart struck the back of the beast and clattered to the ground. Then, it vanished. The monster turned.

"I knew it should have been Grid'Nash," Lizzy muttered in despair.



Legendium -> RE: The Tempest (2/18/2013 2:40:48)

Grass. All there was to see in this goddamned wasteland was grass and hills, thought Tim Wiley to himself while wading onwards through the waist high, dried out, yellowish grass. Burrs covered his red mage’s robe up to the waist, and his horned helmet was chaffing his neck and heating his head. His hands were sweating on the grip of his staff, and no spell he knew could give him comfort in this land of heat and dead vegetation. Only at night was his fire magic any use whatsoever, when the land turned cold as ice, but even then, he had to be careful with it for fear of starting a huge fire that would raze these hills to ash.
Why did I even come here? Tim thought looking out at the landscape. He pulled the map back out of his bag and glared at it. “Stupid thoughts of riches and glory put you in these situations”, Tim said aloud to himself. But the artifact he was hunting for was the key. With it, he could unlock the treasure trove of books stored in the old Archmage’s tower. But was it really worth it, chasing after something he knew almost nothing about, except that it was in the Badlands and six miles east of the Tempest, whatever that was? “It had better be.” Tim said as he stored the map back into his pack.


Night falls fast in the Badlands, and heat falls with it within seconds. The hills of usually yellow grass were turned grey in the semi-darkness. Stars were unhindered by the smoke of big cities, but could not compare to Tim’s home, the mage thought as he stared out from the flap of his tent.
He turned back to put his things back in order. He always kept his staff in a case next to his sleeping sack, hidden until the need arises. Not that he expected robbers on one of the least traveled routes through the Badlands. Almost all ended up at this “Tempest” though. Tim took a while to ponder what the Tempest was. Originally, as he saw it on the map, he guessed it would be an arcane tower of wind, since a tempest is a tornado. But now, when he saw all the people at the border town, he guessed it would more likely be a pilgrimage. It didn’t matter though. It was just his orientation point. He laid his head down thinking of absurd possibilities as to what the Tempest might be. He laughed at the absurd thought of a giant inn resembling a tornado in the middle of nowhere.

Tim had slept maybe an hour when he was awoken with a dagger at his throat. Looking a bit more up he saw the Adam’s apple of a man who hadn’t shaved in a while. Further up, a bandana covered the most of the man’s face, but his cold brown eyes were visible above the bandana, as well as thick, bushy eyebrows. A strand of black hair fell into the man’s face. His leather clothing seemed weather worn, and his appearance gave the air of travelling for ages with little success. Odd, how one notices things in such detail before panic sets in. And that’s exactly what happened next.
Before Tim could even complain, the bandit spoke. “Listen up. There need not be bloodshed. Either you hand over your valuables peacefully, traveler, or we kill you. It’ll be painless, I assure you.”
Right, Tim thought, like you have experience in that. He certainly wasn’t going to give that map to anyone willingly, or anything else in that respect. No way. The time for quick thinking and planning was of the essence, and the first thing to do was stay alive; meaning to pretend to go with the thief’s plan.
“Okay,” Tim said, trying to imitate a scared voice, which wasn’t really hard, considering the circumstances. “Just let me go get the gold.” The bandit’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t expected Tim to give his gold willingly. The bandit kept the dagger out, and motioned for Tim to get the “gold.” Tim stood up, and then knelt back down next to his sleeping sack with his back turned to the bandit. He got the feeling that the bandit was poised for an attack. He must not have believed for a second that Tim was going to give his gold willingly. But the bandit hadn't wagered on one thing; he didn’t know Tim was a wizard. Finally, Tim found the case with his staff in it, snapped it open, and turned around quick as a snake. The bandit didn't know what had hit him, while in fact, it was a fireball. The bright light slew the bandit, but alerted a second bandit hiding behind a nearby boulder. Another flash and he was sent on his journey to the afterlife.
Tim grinned. This was why he had come back to adventuring. The thrill of a fight is like no other. The adrenaline pumping through his veins was never going to let him back to sleep, so Tim decided to head out on his way anyways, even though it was still very dark. What he didn’t notice, while he left, was that the third and final bandit had nabbed all the food and water from his bag during the fight and run off with it…



It had now been a long time since Tim had encountered the bandits, and upon the discovery of the stolen food, he had given up most hope of survival. His mouth was drier than the scorpion he had found in his boot’s nest. His stomach growled, no, howled like a wolf. The iron helmet he was wearing was overheating his head again, and the weight of it bore down on him like never before. "This is why you stopped adventuring in the first place." he reminded himself again.

By nightfall he finally saw it. Up ahead was a glimmer of light. Was it a border town? A caravan? The Tempest? Tim was too tired to care, but he sped up his pace.
Within two hours, he had made it to the Tempest. And it was not a tower, nor a pilgrimage goal. It was an idea he had first thought completely absurd. It was an Inn.


The true nature of the Tempest came as a complete shock to Tim. All the assumptions of the Tempest were everything but it was. An inn, in the middle of a desert? It seemed completely impossible. Yet there it was, right in front of his eyes. Amazing.
He had planned his entire journey thinking he would be on it alone. But here was an incredibly large building, and likely filled with mercenaries, seeing as most of the caravans leaving the border town were filled with mercenaries and merchants. It wouldn't make sense to continue on his search without help when it was so obviously here. More importantly, to accommodate all the adventurers, there had to be beds and food. Without giving it any more though than that, he headed for the doors, and almost got his hand around the handle when it was rudely opened. Tim had enough sense to pull his hand away before it was ripped in two, before it was fully opened and two uniformed people shouted into his face "Welcome to the Tempest!"
Tim was about to snap back at them about their rudeness, but thought the better of it. If he wanted to hire someone's muscle, it wouldn't be a good idea to give the host a bad impression of him.
Through gritted teeth, he said "Thank you." and quickly shoved past them.

He quickly headed for the front desk, and asked the clerk for a room and a meal. While grumbling about money, he slid the gold over and turned right, to see an incredible sight.
Apparently it was a mess hall, although without a doubt the biggest he'd ever seen. There seemed to be no end, although it could have been the smoke from the fires, or even his tired eyes.

Without any ado, he rushed straight to the nearest empty table he could find. He looked around with a frown at all the people talking. One seemed to be having trouble with a lighter, and was louder than the rest. Crowds always made him nervous and uncomfortable, which was one of the reasons he'd retired to a mountain a while ago. To get away from people. In one corner a bard and a band sat playing some old song about some old hero. Tim wanted to rip the lute out of his hands and tell him that some people wanted peace and quiet. But that would only make a scene, and stares were worse than crowds.

A waiter a approached him and asked him what he would like. Tim ordered the first thing that came to mind. A steak with potatoes and onions, with Northern Fire-Water to drink. He scarfed all of it down in seconds, then got up and headed for the entrance hall, when something caught his eye. There seemed to be notice boards lining a wall there. He doubled back to it and took a look. It seemed to be filled with help requests, with patrons room numbers written on them. Thinking what a stroke of luck this was, he quickly scanned the notes looking for one that seemed not to be too dangerous, yet written by an honest person who would repay their debts. Tim had a knack for being able to tell a lot about a person by their writing style and handwriting. There were plenty. There was a request for finding a missing heirloom, but the handwriting was so fancy that only a bard or merchant could have written it, and they wouldn't be able to help him back. Plus, neither like paying their debts. Tim saw another one that he didn't even give a second look due to the request. No way would he risk his life fighting a demon! A few hundred requests later, he found a suitable one.

"Any adventurers looking to make their fortunes should report to me. Be wary though. This is no small task, and not every man is fit for it."

Despite the warning, Tim didn't think that the task would be hard. The handwriting seemed crude, as though written by a warrior who could heft a sword better than a pen. Any warrior would be useful, and most are honorable enough to help the next person. Then Tim read the name.

"Max..... Muffins?" he said aloud.

A short, shadowy figure appeared from under a chair nearby.

"You called?" said the rabbit.



black knight 1234567 -> RE: The Tempest (2/19/2013 14:21:46)

The Badlands. A place filled with dangers, treasures, glory, and all different kinds of people. It be adventurers looking for the fame and thrill of battle, merchants selling their lucrative goods for the best price they could net, or simply people taking a stop on their long journey.

The latter was Mirrak. A wandering soul with no goal what so ever, stumbled upon the Badlands in search of danger.

Mirrak saw nothing over the horizon, all he could spot were typical rolling plains, with green grass everywhere, some trees far in between, yet tall and high-reaching, shadowing the ground. Along with valleys, creating a somewhat calm yet striking scenery.

Mirrak found it rather strange, one would think a name such as the Badlands would be a desert, with every step you take possibly being your last. It's not to say the Badlands is completely danger free, as he was was about to discover. Out of a sudden, a pack of wolves jumped out at Mirrak, as they started circling around their prey. He was rather calm about it, barely even flinching or moving, and so, one of the wolves sprung on him, attempting to his arm, at first, did little to resist, as the Wolves weren't quite grown up just yet, they're teeth were unable to break apart the steel that Mirrak's armor was made from, and alas, the wolf broke his teeth while attempting to bite Mirrak, he took the chance, put his hands on the creatures head, and snapped it, as the canine fell on the ground, motionless. The other two wolves were quick to run off after seeing their leader fall so easily.

The traveling soul almost seemed...disappointed, but, he pushed forward further into this land of dangers.

After about a hour or so of walking, Mirrak finally stumbled upon a building, which was called ''The Tempest''. He stepped forward, as the doors opened, and light spew forward. Mirrak was unhinged by the blinding rays of light, moving forward, he finally reached his destination.

There he was greeted by several choices, on one side, were the rooms. The place tired adventurers would rest and have a moment with themselves, or where the merchants would lay their goods. Ultimately, he decided to rent a room, he went over to the desk, took out about 10 coins from his pouch, and put them on the desk infront of the receptionist, before pointing to the rooms.

The receptionist noticed the black knight's total silence, it incited him to say: ''It's not that hard to talk....''
Mirrak wasn't very pleased with the receptionist, but, he didn't want any trouble, so all he did is give him a cold stare before looking to the other side....

And there was the general hall, or pub, if you will. After booking a room, Mirrak headed over and saw many people sitting around, having a laugh, having a drink, plotting against their enemies, and planning their next move.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He stepped inside, what caught his attention was the billboard stuck to the wall. Surely he would find something to grab his attention, as he walked over, most of it was pretty mundane. Merchants advertising their wares, or people asking with help in every day life, some were put up by the people of The Tempest themselves, as they were hiring. But one caught his eyes..........

quote:

INTERESTED IN FIGHTING A DEMON FOR GLORY, STOLEN RICHES, FAME OR A CHALLENGE?
ASK FOR GLENN LEDGERMAIN BY THE BAR.


Bingo, the wanderer thought in his head. He then grabbed the edge of the paper, and ripped it off the billboard, walked over to the receptionist and showed it to him, he pointed over to the table, in which 2 men were sitting on. Mirrak was quick to assume that one of the men was also drawn in by the billboard ad, paper in hand, he head over there, pushing people aside, he circled around the table until he found a empty space in the middle, he pulled the chair, before resting on it and taking a seat. Thereafter, he raised the billboard ad, indicating his will to participate in their adventures and journeys.



superjars -> RE: The Tempest (2/27/2013 1:26:12)

Above him, the beast reeled, as if struck by some invisible force. It swayed to the side, moving in just the right way so Forel could see the shaft emerging from its side, ending in some functional plumage. What is that?, he thought for a fleeting moment before the demonic beast swayed back, it's entire form once again filling his vision. He closed his eyes, thinking that the end was nigh, for any second now, his life would be snuffed out.

But it never came. He cautiously opened his eyes, fully expecting to see the gaping mouth of a ravenous creature, only to find himself staring up into the wide, blue skies above him. He glanced left and right, catching sight of the beasts backside as it rushed away from him, heading towards ... some kind of large snake?!

Forel blinked his eyes several times, sure that his eyes were betraying him. A demonic monster was enough to prattle the young man's brain, but a snake the size of a person? That was unthinkable; there could be no such thing. However, each time he stared out at the scene unfolding before him, the same thing was there. Giant monster. Giant snake.

The young boys' legs started to feel weak, his face lost all color and he felt a fuzziness in his head. A few seconds later, the world around him darkened and he fell, unconscious, to the ground.



TJByrum -> RE: The Tempest (2/27/2013 11:32:38)

"Yeah, I'm Glenn." The man in front of Torik said, interrupting his cigarettes in making to take a look at the man who he was speaking with.

Glenn said nothing for a few seconds; his eyes were scanning the man. It was obvious the man was a warrior, a most normal one if he could say so at first glance. A casual armor, a most normal shield, and an ordinary sword, nothing out of the ordinary. It was subtle, but blade master’s training in magic allowed him to sense to faint magical aura around the warrior’s shield. It probably is an enchantment to make it stronger. The man was perhaps 10 years older than him, almost an old-man to Glenn’s standards.

After hearing him out, Glenn wondered why such a guy was interested in taking out such a seemingly fiercesome creature with such equipment. He wanted no gold and no glory, so either the guy has a grudge against demons, or a warrior’s death wish.

“You sure you can handle a Demon, old man?” Glenn bluntly asked, wondering if he can trust this kind of guy to watch his back in the Badlands.

Torik grinned, a surprised expression overtaking his face. Old man? Torik lightly laughed and replied "I can handle myself well Mr. Ledgermain." Torik pulled out the stool next to Glenn and sat down. He looked over at the bartender and waved his finger. As the tender was walking over Torik continued to speak with Glenn. "I'm... not from around here, but I've seen things and done things in my life that have made me into a stronger, more experienced warrior. I'd wager my chips that I'm probably one of the best warriors throughout this land, if not this world." Torik stopped for a moment and began to think. He didn't want to seem over confident, but he also wanted Glenn to know that Torik would not back down. "I put great trust in my friends. You'll not find a being more honorable, noble, or friendly than me, Mr. Ledgermain."

The bartender had made his way to the duo by then and asked him "What would you like?"

"A mug of ale, if you have any," Torik replied, unsure of the customs around these parts. "What about yourself Mr. Ledgermain, what is it you're seeking?"

"Just call me Glenn..." the blade mage said before interrupting himself, seeking an ashtray to stomp his finished cigarette in.

“I’m in it for the challenge. I’d like to see if Demons live up to their reputations. Should be fun to put my blades to the test against such a being.” Glenn truthfully answered to Torik.

Glenn was more or less persuaded by Torik’s response, but the man seemed confident enough. Plus, to have made his way to the Badlands and still be living, he had to hide some mettle behind his basic appearance and his age.

“Alright, if you say you can handle it and claim you are as strong as you think, I don’t see the reason to turn you back.” Glenn told the man as he took a sip of his mug.

“So, what should I call you, partner?” the blade master said as he lighted another cigarette.

"Torik. Torik Valgard. I'm from a distant land known as Asgeir. It's nothing like the Badlands. It's a lot colder, harsh, and I'd bet on it being a lot more dangerous." Torik sipped from his mug of ale. "I've been traveling for quite a few years - nonstop too. All to... well, perhaps I've said to much." Not wanting to seem like a mysterious stranger to the man, Torik continued anyway. "I'm a sort of middle-man Glenn. I know these people, and they want me to find something. If I refused, I would have been killed, so I accepted. But ever since then I've been on some wild hunt for this... this thing... whatever it is. And when I find it, all my worries, all my problems, and all of my fears will go away. And that's why I am after this demon - perhaps he has what I am seeking. So forgive me freind if I seem to secretive or mysterious. It's not that I'm trying to be, it's just that I'm trying to protect people like you, cause you don't want any part of what I've gotten into."

Torik sipped from his mug again. A wave of happiness and relaxation washed over his body as the liquid traveled down his throat. It smelled familiar, like back home. As a matter of fact, he felt like he was back home. A large tavern full of patrons, some people seeking danger, mugs of ale and rum, and his chainmail over his chest. Now all that's missing is a nice bed, he thought.

Turning his attention away from his thoughts, Torik then asked Glenn "So when was you planning on heading out? I'd assume you're awaiting a much larger company to fight this demon? I'd like to rest a night, but anything is fine by me - I haven't had a proper rest in years, a few more days won't hurt." But Torik knew he desperately needed a proper rest.

"The reason why you hunt this Demon is your business. As long as you think you can handle it, I don't care about the rest." Glenn finished his mug, hoping this conversation will end soon enough.

"I'm planning on leaving tomorrow at noon. That'll leave time for people to join in on the fun and rest." He added.

Torik sighed in relief and relaxed every muscle in his body. "Ah, perfect then. Well Glenn, I'm glad to be on board. I'll rent a room here for the night, just find me when you need me." Torik got up and turned to walk off. He stopped and turned his head, "Oh, and I'm low on coin, so could you pay for my drink?" Without waiting for an answer Torik walked over to the bartender. "I need a room, please."



Riffus Maximus -> RE: The Tempest (2/28/2013 23:48:50)

“Son of a devil!” Glenn shouted after Torick left him to pay for his drink.

Teeth and fists clenched, Glenn was about to follow behind the rascal, but he was interrupted as his own advertisement was shown in his face. Glenn quickly turned his head to see the one shoving him the parchment in his face. He swiftly took the advertisement paper with a rude motion and slammed it on the table, trying to ease his mind before speaking to the man. Couldn’t he just speak to him instead of shoving the paper in his face? Glenn could tell the guy was of the silent type. God, he hated those kind of people.

“You fancy yourself for a Demon hunt? Hmm…” Glen said as he analyzed the man in front of him.

Like the other guy that came before, this man radiated an aura of someone who had his fair share of battle throughout his life. Unlike the previous man though, he is more equipped for battle. It didn’t take long to Glenn to analyze Mirrak, as he already concluded he would be a good addition to his party.

“You seem like the kind of guy who can handle himself well. That’s good, welcome aboard man. We depart tomorrow before noon.” Glenn said before returning to his cigarettes making.



jerenda -> RE: The Tempest (3/11/2013 2:35:37)

Two Springs Ago

Sunrise Typhoon had started a fight with the alpha, challenging Wildfire over first rights to the deer Sunrise had brought down, even though pack law was clear on the matter. Wildfire had merely injured him—even so, Sunrise could not come hunting the next day. The alpha female was becoming restless, strong again after the birthing, so Sunrise volunteered to watch the three pups so she could go on the hunt.

Tremor offered to stay as well. Even with a human’s weakened senses, something about Sunny’s scent worried him.

“No.” Sunrise cut him off before he had finished asking.

“But—maybe I could help, Spark’s been teething lately—”

Sunrise whirled, grabbed the younger werewolf by the throat, and slammed him into the wall. “Leave me alone,” he growled, yellow eyes burning into Tremor’s frightened ones.

The scent was coming off him in waves, sickly sweet like incense to an unknown god.

It took all of Tremor’s self-control not to hit back. “Sunny,” he ground out, “Stop it.” Sunny’s hand tightened, causing black spots to appear in Tremor’s vision. “You’re hurting me!”

Just as suddenly, the older werewolf dropped him and turned away. “You’d better go before the pack leaves without you.”

Tremor took a half-step forward and opened his mouth. The scent of his brother filled the air. Sickly sweet. Tainted. Sunny shivered as if caught in the grip of an illness, but the marks on Tremor’s neck proved he was not weakened.

Oh, my brother. A low whine escaped him. Sunny gave no sign he had heard either.

Tremor left the cave, slipping into his wolf form. It would be okay. It had to be okay. He had no way of knowing what he would find when he returned to the cave. Not even Tremor could have seen the events that would mar the rest of his life.

Now

The wolf raced through the Badlands, long legs eating up the ground. His dusky fur blended with the setting sun, broken by a swath of white running from his throat to his belly. From a distance, Tremor could have been any wolf: nameless, lean, roaming the plains looking for a quick meal.

In comparison to the bushes he passed, however, it quickly became apparent that he was too large to be an entirely natural wolf. Natural wolves aren’t five foot high at the shoulder, much less seven feet from tip to tail. His long legs almost doubled the ground he could cover, for which Tremor was grateful. The trail was maybe a day cold, and he didn’t have much time.

Three miles back, the ground was churned up where a pack had gathered. Sunny’s scent was unmistakable, mixed with the scent of many others. It was hard to tell exactly how many, but he knew who they had to be. Even a day later, the sickly-sweet scent was so strong he could almost taste it. Now he followed the trail, hoping against hope to catch up to the pack.

Twilight darkened rapidly into nightfall. Tremor was running low on time when he saw the spark of light ahead. The wolf froze. Less the word than the image, the heat, the taste of fire passed through his mind like a ripple.

Cautious now, he circled the spark at a healthy distance. Aside from a whiff of someone who smelled like dead things (but didn't carry sickly-sweet or lycanthropic traces), he picked up the scent of a few werewolves fleeing the area. Sunny's trail, however, did not emerge. A ravine cut off his circuit, making it more like a half-circle, but he was able to discern a few things.

Point: Sunrise had gone towards the place-that-was-now-fire.
Point: Sunrise had not returned, although he may have gone down or through the ravine.
Point: Some of the new werewolves had returned, but significantly fewer and in obvious disarray.
Point: No one who was working with Sunrise would be the source of that heat, as his feelings were roughly the same as Tremor’s on that matter.

Conclusion: Whoever possessed the brightness had done something to Sunrise Typhoon. Tremor sincerely doubted they’d managed to kill him off, but they had to have valuable information.

If they’d had a good look at Sunny’s face, Tremor’s human form was immediately compromised, but he couldn’t speak as a wolf. Besides, the need to change was becoming completely unbearable. With a sigh, Tremor released the wolf.

A shiver passed through his body, rippling from his head to his tail. When it was gone, the wolf had vanished, leaving a human male wearing an open vest and some pants in its place. Tremor stayed down, braced against the ground. Another wave passed through him, this time of dizziness. He tasted bile, briefly. Then it was over, leaving him shaken but stable.

Tremor rose and headed for the light. He was a young man, perhaps twenty-five. A smile seemed to dwell within his summer-blue eyes, masked by a grim expression that didn't quite suit his face. He walked with a dancer’s grace, but the clearly visible muscles that made up his six-foot-four frame were toned and strong. Burnished copper by the sun, he seemed to be at once gentle and dangerous, like a sheathed dagger.

Blood. Lots of it, staining the ground with its metallic tang. The spark of light became a bonfire, unnecessarily large for warmth. If he had to guess, he would say it was a funeral pyre. Barbaric custom, burning bodies. Bad enough that they’re dead, but now you have to torture their memory by setting them on fire?

Then his brain caught up and informed him what he was looking at. Oh… a funeral. Sunrise has most definitely been here. But… could they have killed him? It looks like there’s a survivor. Just one, but that’s still more than usual. And… a woman? Her curvaceous figure left no doubt about that. By the shining moon, what happened here?

Distracted by studying the woman, he nearly tripped over something large and dark on the ground. Tremor caught himself before he fell completely, ending up crouched above it. A broken spear was buried in the strange man’s torso, and his eyes stared glassily ahead. Just to be safe, Tremor put two fingers on his neck, confirming that he had indeed been dead for some time. He drew on the wolf’s sharp senses and gagged, leaping away from the body as if he’d been burned.

The ruffian probably hadn’t bathed in a week, but the animal scent that marked a lycanthrope was unmistakable. In addition, barely noticeable under the stench of unwashed sweat, the sickly-sweet odor of Sunny’s madness lingered still.

Tremor shook off his surprise, looking again towards the flames. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could see maybe half a dozen similar shapes dotting the earth where they had fallen. Sunny. His brother’s death suddenly seemed a lot more possible. Although he wanted to check every body right away, he forced himself to focus.

The dead will remain dead. This woman… whoever she is… she is most important right now. He forced himself to keep walking, moving toward the bright-light-heat-death. How far can humans see in the dark anyway? How close do I need to get? “Hello?” he called out, “Hello? Excuse me, miss, are you alright?”



Mirai -> RE: The Tempest (3/12/2013 19:36:57)

Wooden fibres crackled and popped upon the pyre, smoky embers flittering upward into the evening air.

Alyssia’s fingers gently stroked the azure silk covering her tummy. If it’s a boy… maybe Marek would agree to calling him Kielhen? It would be a nice way to remember our loyal captain. For a moment the dark haired woman wondered if the baby would take more after Marek or herself. I hope you don’t have his chin. She sighed, thinking it a shame that she hadn’t thought to pick out any clothes before she left Tharance. She would just have to select some garments for the little one when she got back to Cawhend…

“Hello?”

The princess froze, uncertain for a split-second as to whether she had imagined the voice.

“Hello? Excuse me, miss, are you alright?”

This time the curvaceous woman gasped in horror, barely stifling a scream. Her heart pounded in her chest, suddenly beating like a drum.

Oh gods… the werewolves… they’re back…

She whirled around, her breaths quick and shallow. Instinctively the princess held aloft her torch, trying to illuminate the darkness about her.

They’re back… and my guards are dead…

As she raised the burning brand, her blue eyes darted back and forth, searching for the voice’s origin. But she had stared at the funeral pyre for so long, that at first all she could see was its afterimage.

They’re back… and my Defender is exhausted… The young woman swallowed hard, fighting back terror. They’re back… and they’re… they’re… taunting me… asking me if I’m alright.

Perhaps it was an after-effect of the earlier battle’s terror. Perhaps it was grief at the deaths of her loyal guardsmen. Perhaps it was the hormones raging through her body. But at that moment, something snapped in the young woman’s mind.

How dare they taunt me?

White hot anger flamed through the princess. How dare they threaten my child? Her grip on the torch tightened, her fingers whitening against the wood. Those insolent animals! With a ring of steel, she drew her rapier from its scabbard. Almost unconsciously, her booted feet slipped into a fencer’s delicate pose, years of training coming to the fore. With the rapier’s length held before her, she still held the fiery torch aloft.

“Back so soon cowards?” she yelled. “Who are you?”



TormentedDragon -> RE: The Tempest (3/12/2013 21:14:48)

Third arrow flies just wide, gazing the beastie's hide, and it keeps coming. I drop the bow - there's time for a fourth arrow, but not for switching after. Now's the time for spear and shield, for strength and scale. Shield first, strapped fast to my arm, then the spear - hold it at half-hast for closer combat.

A bright thing strikes the beastie, spinning as it bounces off, and it stops, and turns. Stupid thing - easily turned is easily beaten. Its target a legged woman, tall, dress, shoes (found you!), pipe at her mouth. Breath-blown dart, that far? A powerful chest, this one.

The beastie's back is turned, and I strike - shift down to the full-haft grip, pull the shield back, thrust the spear as snake-self whips me forward. Impact - spirits, that hide is tough. The tip sinks in, but there's no blood. Knocked it over, though. Shield is next; slam the edge into its face, send it reeling again. It's quick though, twisting around and slashing at me with its claws, claws that scrape across the shield and catch the spear, turning that strike aside.

My chest swells, and I bellow in its face, full blast war cry, shifting grip back to half-hast and slashing spear-blade at its chest. It jumps back, snarling, and hestitates, eyes flicking from spear to shield to bellowing maw, then over to where the woman be. I pull back a bit, prepping a strike, and blast again - it screams defiance, then turns and runs; awkward gait, but fast. No catching it, not for me.

I shake my head, and taste the air; fear, and sweat, and beast-musk, but no blood. The prey, the man who yelled, is quiet, unmoving; unconscious, I hope. Now danger lies with the woman, with mistakes and fears, so I limber the shield and slip the spear in its loop, and spread wide my arms in peace-sign as I turn to her.

"Be welcome to the badlands, wanderer," I say. "Silissa out of Nassha greets you."



jerenda -> RE: The Tempest (3/14/2013 0:42:11)

Regardless of how well the woman could see, her hearing was definitely intact. She whirled around at the sound of his voice, clutching in her hand a torch.

Tremor froze mid-step. His eyes locked on the burning brand that she waved uncertainly through the night. Waves of heat rippled off the pyre, and the six-foot-two young man found himself taking several very fast steps backwards.

In the back of his mind, a small voice was screaming to run. Instead he forced himself to stop just inside the circle of light cast by the leaping flames. All he could see was fire, smoke tainted with the stench of burning flesh; a solid sheet of shifting reds and yellows and orange, hints of blue and white slipping through the cracks to dazzle the sky; and the heat, oh the heat. It hit full force, showing no mercy to the shapechanger caught in the brain-melting, soul-crushing, unstoppable heat.

The voice gained in power, threatening to overwhelm him. Tiny details leaped out at him as his mind frantically searched for something, anything, to focus on rather than the fire. All scent was drowned by the proximity of the blaze, but his eyes still worked. The woman is wearing fur. Looks real, probably is. Danger, must run—her dress is blue. She’s wearing a dress. It looks almost… fancy.

There was something important about that, something strange about her attire, but it was lost in the inferno that threatened to consume Tremor. Her eyes are darting back and forth. Her brow is furrowed. Her jaw looks tense. The pieces slowly came together, not fast enough. Is she… afraid?

As the thought crossed Tremor’s mind, her entire expression changed. Her delicate eyebrows came together and her mouth tightened into a hard line. She drew a sword he hadn’t noticed she possessed (how did I miss that?!) and held it up along with the torch as if she meant to use it.

“Back so soon cowards?” she yelled into the night. “Who are you?”

She wasn’t facing him directly, but Tremor had seen the bodies on the ground. For once, his intellect agreed with his instinct. If he got out of here right now, he might survive. If you leave, warned the calm core that had managed to retain sanity, you will never find out what happened to Sunrise Typhoon.

Tremor wished he were a wolf again.

“I…” His voice cracked and he grimaced, swallowed. “My name is Tremor. I didn’t mean to startle you. Please calm down.”



Starstruck -> RE: The Tempest (3/14/2013 11:50:42)

Lizzy had loaded and launched a second dart, in the half-hearted hope that it would somehow penetrate the beast's skin and that their troubles would be at least momentarily over. Sadly, though her aim was perfectly true (thank Grid'Nash!), the dart merely stuck, quivered and disappeared, the fear toxin she had carefully prepared spilling all over its hide instead of into its bloodstream. Looks like it's too tough for darts, she lamented, before rushing to help the

weak

The young man who had collapsed. He was an interesting fellow, she noted. Reminded her of someone, though she couldn't for the life of her remember whom. Under normal circumstances he might have been healthy, if underfed, but at that moment, he was deathly pale and completely unconscious. He seemed to have suffered a crisis of existence, perhaps; he did just have a traumatizing experience, what with the beast, and the snake-woman's appearance did not help. Maybe if Lizzy had been a little faster, she might have been some anchor to the real world for him...as of now, he

burden deadweight useless

He was going to be all right. She wondered how he had lasted in the Badlands without any supplies, though; she had drank her way through the last of her water just yesterday, and she hadn't even gone near the desert. He showed none of the signs of dehydration, except the part where he fainted, but yet he had sand in his clothes. The weirdest part was, she could clearly see water evaporating off of his jacket in the hot sun. Where had that come from?

The snake-woman had spread her arms out; Lizzy had barely noticed the battle. Apparently, the tracker's name was Silissa - interesting. Lizzy had never heard of Nassha, but she assumed it had something to do with the fact that Silissa was a towering snake-woman who had been tracking her for days. For politeness' sake, Lizzy curtsied, though she knew that giant snake-women had no ability to curtsey and probably had no convention for doing so. Just to be safe, she spread her arms while she did, in case Silissa misinterpreted her actions as a desire for combat. You never knew.

"M'name is Lizzy Tamlin, ma'am, and 'ma witch. I'm from a li'l village a long ways from here, which I don't think you'd know about. If I may..." said Lizzy, knees quivering a bit, "I noticed you've been following me for a few days. I don't think it's safe for me to go alone. Will you come with me when this man has recovered?" she asked, hand gripping the blow-pipe with white knuckles.



Mirai -> RE: The Tempest (3/17/2013 18:58:48)

Calm down?

The princess’ grip on her rapier tightened. It was a plain blade, unadorned with jewels or heraldry. Alyssia’s father had gifted it to her many years before, remarking that a noblewoman should never seek out trouble, but that she should better be prepared for trouble when it came calling. A watchful observer might have noticed a slight shiver in its tip, though whether this came from fear or anger was anyone’s guess.

Calm down?

Her jaw tightened, her breaths becoming quick and shallow. She was stood beside a funeral pyre, burning the loyal soldiers who had given their lives to protect her, and this man asked her to calm down? She had survived an attack by monsters of nightmare, and he wanted her to calm down? She was alone in the middle of a wasteland, days from home, and he wanted her to calm down?

Who is he to tell me to calm down?

Suddenly, her night-vision cleared, and she caught sight of Tremor. He wasn’t directly in front of her, so she turned slightly, trying to get a better look at him. In the murky darkness, it was difficult to make out details precisely, but he appeared to be tall, muscular and… scared.

The realisation hit her like a sledgehammer. His voice hadn’t been commanding, or taunting. It had been… cracked… fearful.

Oh gods… what must I look like, waving a sword at him? He’s obviously not one of those horrid werewolves.

Another traveller in the wastelands might have yet been cautious, might have questioned if this was not some ruse designed by Alyssia’s foes to trick her. Captain Kielhend might have warned that the werewolves could yet be fearful of her magical protector, and looking to target their prey through more subtle means.

But the Cawhend Princess was not so cynical.

The blue eyed princess lowered her rapier. “I- I’m so sorry.” She swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “I… my guards… they were so fast… I thought you were one of them.”

Alyssia exhaled air, trying to calm herself. The sandy-brown haired man must surely think her a madwoman. “I’m sorry… Tremor wasn’t it? My name is Alyssia Daragon.”



TJByrum -> RE: The Tempest (3/23/2013 18:15:11)

The first bright ray of light to frolic over the horizon generally symbolizes the start of a new day. But for Torik it only symbolized another day to endure whatever hardships might come his way. The rays of light protruded straight through the glass window of Torik's room and landed directly on his eyelids, as if they were trying to wake him. Wake him it did, as he squeezed his weary eyes together and rolled over to his side to escape the violent assault of the sun. He let a tired sigh before finally opening his eyes to look at his room.

His chainmail, as battered and old as it was, hung over the bedpost. Had it not been so dim from years of use, the light of the sun might have made it glisten like water. His tabard sat crumpled up in the corner of the room, ripped and ragged along its edges. The tabard was once divided into four sections: two blue squares and two white squares, but the blue was so faded and the white was so dirty and stained that no one would realize its original appearance. To Torik the colors symbolized the national flag of his homeland, Asgeir. His shield sat face-down near the tabard, but it completely rivaled the appearance of the rest of his equipment. The enchantment on his shield had kept it from ever being broken, scratched, or battered; it seemed like a brand-new shield. A simple steel blade sat above the shield, chipped in some parts and dull in others. It'd been so long since it was sharpened.

Torik decided to not waste any time and hastily jumped up, splashing some cold water from the basin onto his face. The water trickled down his cheeks and fled from his face as they dropped back into the sea of the basin. He put his armor on, his tabard, his boots and his gloves. He sheathed the sword on his side and placed his shield upon his back. Let's finish this, he thought, even though he wasn't sure this would be his last journey.

Only a few others had awoken from the early morning sun, so the walk down the hallway wasn't to clambered. Some patrons were sleeping on the tables, either tired or passed out from the night's drink. He began to walk around the inn to find Glenn so they could set out.



superjars -> RE: The Tempest (3/25/2013 19:11:16)

The world around him plunged into darkness and he found himself quickly faced with something deep and horrific within. Before, the creature who inhabited his body had only come to him in his dreams, but now, unconsciousness pulling him to the edge of his reserves, he found himself face to face with the force of pure aquatic energy.

It had saved his life, that was true, but to what end? he thought, his mental landscape opening up before him as he encountered the creature deep within his psyche. The thing did not speak to him, or give any indication that it even heard or understood him. He had tried to talk to the thing, after it had first gotten into him, but no answer came to him. It was as if it was ignoring him, and yet, here it was, face to face with it.

His mind finally pushed past these thoughts and tried to remember what was going on around it when this had first happened. And then, it dawned on him: the demon! With a great effort, he pushed and yanked, trying to climb out of the depths of his mind and force himself awake.

Slowly, his eyes flickered...



black knight 1234567 -> RE: The Tempest (3/26/2013 9:02:50)

Light over the horizon meant it was the time for the start of the day. But for Mirrak, night and the day were one and the same. He sat up from the ground as the blinding rays of light shunned on his eyes.

Mirrak had most of his gear on, except his weapons and helmet, and his heirloom necklace which he put down on the then vacant bed, as he was walking over to grab a hold of them, he noticed a shard of broken glass.
''Must have been from yesterday...'' as he looked up to the right to see the broken glass mirror from yesterday, which a fist like shape in the middle.

He ignored the sight and extended his left arm to get a good hold of the only link to the past, as Mirrak went to grab it by it's golden chain piece, he closed his other hand on the other side of the chain, before smoothly sliding it over his neck. Before proceeding to grabbing his sword by the hilt, he twisted his arm around giving the sword a good swing or two, before sticking it right back into it's sheath, which fit it perfectly.

All that remained was his helmet, before putting it on, he proceeded with rubbing off any dirt that may have collected around or on it, the helmet has seen quite a lot of battle, yet it always remained in near perfect shape. He stretched his hands above his hand, as they slowly started descending down, perhaps with a bit of loathsomeness and resenting, as the helmet gradually started covering his face, before it sit just right, and he opened his pale white eyes through the helmet's sockets.

Mirrak walked over to his room's door, as he twisted the door handle to the right, the door opened as he was heading to the very same table that he met the adventurous bunch.



jerenda -> RE: The Tempest (4/1/2013 2:10:23)

At first Tremor thought she was just going to get even more angry, and his calm core started to waver on whether or not it was a good idea to stand still, but in the space of a heartbeat everything changed.

She lowered her weapon (right, like the metal is the threatening part) and stammered an apology. Was that a hitch in her throat? Her explanation made no sense, barely forming a coherent sentence.

Forgetting for a moment the roar of the flame, Tremor took a step forward, studying the woman intently. Unshed tears glistened in her blue eyes, and the flames in her hand quivered from more than the cold and the wind. Although a half-dozen werewolves lay dead or dying around her, she was practically quaking with fear.

Of course. I'm so stupid! Whether or not this poor woman is the cause of this carnage, she is clearly terrified. Sunrise always leaves such a mess. There was always the chance her fear was a trick meant to make him drop his guard, but the ferocity of her emotions and the way they lay bare on her face made him doubt that. Reckless cold-hearted fool of a--

The woman was talking again and he wasn't listening. "Tremor wasn’t it? My name is Alyssia Daragon.”

Uh-liss-e-uh? How the heck am I supposed to remember that, much less pronounce it? "Um, yeah, Tremor. Nice to meet you, miss... er... Draagon," Tremor said, stumbling over the unfamiliar name. Sheesh. Why can't humans name themselves something sensible? "Please, accept my apologies. I'm here to help. Are you hurt?"



Mirai -> RE: The Tempest (4/7/2013 12:50:55)

As Tremor stepped forward, Alyssia was finally able to get a decent look at the blue eyed man. Through unshed tears she could see his sandy hair, and rolling muscles. Dear spirits he’s big: he must be almost a foot taller than me.

He looked nothing like her husband, Prince Marek, who was slim and dark-haired. There were creases in Tremor’s clothing, and no style to his hair. But in an uncivilised and unsophisticated way, she realised Tremor was quite comely. There was something… raw… about the man’s presence, something solid and comforting.

Perhaps it was guilt at the unfaithful thought. Perhaps it was relief in response to Tremor saying that he was here to help. Perhaps it was a reaction to his care in asking if she was hurt. Or perhaps it was Tremor mangling the most famous surname in all of Cawhend. But as the blue eyed man finished speaking, something caused the flimsy wall of reserve that Alyssia had been holding against the river of her emotions to burst.

Tears streamed down her pale face, even as her lips twitched on a half-smile. “No... no need to apologise... I’m fine. But my poor guardsmen...” She paused, choking back a sob. They died for me… and I don’t even know if some of them had wives or children. Unable to find words past her grief and guilt, she turned away from the huge man and gestured toward the pyre with her torch.

Breathing deeply, she walked over to a grey boulder, closer to the blazing pyre. Wisps of soot drifted in the air about her. Sitting down upon the stone, she began to relay her story. “They came out of nowhere. My Captain… Captain Kielhen... He’d suspected we were being followed, so my guards weren’t surprised. At first they looked like… humans, like you or me, but then they turned into horrible big wolves.”

Alyssia shivered. Reflexively, she put one hand gently against her tummy. “My brave guards all died in the fight. I’m sure those monsters would have killed me too. But one of my guards dragged their leader over that ravine there, and then the rest of them ran off.”

For a brief moment she felt slightly awkward. She hadn’t lied as such, but calling The Defender one of her guards was only part of the truth. However, the importance of keeping The Defender a secret had been drilled into her since her childhood. As her last line of defence, it was imperative that her sorcerous champion was a surprise to enemies when summoned. She swallowed hard, wiping away her tears.

“I… I’m sorry I shouted at you when you first arrived. I was scared you were one of those horrible werewolves, coming back to kill me.” She paused, and turned towards the sandy haired man once more. “I’m sorry Mr Tremor, you must think me very rude, babbling away like this. Please, tell me what brought you to this place?”



jerenda -> RE: The Tempest (4/21/2013 22:31:35)

For no apparent reason, the woman burst into tears. Tremor paled. Moonlight, what am I supposed to do now?

“No... no need to apologize... I’m fine,” she said, attempting (and failing) to smile. “But my poor guardsmen...” She paused, her words dying in her throat.

Tremor took another step forward, consumed with worry for this strange (if crazy) woman who had been caught by Sunrise’s attack. As he did, the heat of the funeral pyre washed over him. The werewolf froze, caught between terror and concern.

Luckily, she didn’t appear to notice, turning away from him and moving to sit upon a grey boulder. Her slender silhouette seemed so insubstantial next to the roaring furnace; he wondered how she could stand the heat. A normal human would have followed her, he knew. A normal human would not be standing fifteen feet away from the flames, staring at the logs that crackled and spat as if staring into the flames of hell itself. And yet… his feet would not budge.

The lady started talking again, and with an effort of will he dragged his eyes away from the light to focus on her. He couldn’t come closer, but he could listen as her still-shaky voice outlined the events of the night.

Her story checked out with Sunrise’s habits – a pack of werewolves arrived, presumably led by Sunrise Typhoon, and attacked, killing most of her group. The strange bits leaped out at him, details coming together in his mind.

My Captain? My guards? Who is this woman, to wear fine silks in the Badlands and have guards, but no caravan? Sunrise was following her… having caught her scent, he could easily have been following her for fun and prey. His pack is relatively new, they need the practice. Apparently they needed more practice than Sunrise thought. Reflexively, Tremor had begun planning future battles. This was not the first pack Sunrise had gathered, but he never managed to keep them alive for long.

“I’m sure those monsters would have killed me too. But one of my guards dragged their leader over that ravine there, and then the rest of them ran off.”

Makes sense, Tremor mused. A new pack, sees their alpha fall, breaks due to fear. Badly trained. These won’t be hard to take down, especially if I can get them while they’re still scattered.

Two details shimmered in his mind – an oddly familiar movement the woman made, and a strange hitch in her voice when she said ‘one of my guards’ – but their meaning eluded him. He needed more information. Maybe then he could figure out what details he was missing. The question of who this woman was still needed to be answered.

“I… I’m sorry I shouted at you when you first arrived. I was scared you were one of those horrible werewolves, coming back to kill me.” Tremor winced, then tried to conceal it as she turned back to him. “I’m sorry Mr. Tremor, you must think me very rude, babbling away like this. Please, tell me what brought you to this place?”

The truth was his best defense, as always – at least, as much of the truth as she could handle. “Just Tremor – I’m no gentlemen.” A stray thought struck him. I’m not wearing a shirt. I’m talking to a lady, and I’m not wearing a shirt. Embarrassment washed over him, his cheeks flushing, but he pressed on.

“I’m afraid, lady, that you have met the crazed murderer, Sunrise Typhoon. I’ve been searching for him to—” Tremor stopped himself from saying the word ‘kill’—“bring him to justice for the crimes he has committed. He’s a dangerous man. You were very lucky you managed to live. This guard of yours must be very brave.”

Tremor took a few steps towards the canyon, being careful to give the fire a wide berth. He gave his eyesight a moment to adjust, bringing the depth and the darkness of the canyon into focus. When no hand appeared over the edge to drag Sunrise up from the depths, he sighed and turned back to the woman. The idea that she was looking at him – she, a lady, exposed to a ruffian like him – made him blush even deeper red. The very real danger of a second attack gave him strength to continue.

“We must assume he isn’t dead. Werewolves are very hard to kill. Even the fall from such a height might not end him.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Tremor looked over the area. “You say all of your guards are dead?”



TormentedDragon -> RE: The Tempest (5/31/2013 1:08:32)

Good; no silly fights to be had here. I put my arms in that position what Garth taught me, one to my abdo and one to my spine, and do the bow. A funny thing they do, lowering heads - but keep the eyes up, he said. Lower the eyes, and you're lesser than they.

I smile as she speaks, and turn as she's done, sliding over to the poor man. He seems none too damaged at first look, bruised and a gash here or there from the beastie's claws, but nothing a cleaning, bandaging, and rest won't fix. "You be right it's no safe for you on your lonesome," I say, turning to grab supplies from my lower pack; bandages, clean water, rope and cloth for the sling. "'Specially not in the badlands. More dangers out here than that beastie we fought, though that were a particular tough sort.

"My thinkin'," I say, as I tear the man's shirt off to keep it out of his wounds, "is to be takin' the both of you to the Tempest. Inn run by friends of mine, and safest place for miles 'round. So I'll be cleanin' his wounds here, and carryin' him until he wishes for to walk, so if'n you could get started with the sling," and I point at the rope and cloth, "I be much appreciatin'."


It’s as sky is turning orange that I sight the Tempest, and my passenger starts a’stirrin’. With’n the girl’s help, I’d rigged ‘im up so he’d stay on my tail even as I moved, and once that were done, we made tracks. But for one who’s new to these parts, who’s not seen Nassha, who’s just been through a thing like that, might not be so good to be waking up strapped to snake-back.

I motion for her to help me lay him down gentle, and she’s quick enough to oblige. Quiet thing, though maybe that’s more nerves than anything; more’n once she looked to be wantin’ to talk, but shut her mouth before she said word one. Ah well; ‘s nothin’ for it but to wait until they’s comfortable, and to make sure there’s no panic.

Like with this man here, who’s waking up now. I make sure as my weapons are stowed and my hands aren’t hidden, and smile a bit as he comes to. “Be welcome back to the waking world,” I say, my tone gentle. “How be you feeling?”



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