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Topic: What Dreams Become
Subject: Me and my shadow...
Hiram returned Annabell’s smile amicably enough, straightening to stand fully as the tour moved on and the ward’s heavy door swung shut. His interest was already wavering, and the phantom’s image of the tubby, be-suited man flickered wildly like a flame in the wind before the girl turned away and he was gone altogether. There were matters that he must attend to.
Unseen, unheard he prowled the corridor through which the small party had retreated. The tie, loosened informally around his neck, squirmed and writhed as if of its own volition as it struggled to contract about his throat until a tight noose was formed once more with a broad Windsor knot at its apex. Something was beeping in the distance, a harsh metallic wail that swept the hallway, but he gave it little mind. One of the hospital staff, a tall Indian man pushing a trolley of folded white blankets, was making his way from the opposite end of the corridor and the spectre, impatient to reach its destination, swept straight through him, leaving the startled orderly at odds to explain the sudden burst of Artic cold which had chilled him to the bone.
Soon, for Hiram knew the hospital complex too well to falter, the Head Doctor’s office was reached and the wraith waited while Einhart fumbled with his keys at the door, using the pause to closely inspect the German doctor once more. Finally he found the right key and the portal swung open before the old man’s intrepid fingers, the ghost following a mere half-step behind him. Somewhat less than dispassionately Hiram watched as the doctor deposited a smart leather briefcase on the desk beside him, stooping to unlock the battered cabinet in which the hospital’s medical records were kept. Reluctant yet to acknowledge the nourishment, the savage joy, it took from the fear of those it haunted, clinging yet to the dry bones of a decent, rational man, the apparition was stalled, uncertain how to best proceed. The lesson, when it came, must bear sufficient force to dissuade the new Head Doctor from any further transgressions, must ensure that the faith that had been placed in him was not abused… and yet for the present Einhart had done nothing wrong and the spirit was wary of giving the old man too strong a start lest it still the beating of his tired heart.
The doctor’s shrivelled hands, liver-spotted with age, reached for the cabinet’s “H” section and Hiram moved quickly around the desk to get a better view. Sure enough, the old man’s nimble fingers drew forth Annabell Holms’ file from the locker’s depths and the apparition was drawn closer to stand behind one shoulder, following closely each page that Einhart turned. Whatever his sins, the phantom had been born of a generation which had not yet despaired of the hope that reason’s advance must banish insanity’s spectre from this world forever, that madness and delinquency alike must yield before science’s ready advance, and he has not lived to see the dream fail. Now, easily keeping pace with the doctor he shadows, Hiram scours each page in turn to build a picture of the girl’s deficiency. His attention in particular is drawn to the symptoms of her derangement and what conclusions the doctors of this recalcitrant present have been able to piece together regarding its origins and most likely treatment.
Posted on 2007-11-19 at 21:31:09.
Edited on 2007-11-20 at 00:03:03 by Vorrioch
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Topic: What Dreams Become - Q/A
Subject: ...
Skari-Dono, I’ve just looked over Ghost Stories again and I'm guessing that you’re referring to the Dement Numen?
Basically what I had hoped to be able to do with Phantasm is allow Hiram to project scenes from his own memory into the dreams of those around him as a means of communication and to foreshadow events in his haunting… rather than to as a means of direct attack to drive them insane.
I’d thought of Hiram as a character with a story to tell and revealing some of the key events of his life through the dreams of those still living seemed the most entertaining way to do this. I also quite liked the idea that whatever supernatural menace is currently menacing Longchester might not be the only being with an interest in taking control of its residents' dreaming. That said he's hardly short of things to do already and it's not exactly going to break the character if you'd prefer not to allow this.
Posted on 2007-11-19 at 16:49:09.
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Topic: The Mary Sue Test
Subject: The Mary Sue Test
Thought this might amuse:
http://www.springhole.net/quizzes/marysue.htm
Hiram Withers (What Dreams Become): 16
Vyarp Longtooth (Beneath Shadowed Skies): 24
Oh, and if it matters, I answered all the questions for each character (not just the sections relating to rpgs) and included things which have happened in play (rather than just in characters' backgrounds as the test suggests)... because it's more fun that way.
Posted on 2007-11-17 at 22:50:43.
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Topic: What Dreams Become - Q/A
Subject: This is probably a stupid question but...
Would it be possible for Hiram to use Possession on someone while they're asleep in order to experience what they're dreaming about first hand?
Or to use Phantasm to influence what they see and hear when they dream?
Posted on 2007-11-17 at 17:13:15.
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Topic: What Dreams Become - Q/A
Subject: Probably not, thanks...
To be honest I’m not sure it’s likely to make a vast difference since a dice pool of seven should, on average, roll about two successes. Also, it’ll be a lot easier for me to write something up when I know from the start how many words Hiram has to play with rather than ending each post with a fairly long OOC note. (If Hiram rolls one success he will say… if he rolls two successes he will say…)
Should he need to have an in depth conversation with another character he’ll probably just possess someone for the duration of the scene.
Posted on 2007-11-17 at 14:57:51.
Edited on 2007-11-17 at 14:59:31 by Vorrioch
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Topic: What Dreams Become
Subject: The haunting begins...
Longchester Hospital for the Insane:
Day flickered into night and back into day again. The sterile white floor of the operating theatre lay strewn with a generation’s filth: torn and battered crisp packets mingled with old condom wrappers, broken and dirt-encrusted syringes and the black earth that was blown through shattered windows. What little they had left here, when the doors had been closed and bolted, when sickness had been driven out to find its home elsewhere, had long since been looted or, if it had no value, smashed into tiny pieces for the sheer joy to be wrung from its destruction. Graffiti tags, crude, vulgar and gaudy, adorn the peeling paint of the old place’s walls and, before he had roused himself to drive them out, the babble of delinquent youth: the sound of things adulterated with brick-dust and ground chalk being sold from clear plastic bags, had been the only sound to replace the bustle of medical life. And yet, the hospital lived on as the past reached out to reclaim it. In the pale light of early morning a rotting corpse clad in a bloodied lab coat, now yellowed with age, was sometimes to be observed prowling the hospital corridors- or so the junkies claimed when others scorned them for so readily abandoning their traffic at the old place. Strange visions, images of corruption, pestilence and death, overwhelmed those so foolish as to avail themselves of the merchandise at hand, or even fall out of sight of their peers for a heartbeat. In the end they abandoned the old place altogether, and the past was vindicated, taking a savage delight in thrusting back the inquisitive hand of time and, indeed, finding fresh roots in the distant but never forgotten memories that lay discarded beneath two decades of accumulated filth.
And then, as though the old hospital’s prayer for deliverance -for the chance to live once more- had been answered, the chains were struck off and its rusted gates flung open to admit a busy stream of repairmen. Heavy paint rollers erased the sins of the recent past, smearing the walls with the unblemished white of a fresh canvas once again. The evidence of a generation’s disservice was scraped from the floor, deposited in scores of ready black bags and hauled off like the garbage it was. The past looked on, eager to see the place reborn, and if those who scoured the dirt from its floors were less thorough than he might have liked, if the machines and furnishings that were carted in by the lorry-load appeared strange and alien to his practiced eye, that was a price to be borne readily enough for the moment when the hospital resumed its working life and a handful of white-coated doctors strolled through its door, laughing and bantering among themselves, to pay homage to the old place once more.
***
The pale, shimmering figure of a man of middling years sits, squatting on the toes of each shoe, by the young girl’s side. Like the light from a guttering candle his image flickers unsteadily in and out of focus, and only the hint of a chocolate brown upon his suit and the tie, now loosened, which hangs about his neck, the merest trace of gold within the tangled hair which tops the soft, plump face, served to give colour to its ethereal whiteness. Though he could never be called handsome the tight, harried look which bedevilled his face in life has slackened its hold in death and, could anyone else discern it, his manner, would seem easy enough as he gently questions the girl, asking her about her drawing.
Perhaps she reminds him of the daughter that he and Emily might have raised, had his life not been cut short, for certainly she bears some of the grace, the fairness of form which the spectre has come to attribute to those distant memories it yet clings to of its departed spouse. Perhaps it is merely the desire to reach out to the world as a doctor once again, to heal rather than harm, that animates the ethereal figure perched beside her. In any event she seems to object little enough to his presence and chatters away readily, though the ghost struggles to discern all that she says, as the image of a snarling wolf takes form on the paper below her.
The door swings open to reveal one of the nurses, an overweight woman with dyed red hair and gaudily painted lips, accompanied by a slender, fading man clad in an old grey suit. Though Annabell barely seemed to register the intruders, the phantom turns slightly to view them with distaste as the modern world imposes itself upon him once more. “Vat is vrong vith her?” the stranger asks in an enquiring tone “Is she van of those suffering from insomnia?” and, though his questions seem innocent enough, the sound of his voice is enough to unleash a tide of bitter memories the spectre had thought long since forgotten. Again a small boy the spectre lives once more the din of brass bands rousing Longchester to war in the doctor’s harsh Teutonic tones; sees his father, clad in Khaki alongside scores of others, waved off on a train to Dover, recalls once more long, awkward evenings in his parents’ home when the old man finally made it back, hands shaking and unable to even hold a cup of coffee whenever a train passed on the bridge overhead and a wave of forgotten anger washes over the phantom once more, with an intensity that surprises even Hiram.
“Hi, Annie. I brought someone who’d really like to meet you,” the fat nurse speaks, though Hiram has not been gone long enough from this world to escape the object of the stranger’s interest as he leers down upon the young girl’s form. Forgetting for the moment his own child bride the spectre shakes with scarcely restrained rage, his image flickering more fiercely than ever, against one who seeks to defile his patient. Should the German doctor return again he will need to be taught a lesson in proper medical responsibility… and should he fail to heed that last warning Hiram will not hesitate to wring every last breath of life from his shrivelled, decrepit form.
“What is your name?” the girl asks again, and, even as the wraith begins to plots the form his retribution will take for the moment when the stranger will transgress, he replies softly, in a friendly, even tone: "My name’s Hiram, I used to be a doctor here a long time ago.”
OOC: Making a Ghost Speech roll to utter the final sentence… that’s one Essence point down. If it fails then he’ll try again next round. 
Unless Annabell has anything else to ask, he'll probably move on after a while to follow Einhart and see what else he's doing.
Posted on 2007-11-17 at 13:39:16.
Edited on 2007-11-17 at 14:13:09 by Vorrioch
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Topic: Beneath Shadowed Skies...
Subject: Off we go then...
“Its decided, then.” Basque said, piling the last of the now congealing eggs into his mouth with a short digging tool. “We’ll break for the north as soon as we’re set and ready to go. I myself don’t have any preparations to make before we depart, but if anybody else does, it’s the time to take care of them. Let’s meet at the northern gates in an hour.”
It was settled then. Suspicious of the ease with which a decision had been reached Vyarp peered sceptically at those around him, his yellow eyes narrowing into tight slits as he sought to comprehend what had just transpired. The stage had been set, that much he had been certain, for the final stages in the band’s struggle for leadership; the choice of trail offering the best last pretext for each to stake their place in the group’s hierarchy before the expedition left the safety of their peoples’ stronghold and was exposed on the road ahead to whatever dangers the journey had to offer.
And yet, where he had expected shouts, taunts and the bare-knuckled challenges with which the folk of this city, their gods not having seen fit to bless them with full-fledged claws comparable to his own, settled their disagreements he had found only meek and ready acquiescence. Had it been the authority of the towering, muscle-bound female that each bowed to then he would merely have thought them spineless: weak and lacking confidence in their own abilities… though even then there ought to have been a ready jostling for position among her subordinates until he, or whichever of these uplanders proved themselves weakest, retreated to the bottom of the group. Worse, however, it was the bandanna-adorned Basque who had served as arbitrator and decision maker, and even the most cursory examination revealed the male to be decidedly lacking in the brawn he would to impose his authority over those who squatted, now at ease, on the rough-hewn wooded benches around him. Should the band’s leadership passed to him his rule would be a weak one, subject to challenge at every turn and provoking unrest when unity was needed most as those he sought to command refused to submit to one who could not prove himself their superior.
Could that thin strip of blue-dyed cloth wrapped tight around the youth’s head have meaning in this place, the kobold mused even as the group dispersed to go their separate way, each making payment for the sustenance they had consumed. A mark of status, perhaps, among the strange, and many-faced hierarchy that governed this city? It was too much to hope that the folk of this place took it as a badge of rank of some sort, commemoration of some fearsome deed imposed upon the bloodied and tattered bodies of his people’s foes and lending Basque some authority even beyond that which his fist and spear-arm could carve out for him, for the kobold’s keen eyes had perceived no sign of the fearful deference to be expected of those gathering under the command of a champion thus proven.
Even the prospect of such weak and uncertain leadership was, Vyarp was ready to concede, preferable by far to the other alternative which presented itself… that the band was to have no leader at all. Should the group prove unable to thus unify itself, under the command of one who had by some means demonstrated the right to count himself their superior, the plains folk would have traded the pain of a few cuts and bruises sustained in the brief struggle for dominance, only to leave themselves leaderless and confused when danger first struck. In the absence of one who had amply demonstrated the right to bark orders and direction, the fear of whom would keep his subordinates from bolting, would ensure that each dare not shirk in their duties, the group would be left confused and scattered when danger first struck and, for all their bright armour and fine gear, without cohesion the band would be imperilled indeed.
The pig-flesh left a sour taste in his gullet, and his throat was parched from the brine with which it had been saturated. As he reached for the water skin that hung heavily at his side, Vyarp jostled the knife sheathed next to it impatiently. The hour passed slowly, the blazing orb which hovered bright and heavy above him slowly climbing farther into the sky and the occasional passer-by chancing him an odd look- perhaps mistaking him for a halfling or gnome beneath the thick folds of his cowl- as he sat, sprawled in the shade of the inn’s dusty courtyard, waiting for the others of the group to return. Still somewhat on edge from that morning’s events the feeling struck him that it might not be wise to test his fortunes once again with a final visit to the market place… in any event he had already gathered the provisions he would require for the trail ahead.
***
The others returned, in ones and twos, and when the group were finally reassembled the decision was made to strike out for the north. Cutting a strange spectacle indeed as they passed through the crowded streets the group could hardly fail but to attract the attention of many among the bustling throng by the time they passed through the heavy, iron-studded gates which guarded Sankirst’s northern exit. Vyarp was not sorry to see the place go. The city had left its mark upon him more deeply than the fine cloth garments in which he was now clad, and the fine meat that swelled his belly, that much was certain. Three thin white scars, two from a razor’s edge, the last a fire poker, marred his bestial visage, the longest running from his jaw line to maybe a half-inch short of the kobold’s left eye. A swollen abscess where one of his rear-most fangs had been and a broken finger that had healed slightly bent stood in additional testament to the cruelties to which he had been subjected when he had first come to this place and, even now that his stay had come to an end this was not a record which he was minded to forget, nor one for which the golden disks for which those who dwelt in Sankirst would permit them a share in its marvels could fully compensate.
Now, for the first time in close to a year, the shadow of his captivity had finally been lifted as, by some strange expedient he found himself bound once more for the north and the freedom to make his own destiny passed once more into the his own long-taloned hands. Perhaps when the time came he would make a break for the sanctuary offered by his own kind, return to the Twisted Horn or whatever other tribe had come to dominate the northlands, for he had honed skills in avoidance those with whom he journeyed would surely be incapable of guarding him incessantly. Or perhaps, were the opportunity to escape him and the luxuries of city life prove too strong a temptation to overcome he would see this journey through to its completion and, should the Zantrical’s promises prove true return to not merely a fortune in gold but also a position of his own among their number. Then, when the time was right, he would repay in full the wrongs inflicted upon him when he was first abducted to that place, leaving the maimed and disfigured bodies of his victims to float to the surface in the scum of the docks. Still, with a trail to watch, and the foothills that heralded the path home already beckoning there was no time to be lost in such impotent daydreams and the kobold’s eyes turned once more to the long route ahead until the sun finally began to tire of its vigil and those accustomed to rest before the hours of dusk finally voiced their desire to make camp.
OOC: Not my best post, I know. Every time I’ve tried to put something together over the last week I’ve got writer’s block so in the end I decided to just write something up to move the game along.
Tek, would you mind giving me some sort of info with what Vyarp knows about the route ahead or should I just ad lib? Either way works but it might be handy if he could give the group a few pointers about what they might expect (or would have expected if they’d come this way about eight months ago).
Posted on 2007-11-16 at 23:30:43.
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Topic: Beneath Shadowed Skies...
Subject: Over the hills and o'er the main...
Torn from an uneasy slumber as the prying fingers of dawn wormed their way between the bars of his room’s shutters Vyarp was shaken rapidly from the coiled posture of sleep. A sour, slightly salty stench of human perspiration clung tenaciously to the sheets which adorned the sleeping frame in the room’s centre, palpable to his sensitive nose even above that of the pig fat and potash with which the fabric was scoured clean between uses, and it was a scent which spoke of imminent danger to his sleep-addled mind, of the approach of implacable enemies of his folk to his sleeping place. Bolting upright, hands fumbling for the dirk scabbarded at his belt before his eyes were even open, the kobold woke with an angry hiss to find the room empty and quickly rediscover his situation in the early morning’s pale light.
Returning the blade to its holster with a muttered curse in his own language, Vyarp stirred to stand. Finding his water skin gathered with the rest of his gear where he had left it he poured a handful of the chilly water, rubbing it roughly over his face as he took control of his panic to prepare for a fresh day of city life. The acrid smoke from the fire pits where the people of this city insisted on scorching every meal already rose from the cooking chambers below and soon the streets would be alive with a babble of hurried voices: yes, it was time for him to be gone. Quickly and efficiently repacking a small backpack that had seen little enough use so far with his things for the journey ahead he was soon ready to depart. Donning the cloak that still lay sprawled across the floor last of all and pulling the cowls of its hood down across his face once more, Vyarp reached up to pull the door open, hefted the pack onto both shoulders and was soon on his way downstairs- leaving the door to slam unimpeded on its frame with a clamour that set him on edge once more.
***
Early as the hour seemed, when men should still be stirring from their beds and the forests alive with foraging deer as a good night’s hunting neared its end, Basque was already down and feasting on his first meal of the day. Acutely conscious of the inquisitive eyes of those already roused upon him, some still nursing the pain of a night’s hard drinking, others less befuddled and from their harsh stares presumably wont to question the Zantrical‘s choice, the short, hooded figure moved quickly to join the man where he sat, offering a brief greeting and taking his place atop one of the assembled benches.
Fortunately others of the group were quick to bestir themselves, and as, one by one, they took their places at the gathered seats, Vyarp allowed a note of self-assurance to penetrate the tension that had gripped him since the day’s beginning. No longer was he without tribe and, having shed his former associates with no more qualm than a snake discarding its coils of dead skin, he could take comfort in the protection of this heavily armed band until such time as their fellowship too came to an end. Suddenly in altogether better spirits the kobold found his appetite returning and, ordering a large chunk of salt pork from the somewhat bemused female who seemed to be distributing breakfast, quickly set about appeasing his growing pangs of hunger.
Clutching the meat in both hands as he tore chunks from it voraciously beneath the shelter of his hood, Vyarp counted the assembling group, noting with some satisfaction that Starbreaker was nowhere to be found. No, there was the dwarf’s sturdy frame now, shouldering a bustling pack and clad in a ring armour, morning’s harsh light reflected from its every ring. The kobold’s red eyes narrowed as he turned back to his meal, the mountain dweller already bleating for sustenance of its own, better perhaps to sleep lightly on the journey ahead, for he could not trust that the lure of the Zantrical’s gold would forestall any second attempt to avenge his slaughtered kin.
“There are two main routes we can take; the Western road, through Dari, and up through the Selethinian southlands. Or, we can take the Northern pass, going across the colder tundra near the Icereach, cut through Arthemia, and continue along the northern borders to get right to Caraboln. Myself, I’d prefer the northern route-”
“Hm. As I was saying, I’d rather go north, but a vote is the fair way to do things. So? Who wants which road? West or North?”
With the last of the band seated, conversation turned to the trail ahead and the painted scroll spread before them traced two routes beckoning toward their goal, one through the lowland grazing country where the city dwellers had their farms, a second leading up across the frozen wilds. For all the babble of “fairness” and “voting” this was a choice which clearly fell into the clawless hands of the band’s leader, and Vyarp waited with no small amusement for the moment when the towering, muscle-bound female would slam her axe down upon the table, barking her instruction and challenging any who dared to question her authority.
Still, it seemed that the moment when the outlander’s new found leadership would be put to the test was not yet upon them, and that there should be no danger in making his opinions known. The journey west would, it was true, lead through dangerous country, swarming with human life and wont to become threatening indeed should his identity become known. It would, however, also make for fine hunting indeed provided he could stay shrouded and hidden from sight under the burning glare of day, ripe with cooped chickens and easy meals to be torn from the fields and flocks under cover of night to amply supplement the trail breads and smoked meats for which he would need to make provision from his own coin purse. Tracing the northern trail as it made its way past the edge of human settlement, through the wooded hills and valleys which nestled beneath winter’s icy fingertips, the kobold’s sharp eyes fell upon one vast spire of rock, looming over the surrounding foothills which stemmed the great river’s sharp banks. The Twisted Horn! And if this paper map was to be trusted then it could lie hardly more than a day’s hard trek from their allotted trail.
“Afore we begin our journey, I wish to apologize to you all for my hasty actions of late,” the armoured female who had drawn a knife on him the night before, spoke. “My… experience with the kobold creatures has never been pleasant. I am called Raen Strider.”
“Does either of you boys know anything about this northern route?” she went on “The western road, while holding the dangers of banditry and being a little longer, at least it is known danger we pass.”
“I know it,” Vyarp chuckled, the sound a low rasp, “I was whelped here, in the warrens beneath the Twisted Horn.” One claw traced where those caverns should be, in the bowels of the mountain, “and I’ve hunted many times beyond the forest’s end. I can lead you this far, tell you where enemies dwell and how to best avoid them, to here- where the ice desert beckons and it will be a short trail indeed before you return to the lands of men.”
In truth it had been close to three seasons since he had been brought southward, bound and blinded by the sun’s bright rays, tribes would have gained and waned in strength and some may have been scattered beyond repair. Fresh predators too would have been whelped and grown to maturity, bears that had been little more than cubs when he left would have reached early adulthood and found hunting grounds of their own and their own cubs would warrant slaughter before they, too, became a threat. Still, these city dwellers would be fools indeed if they imagined that he had been estranged from his people a mere few days or less and who better to guide them through those dangerous wilds than one who had lived and hunted there sixteen winters and more.
OOC: In the absence of a map I’ve taken some liberties in describing the northern route. If it’s horribly inaccurate in any way then please just give me a shout.
Posted on 2007-09-21 at 13:43:27.
Edited on 2007-09-21 at 13:48:10 by Vorrioch
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Topic: Beneath Shadowed Skies...
Subject: Into oblivion
"You have proven you meant no harm when you revealed your race to us, no need to provoke Arback any further."
“Provoke?” Vyarp snarled inquisitively, glancing upward into the face of as the yet unannounced city dweller who sought to check him, “I’ve done nothing to provoke.”
As Arback’s face turned a deep burgundy, however, feet twitching to reach the ground like a fish out of water as his struggles weakened for want of air the kobold permitted himself a slow grin beneath the coarse fabric of his hood. The knife’s blade, warm against his exposed skin, nestled unappeased in its hiding place- but perhaps it had been better to play the role of an injured victim. He could not vouch for the reaction of those gathered about him, temperate and hot-blooded creatures as they were, should blood have been spilled and would not sacrifice his place in the group to revenge a moment’s indignity.
With the indignant dwarf finally subdued, and a second notch in the band’s hierarchy neatly established, the others turned to words of- what? relief? embarrassment? in an attempt to break the tension which it seemed had gripped the room. Certainly there was no equivalent to the jeering cat-calls and mock howls of exhilaration which would have gripped any party of his own people in the aftermath of any like struggle.
On one point alone Vyarp certainly could agree, however: the need for rest. For those whose labours were regimented by the sun’s glaring eye a mere third part of a day remained until toil must resume and, strange as it might seem to be sleeping at a time when the forests would soon teem with freshly-stirring life, he could not trust to begin the impending venture under a mantle of frustrated sleep. The band already fragmenting as each went their separate way the kobold did likewise, curling on the planks just inside the door of his sleeping chamber to dream contently of rabbit and squirrel hunts now some seasons past.
Posted on 2007-09-05 at 14:10:40.
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Topic: Beneath Shadowed Skies...
Subject: Progressions
“My name is Vyarp Longtooth, of the tribe of the Twisted Horn. If you need a trapper, scout, knife fighter or archer then I’m your man.”
His piece spoken, Vyarp’s eyes flickered between the other members of the group, watching, testing them for a reaction. The path to safety was plain enough, should it come to that: a quick leap from where he sat coiled across the chair top, a few heartbeats at a frantic sprint and then a final plunge through the open shutters to the street below. With close to a dozen others standing ready to block his passage, however, he did not rate his chances should flight become necessary.
In the moment’s silence, his brain working overtime as adrenaline coursed his veins: he had seen the people of this city gnawing with inadequately sized teeth at what small claws they had in such moments as this. Such an impulse was alien to him and his kind, but he instead ran his tongue over thin black lips to relieve the tension whilst a bead of sweat which had formed in the room’s oppressive heat became a rivulet and traced its slow path down the dome of his forehead.
“Little one do not be so quick to feel the need to respect the title of ‘man’” and she spoke of the gender with little respect. “You are of the world, and the world of you. Leave the men to their ways and delusions of superiority, your kind have been round since before our forefathers, and will likely live to dance upon our bones if man is left unchecked.”
A vast leather-clad female, tall even among the giants of this city and with a vast tree-splintering axe close by her side, was the first to speak and he was almost too distracted to comprehend her words save that they bore no openly hostile intent.
What little did reach his mind made still less sense, for “the world” was there for the taking- wood and soil and meat on the paw or hoof- and men were simply those able to wring the greatest wonders from its sundered flesh. The thought of a great city like this given over to his folk, its marvels given over to the hunting party and the plunderer’s sack, of dancing a merry jig, upon the well chewed bones of those too slow or foolish to flee made a fine vision indeed, but was a dream all the same, and he, along with the ownerless dogs that roamed Sankirst’s back alleys, was content merely to feast upon its leavings. Now was not, however, the time to voice his dissent and the kobold instead merely nodded mutely, waiting to see if he could expect similarly benign responses from the rest of the group.
“Kobold,” hissed Raen, though she did not move forward toward where Vyarp crouched on his chair. “What business do you have here? Which band of thieves cut throats to send you on this task?”
Another female, this one protected by a breastplate of crafted steel, glimmering harshly in the yellow candle-light, was the next to respond, rising to full height and almost unbalancing the chair in which she had reclined as she did so. A foot of tapered metal was quickly within her grasp and Vyarp hissed softly to himself, waiting to see if she would approach. A blade of his own, forgotten in his earlier panic, nestled snugly against his forearm in its sheath, ready to be propelled into his waiting hand should bloodshed become expedient.
“Woman, what in the nine hells do you think he is doing here? Obviously he was selected to go on this mission or quest or whatever the hell it is along with us. He wants fame and fortune along with the rest of us."
A thinly built letterman, conspicuous in the robes of red and white which marked him among the shamans of this place, was next to respond, his voice strangely calm amid the tension of the moment. He could only assume that the man’s mind was still lingering amidst the smoky coils of his pipe, though the intervention was most certainly a welcome one, for Vyarp did not relish the prospect of dueling with even one of these giants.
It seemed this shaman had words to waste, continuing unabridged for a score of heartbeats of more, though the kobold could hardly object to hearing them. The wrath of the Zantrical was evidently as much to be feared as that of any witch doctor or war chief, and with so much to be gained by simply compliance it was to be hoped that those who had yet to commit themselves might he willing to heed this reasoned call and likewise prove willing to suffer his presence for the duration of the trip.
“Violence in the peace tent, no matter the structure is heretical. Would you curse this voyage before it begins by so hastily spilling blood?” Kälte slipped a javelin from her back quiver and thumbed it between her fingers.
“The half-breed speaks the truth. If we’re to travel together their needs to be a level of trust.” Kälte removed her javelin and twirled it nonchalantly. “If that means playing big sister and beating that trust into you, then by all means step up and lets get down to the nitty gritty.”
The first warrior was next to speak, drawing herself out of a wooden chair frame creaking beneath the weight of her muscle, and even going so far as to draw a weapon to prevent harm to his person.
What was happening, fantastic as it seemed, made precious little sense- for he could not credit that such a being would be so easily intimidated by the distant prospect of reprisals from their employers- until suddenly the truth dawned up him. The struggle for the band’s leadership had already begun and this female was staking her claim to superiority over the other on quarrel over whether he should be permitted to survive as part of the group. As in any tribal hunting party, within which each member knew his strict position as part of the group and his superiors and inferiors within it, such disputes would continue throughout the next few days until a leader had been established, along with a pack order beneath him.
“You speak of trust as if you took it to bed with you and made love to each form, barbarian,” her rival shot back in angry retort “Respect is earned through sweat and blood, neither more nor less of either. Trust once broken takes a lifetime to repair. His kinds broke the trust of my people generations ago by stealing from out fields and culling our flocks. When they encroach upon your lands and begin the kill the beasts you rely on to survive, you may speak of trust and the ‘nitty gritty’.”
For all her hostile words, however, it seemed that this one had recognised the other as being stronger and made no further move toward his person. His position within the group was, it had seemed, neatly established, for as a consequence of this most fortuitous turn of events, any further violence towards him could only be taken as a challenge to the muscle-bound outlander’s authority and would be punished accordingly.
In the eyes of the mountain man-Arback- who had eyed him so suspiciously during the long line-up downstairs, however, such an arrangement was plainly unsatisfactory and it seemed that whimsy dictated that the outsider be crushed outright. “Since when do they let these fiends into anything ‘cept for cellars an’ latrines?!” the creature roared, drawing a heavy war hammer from a leather belt loop to make its intentions obvious.
Improbable as it seemed it was a slender woman, protected only by the clinging garments designed to display her flesh to a waiting audience, that stood to block his path. “Cool it! Nobody is hurting anybody, got it?” From what little Vyarp had seen of city life such a being was viewed as a desirable mate by the people of this place, and he could only suppose that the mountain-dwellers had similar standards, but be that as it may if she did not move from the bearded warrior’s path quickly she was likely to be crushed. Beneath the sleeve of his robe, the kobold’s long fingers found and began to coax out the end of his dagger’s hilt, should this creature expect to find him unarmed then it would be sorry.
It seemed that the bandanna-adorned man who had first introduced himself- Basque- was now forced to take sides. “Weapons away!” he shouted “Maybe you had a bad time with Kobolds in the past, miss, but that doesn’t nail him to be just like those who did you wrong. You too, Arback. I’d hoped we could get to know each other peacefully and civilly here. Its not too late for that!”
Now that he was no longer in immediate danger, Vyarp paused to view the proceedings with rising curiosity. This man’s words were as much a bid for authority as any that had been spoken before, though lacking the confidence to stake his claim physically he instead sought to do so with his mouth. Such behaviour, in upbraiding his martial superiors, though have the height of foolishness in the warrens of a kobold tribe, was apparently to be tolerated in a city like this or the attempt would not have been made. A most interested spectator, Vyarp strove to better understand the rules by which hierarchy was to be decided within this place.
Whilst his attention was thus diverted, however, Arback darted forward, shouting as he did so, and it was all that Vyarp could do to leap aside as the hammer blow fell, punching a gaping hole in the chair’s back. Whilst the stout warrior’s weapon was thus entangled, however, Basque was able to seize him in a wrestling hold, dragging him backwards. The armour-clad female warrior, presumably sensing that the argument had been lost, finally sheathed her weapon and opted to help restrain the dwarf.
His breath heavy in his throat, seething at the closeness of the brutal attack, Vyarp picked himself off the ground where he had fallen. The palms of his leathery-skinned hands raised, spread open to show that he bore no weapon, he cautiously made his way forward toward the scuffle. “See” , he hissed as he made his way closer to the struggling dwarf, his voice a low rasp, “I mean no harm.” The pommel of the dagger, now worked loose for ready access, brushed against the heel of his hand beneath the sleeve of his loose robes- should this bearded mountain-dweller manage to work his way free to make a second attempt then he would feel its sharpness for himself.
OOC: Should Arback manage to break free and make another swing then Vyarp will make an attack with the dagger. I don't know 3rd ed. well enough to know whether he can get a sneak attack out of that one, but if it's possible then he will.
Posted on 2007-08-20 at 21:33:08.
Edited on 2007-08-20 at 21:49:28 by Vorrioch
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Topic: Beneath Shadowed Skies...
Subject: Introductions
Perched atop one of the dozen tall wooden chairs in the upstairs chamber Vyarp listened carefully while the purple-robed man made his speech, ears pricking up and straining against the folds of his hood as he sought to capture the Zantrical agent’s words and commit them to memory.
Elated as he was at having made the cut, mere avarice at the sums at hand was not quite sufficient to mute his lingering doubts at the improbability of what had happened nor a strange curiosity to discover what was actually going on. His eyes flickered periodically across the other members of the newly formed group seeking to gauge their reactions to a particular point where he needed a yardstick with which to measure his own, for he was still to new to this city to judge fully what was to be considered strange and what commonplace among its people.
Precious little of what had happened so far made the slightest sense, for he was forced to concede that his hope of inclusion had been a foolish one. In shunning the calling cards that many others of Jak’s band had so arrogantly flaunted at the scene of each job he had left himself without reputation in this place, a state of affairs which had until recently seemed most desirable. In the absence of any tangible test he should by all rights have been turned away for nothing in his appearance bespoke any particular talent save that of concealment. With such vast sums at hand, however, only a fool would refuse Le Vert’s offer, for who was to say that the man was not merely mad or whimsical in the extreme. Still, it could do no harm to keep an eye and ear on the trail and watch closely for what little sense could be extracted from the proceedings.
Weighing the sealed parchment roll between clawed hands as the speaker made his exit, a memory lingered in Vyarp's mind. A few months past the others in the band had recovered a similar scroll from the office of some wealthy taskmaster, promising a man deemed specialist in that field a share in the spoils to slice open the seal to reveal its contents before repairing the damage that it might be returned to the source of its providence seemingly intact. The eyes of the Zantrical may well be sharper than those of that previous mark, and Vyarp could not credit himself with similar skill, but the possibility remained that such an operation might be conducted in the right hands- a thought that might well warrant further investigation should time permit.
With the Zantrical agent’s speech concluded, the unavoidable process of introductions began. Vyarp shifted uneasily in his seat, aware that whilst on the streets bwlow his standard method of dress left him no more conspicuous than a potboy or half-man sheltering from the rain here, here, with no crowds offer shelter, he was already becoming an object of curiosity. Even cloaked and hooded as he was the first instinct of those below had been towards violence at his acceptance, and the weight of past experience made it clear that had his race been known the guards would have been hard pressed to hold the mob back, if they had indeed exerted themselves in that direction at all. It was, however, too much to hope that he would be able to keep his identity concealed during a journey of such proportions, and this was no more dangerous a point than any other to make it known.
Reluctantly discarding the instincts which had seen him safe through city life so far, and already measuring the closest route to door or window Vyarp rose to stand atop the chair. Slowly, relucant to speed the moment, he removed first one glove and then the other to reveal long, taloned fingers more akin to claws and, watching the humans gathered around him closely for any quick movement, made his introduction in a high-pitched, guttural tone: “My name is Vyarp Longtooth, of the tribe of the Twisted Horn. If you need a trapper, scout, knife fighter or archer then I’m your man.” Uncomfortably aware of so many eyes upon him and regretting the last word already, Vyarp sank to a crouch atop the chair seat, ready to spring for the window should it become necessary.
Posted on 2007-08-13 at 19:07:51.
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Topic: Beneath Shadowed Skies...
Subject: The Blazing Heretic
Concealed from prying eyes beneath the heavy black folds of his cloak Vyarp strained on tiptoe to push the heavy wooden door open. His long fingers, taloned beneath thin leather gloves, fumbled for and finally found that handle. He entered, sniffing pensively at the smoky air of the place, easing the door behind him to avoid the noise of a slam.
On edge in this unfamiliar setting, his narrow pupiled eyes scanned the room, the place was packed, crammed from wall to wall with bellowing, drinking, gorging humans and the noise and smell were close to unbearable. Once, twice, he thought he saw members of Jak’s crew, the glimpse of a head thrown back in raucous laughter, a well worn but still distinctive sword hanging low on a belt- it seemed that they too were tired of sniffing for crumbs from the Zantrical’s table. It would not do to be spotted here, that much was certain, for though it seemed that the band’s captain was out of town tonight the kobold knew full well that there would be hell to pay on his return if this abandonment was to be discovered. No, better by far to slink out of town without a word being spoken, on to serve new and greater masters and leave his old chieftain behind to slake his anger upon those who yet remained within arm’s reach.
With one eye still on the table where the others of his band were sitting, Vyarp moved discreetly through the crowd to join the line and sign himself for the job. One of the burly mountain people, dwarven perhaps to the folk of this city but towering head and shoulders over even the tallest of his kind, waited before him, hair pulled this way and that in a system of elaborate braids. It glanced back over towards him, a questioning look upon its craggy face, but said nothing and then turned back. The line inched forwards, beads of sweat forming upon his skin in the stifling heat of the robe for all the cool night air. Such foolishness, the people of this city, for all the great wonders they wrought, for among his own tribe the matter would have been resolved by a brief tussle or their chieftain’s barked orders and settled within a matter of heartbeats.
Slowly, like a maimed deer making its last agonised crawl before the hunting party caught up with it, the line edged forward. He looked up, giving his name to the female seated at the table, she nodded and the two bruisers made way for him to begin ascending the stairs. Something didn’t quite tally here, it seemed that he was being taken on for the job whilst others, brawlers who could have snapped him in two, seasoned veterans with blades at their sides were being turned away. Still, what did it matter if Le Vert was a fool, when he promised such great wealth to those chosen to answer his call?
OOC: Sorry this is late, I meant to post on Sunday evening but got back a bit later than I'd expected.
Posted on 2007-08-01 at 04:47:04.
Edited on 2007-11-28 at 11:33:17 by Vorrioch
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Topic: The Wheel of Time: Dawn Of The Infant King
Subject: Witchcraft and such
His suspicions confirmed as dark talons of dark talons of sorcerous energy burst from the peasant woman’s fingers to envelop the Trolloc pack Adahn watched the fallen beasts closely, prodding one with the toe of his boot to ascertain whether the creature truly was dead.
There was a foul stench in the air, not merely one of blood and death and the voided bowels of his defeated foes but also the pungent reek of tainted magic, a nauseous odour that chilled him to the very corners of his soul.
The witch had fallen, and whether she lived or died was in the hands of her creator. The sorcery of the tower, it seemed, took no less heavy a toll upon the body as the soul of its practitioners. It was fitting, he reminded himself, that the Trollocs had met their demise at the hands of the same perverted magics that had made possible their creation, for the teachings of his order maintained that evil brought about the seeds of its own destruction. That maxim had, it appeared, been vindicated once again.
As he strode across the hallway the Whitecloak spared a glance for the fallen, decapitated youth. The witch’s warder, he assumed, summoned to her aid by the sorcerous energy that had forged a bond between the two? No matter, for he was dead now and it would take more than Aes Sedai witchcraft to restore life to his remains. Flipping the body over with his foot Adahn quickly scanned it to make sure that it held nothing of interest and then progressed, sword and shield in hand, to begin his descent of the stairs.
OOC: If the body does have anything of interest could you please post or PM me with whatever it seems to have been carrying?
Posted on 2007-07-22 at 22:46:16.
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Topic: The Wheel of Time: Dawn Of The Infant King
Subject: Combat: Round 5 and 6
Now within easy striking range of the Trolloc Adahn aimed another two quick cuts upon it. The first glanced harmlessly off the creature's horns but he was gratified to see the second draw a thin line of blood along its midrift.
The whitecloak could see the death in the creature's eyes as blood poured from a half dozen and more wounds in its body; soon the creature would fall and none of its assailants had suffered serious injury in destroying it. The full dozen other brutes who clustered behind it were, however, another matter entirely- surely the four would be worn down long before the Trolloc band was exhausted.
Round 5: Miss (12+6 = 18 )
Round 6: Hit (18+6=24). 5 Damage (+1 for strength?)
Posted on 2007-07-05 at 10:53:54.
Edited on 2007-07-05 at 10:55:55 by Vorrioch
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Topic: Beneath Shadowed Skies...
Subject: Beginnings...
It was a hot day in the Skinned Cat, too hot by far for Vyarp’s liking. The cooling breeze which ruffled and twisted the tangled foliage outside, battering ineffectually at the heavy wooden window shutters, did nothing to penetrate the warm and stagnant air of the murky ale room of that place and the fetid odour of unwashed, perspiring human hung thickly in the air.
The crack around the door frame and the bars of the shutters denied entry to all but the weakest rays of natural light and this was, however, to the taste of the short and dog-faced figure seated uneasily on a chair made for one of close to twice his height, hooded robe lying discarded on the table by his side. The thieves and smugglers who lingered on that afternoon, quaffing pints of ale from battered tankards and dicing among themselves as they wiled away the time until nightfall’s encroach and the resumption of their respective trades did so by the light of hooded lanterns, the dimmed glow of which posed little irritation to a creature whom nature had taught to fear the bright encroach of dawn. He had skinned a cat himself when Jak and the others had first released him from this place, strangled the creature himself and then chewed its lean flesh and gnawed upon the bones until the pain in his stomach stopped but those days, though never forgotten, lay far behind him. This place had become a home of sorts, safe haven in a city with which he was only now beginning to feel stirrings of familiarity, and both the snug wallet that hang close at his belt and a lean stomach now swollen with the sweeter, more tender meats that he had since become aware could become his in this place for a mere few coppers apiece spoke of the newfound prosperity that his talents had brought him here.
Now, safe among the company of those who, if they would not yet call him friend, had at least come to accept him as a full-fledged member of their band, adopted mascot of their captain and his inner circle, Vyarp placed the letter on the table, unfurling it with long and taloned fingers to refresh himself with its contents for the third time that day. If what the beggars and street-urchins who, along with providing the band with information their various jobs, kept their eyes peeled for happening on the streets was true many hundreds of these flyers, all in the same flowing script and all written by hand had been liberally distributed across the city. This fact alone did not tally with the kobold who at all too recently, and at painstaking cost, learnt the laws by which city life was run- whoever had copied out this multitude of letters must have spent many days if not weeks on the enterprise and Vyarp now understood that the chieftains who ruled over the humans of this great city were little more inclined toward such dull and unrewarding toil than the chieftains of his own people at home. Had this “Jack in the Green”, whoever he might be, simply hired an army of loyal drudges to churn out these things with those clippings of silver and gold around which city life revolved then there should surely be differences in the style of writing between them and yet, from what the beggars had said they were all the same. A trifling issue, yet one that left him with a nagging sense of unease- if he was to take this step, and put his life in this man’s hands then he would at least make sure of the ground first.
These doubts aside, the offer seemed a good one. Already ambitious to better his life in this place Vyarp knew ell enough that his opportunities for further advancement among the thieves were limited. Though he had proven himself a dozen times or more, the casual contempt with which he had be treated on his arrival had barely given way to a familiar condescension among the rest of the loose-knit band and if those who had taught him the ropes of this place failed to recognise his talents then it was only common sense that he should leave to seek richer pickings elsewhere. The kobold ran a long fingernail along one of the many scars that marred his bestial face and the angry, frustrated memories of the dark days when he had first been brought to this place tore through his mind- Jak and the others had much to answer for, but he’d need the backing of a powerful group behind him before he could make them suffer the punishment they deserved. It would take far more of the golden disks that he’d come to treasure in this place to compensate for that indignity than his earnings here were ever likely to amount to- and besides, who was to say that he couldn’t earn more with the Zantrical? Thus decided, a simple plan of action came together in his mind. First, he would collect a few more of these flyers, which he had seen lying discarded in the streets, next call upon those contacts that were available to him in this place to learn what he could of Jacques le Vert and then, unless any threat seemed obvious in accepting the deal, apply for the job himself tomorrow evening. With no time to be lost, Vyarp retrieved his cloak from where it lay discarded, donned it hurriedly, throwing its cowled hood back over his head to conceal his identity from the casual passer-by and set off on his way. He would have but a few scant hours until Jak returned and there’d be all manner of devils to pay if he was not there as expected.
Posted on 2007-07-04 at 16:46:15.
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Topic: The Wheel of Time: Dawn Of The Infant King
Subject: Combat:: Rounds 3 and 4
Ducking under the Trolloc's guard to aim a solid thrust at the creature's chest Adahn struck, drawing blood even as its scythe opened a thin cut along his own thigh. His second swing was again parried with the brute's scythe, though this defensive motion must surely have left its guard open as the Aiel attacked, opening gaping wounds in both its sides.
***
Round 3: Adahn hit the Trolloc (19+ 6 = 25). 6 Damage (+1 for strength?).
Round 4. Miss (8+6 =14).
Posted on 2007-07-04 at 12:19:29.
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Topic: The Wheel of Time: Dawn Of The Infant King
Subject: Combat: round 2
Keeping his shield raised to pre-empt the Trolloc's own swing Adahn aimed a quick cut at the thing's head. Again the lumbering brute was able to take advantage of its superior reach to ward off his blow with the handle of its scythe and he was unable to inflict any real damage upon it.
***
Miss: 12+6 = 18.
Posted on 2007-06-29 at 16:23:05.
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Topic: The Wheel of Time: Dawn Of The Infant King
Subject: Adahn
As the lead Trolloc’s scythe jarred against his shield Adahn aimed a quick cut at the thing’s head. The blow was a clumsy one, however, and easily blocked with the haft of the lumbering brute’s weapon.
Holding his ground before the beast's attack Adahn kept his shield raised, pre-empting its next strike so that he could close and get inside its guard.
***
Adahn missed the Trolloc, 7+6 =13
Posted on 2007-06-26 at 18:24:48.
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Topic: The Wheel of Time: Dawn Of The Infant King
Subject: Combat, round 1
As the fetid odour of the Trolloc band reaches his nostrils and the closest of their number turns to sound the alarm Adahn is already backing through the door. Darkspawned monsters, creatures of childhood nightmare, confront him and though it is his wish to go toward the Light fighting four against a dozen in an open room is not the end he would meet.
Barking instructions to the two Aiel to take up position on either side of the door Adahn braces his shield and stands ready to meet the first Trolloc's charge head on. From what scattered tales and rumours he has heard of such creatures they are not wont to long resist the lure of their bestial appetites and it is his hope that they might be lured into a position of tactical inferiority.
OOC: Backing through the door, leaving just enough space to either side to allow someone else to take up position. Delaying my action to attack the first Trolloc to step through the doorway.
Posted on 2007-06-22 at 22:19:41.
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Topic: The Wheel of Time: Dawn Of The Infant King
Subject: "Stop! There is evil on the other side of the room we are in, two or more."
Retrieving his shield from where it had fallen and unsheathing the blade that hangs at his side with a brief flourish Adahn begins pacing toward the source of the threat. Like the two Aiel, coiled and tensed beneath their robes and already ready to strike, he can sense that battle is imminent.
Brief doubts linger in his mind- if there is evil in this place then why would it wait so long to strike, surely it would have been better to dispatch them all while they lay incapacitated on the floor? If there truly were an evil in this place then is the Aes Sedai witch complicit in it, having sent two of her own to trail the group or simply thrown them into the jaws of a trap?
Adahn mouths a brief prayer to the Light, that it might watch over him in this place. He is ready for battle, come what may. With his left hand he fumbles for the door latch, wrenching the portal open. Then, sword and shield held ready he scans the far side before stepping through.
Posted on 2007-06-20 at 13:29:16.
Edited on 2007-06-21 at 11:51:42 by Vorrioch
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Topic: The Wheel of Time: Dawn Of The Infant King
Subject: My exam can wait
Adahn sat, waiting. The tavern itself was a pleasant enough place, that much he could not dispute, a dark, dim chamber not unlike those where he had sometimes wiled away his evenings after practice back in those far off days at the training schools of Amadicia. Like a man waiting to have a tooth pulled by a barber-surgeon he tapped impatiently at the table before him, a knot of rancour at the task that lay before him coiled tightly in his gut. Ends could sometimes justify a means, he reminded himself- he, of all people, should know that mantra well enough by now but his sense of creeping unease was hard to escape. In an effort to clear his head Adahn ran both hands through the mane of fair hair that hung almost to his shoulders, coppery-gold in the dim tavern-light. Something told him he wouldn’t have that much longer to wait…
Shook from his musings by the Inn Mistress’s approach Adahn accepted another tankard of ale from here with a practice smile and insincere thanks. Then, like a viper rising up to strike with her spear-like back and cold, cruel stare the Aes Sedai witch walked in. Unable to suppress a deep, involuntary scowl the Whitecloak instead brought the ale mug up to cover his face, drinking deeper than was his habit. Without tasting a thing, he brought his sword arm down again, and the tankard with it, to its rightful place on the table- a mere six inches from the pommel of the long blade that hung at his hip. He’d heard tales of such witches, vile sorceresses who in their arrogance walked hand in hand with the Shadow, perpetuating its foul arts. Stories of dark deeds done behind the high white walls of their tower, things no decent man of the Light was even meant to thing of, abounded in his native Amador. From the reaction among the other folk at the inn he judged that these cold northern lands must have similar tales of their own to tell. Stomaching his displeasure, Adahn alone met the witch’s harsh gaze with an icy stare of his own, but the moment of crisis was averted as she turned to chat with the innkeeper instead.
The door opened twice more, in quick succession, as first a woman in peasant’s garb and then a pair of Aiel, tall and outlandish in their long dark robes, were drawn into the room to be seated at his table. If the latter pair were indeed who they seemed to be then they had presumably been brought from almost as far away as Adahn himself- obviously powerful groups beside his own had an interest vested in the proceedings. As for the former, well, her immediate appearance gave little enough away in itself, Adahn would watch her closely until he could gauge whether or not she was a threat.
Did the Aes Sedai herself truly mean to accompany them, gliding towards them already with polished poise and an outward demeanour as inscrutable as his own? That viper’s clutch in the White Tower, with a taloned finger deep in every stake in these parts would doubtless want an agent wormed into the heart of a group such as this, but could they truly be so blatant? His expression nonchalant as the sorceress approached their table Adahn permitted himself a small smile at the icy look she shot him- clearly the Children’s repute extended even to these distant northern parts. Without a word he followed her outside and, without a moment’s hesitation despite his many misgivings, drank the witch’s brew she handed to him. As the world span about him he had time for an instant’s panic, but then he was falling toward the ground and darkness claimed him.
***
A cool autumn breeze was blowing through his yellow hair as the light died among the trees.
He was riding, the Old Man’s horse between his legs and a squadron of soldiers behind him, the heavy rings of their armour rattling as they followed through the still, hushed woods.
Ahead, the village was waiting. Hushed mutters from the waiting throng. The crowd parted to either side at his approach, the air pregnant with anticipation- this was his moment, his hour of redemption.
There, ahead, bound to the stake She waited. The fairest, most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. A witch. A dark friend poisoner. Clad in a simple dress of blue She waited, eyes downcast, hair honey-blonde like his own.
He was dismounted, a flaming torching brandished high. The horse, the waiting crowd, the woods melted to nothing.
He moved forward, the acrid smell of fire, the thick stench of pungent death ripe in his nostrils. Clouds of smoke twisted upward from the brand, filling the air everywhere around him.
He looked down.
His hands were burning. Thick, vibrant tongues of flame licked around each finger, each digit. The skin blackened and cracked, his nails warped and bent with the heat as the flesh was torn away.
He opened his mouth to scream. No voice came. A weight, a mountain was crushing his chest.
His eyes forced upwards in a voiceless appeal to the heavens.
She met his eyes.
She curled her lips to smile and her face was his own.
***
Shaking off the dream as he struggled to rise Adahn awakened. His mouth was dry and the room span and yet, it seemed as though the witch’s brew had carried no poison at all.
Gathering his strength he forced himself to stand, borne down by the weight of his armour, hair tangled across his face from where he had fallen. Leaning against the wall for support, as he struggled to breathe, he forced himself to take one step, then another until the life returned to his legs and he could stand without difficulty.
In the pale light of morning he is revealed as a man in his early twenties of above average height and build. A cloak bearing the white cloak insignia hangs proudly from his broad shoulders, above a well polished steel breastplate and glittering chain, the lower parts of his regalia being made up of knee-high riding boots and red breeches under burnished greaves. An unadorned long sword, clearly of military made, hangs loosely from a scabbard at his belt and a discarded shield, its face bearing the same marking as his cloak, lies forgotten for the moment on the floor close by. His face, despite a long scar along one cheek, is pleasant enough, with a strong jaw and vividly blue eyes. Combing his hair back with both hands from where it had fallen across his face, Adahn looks toward the others and then the door, when they have collected themselves he will be ready to press ahead.
OOC Note: Sorry if this is a bit long, I haven't done this in a couple of years and had problems cutting it down without losing any of the flavour or content.
Posted on 2007-06-12 at 09:03:58.
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Topic: The Guiding Light Recruitment Thread (formerly known as A New D&D game - players needed)
Subject: Still looking for players?
If you're still looking for players then I really would like to join this game.
I'm fairly open in terms of class and race options and, assuming that there are still vacancies, should be able to put together a character in the next few days.
Posted on 2007-06-01 at 02:15:17.
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Topic: What’s Your Favourite Edition?
Subject: What’s Your Favourite Edition?
Basically, I’m planning on starting up a game of my own on this site and it would be helpful to know which editions people are still willing to play. Just so that I don’t advertise a game for a rules set that no one’s interested in playing any more.
Personally editions aren’t a big deal for me, just so long as I’ve got access to the rules that I’ll need to play. I have a slight preference for 2nd ed when playing D&D, because it’s the system that I grew up with but I’m quite happy to play anything else as well.
Note: It should be pretty clear that I’m not trying to start an edition war here, please keep it friendly, people
Posted on 2007-03-14 at 17:13:54.
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Topic: The Voting Game
Subject: Voted again
We still don't seem to be getting anywhere though.
Posted on 2007-01-05 at 05:49:55.
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Topic: What would you do with a million pounds?
Subject: As for me
Invite all my friends round to a party at my house in York to celebrate.
Buy a car.
Go on a holiday to somewhere warm (I’m thinking along the lines of California, South Africa or Singapore).
Spend a stupid amount on Hammerfall and Manowar CDs 
Stash the rest away in a bank to pay for my first house after leaving uni.
Posted on 2007-01-04 at 12:48:17.
Edited on 2007-01-04 at 12:48:55 by Vorrioch
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What game do you own the 
Return to Charadun - Q&A
The Morphing Game
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