Post by K Man on May 23, 2006 13:28:59 GMT -5
Romar -
{No need at all. I was beginning to wonder where you would snap. Guess we found it.}
The task of burying the horrid once-man is arduous, taking nearly all night--but every ounce of pain your muscles feel is justified. By the time you've built the coffin, sealed the block of ice in it and roped it all together, dawn is nearly upon you. It takes far less time to put the box into the hole and cover it with dirt and by the time the first sleepy rays of orange and pink grace the horizon, the makeshift grave is complete.
And, for the first time in a long time, you feel like you've done good.
The Duke, betrayer of the city and cause of so much death is no where he belongs...far underground, hopefully tormented by the countless souls he sent to the next world.
When the sun moves a bit higher in the sky, each second seems to add more weight to your already limp eyelids. You find a soft spot, right beneath a rotted out tree in front of your old house and curl up for a rest. For a moment, only one single heartbeat, the familar smells of the earth around your old home drive away the horrors of this war, the death of Veya, Mordrid...even the stench of death itself.
But it's only for a moment as your mind slips into deep slumber and is plagued by more dreams...
Your footsteps could not have been faster if a demon was chasing you...and for all purposes, it might as well have been. The city had fallen. Men, women and children were being pulled apart and horribly killed, the undead overrunning the city. Demons had come to Caraleal, and they chased you now.
But you had to make it home, home to your family. There is always a glimmer of hope that all is not lost, that something can be salvaged.
Nearly leaping across the small porch, you barely have time to notice the door is already hanging limply aside, clawed and shredded. Racing down the hallway--the same hallway that you took to the dinner table each night--you nearly slipped on the small pool of blood in its center.
Heart pumping out of your chest, lungs desperately trying to suck in air, you round the corner and catch yourself on the wall. Immediately, your fingers clench the wood trim, your mouth drops and a silent scream escapes your lips.
There is your brother, hands clasped around the hilt of the family blade...and that blade is plunged chest deep into an undead creature. The animated corpse, a mixture of flesh, bone and battered armor, holds your brother bloody throat in its hands. The bony fingers have already clawed your brothers' throat open and he is painted crimson from chest to toes.
The two are locked in a death struggle, the undead pulling your siblings throat free of its skin and your brother driving the blade deeper. Before you can will your muscles to react and advance, both collapse to the hardwood floor. Among them is the rest of your family and a few more of the undead horrors, all still in unlife once more.
Your whole family dead in a valiant fight to escape. Your lungs finally find the air to scream as you lift your brothers' bloodied head frmo the floor...
You snap awake, painfully aware of the awkward angle of your sleep and the soaked clothes from cold sweats. Nearby, the great bird Avyant digs through some a carcass of an elk, a meal he procurred during your slumber. He turns to face you, head tilted to one side, wondering what is next...
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All Others -
Sturmguard smiles once more, pleased by your response.
"I knew the heroes of this land could not refuse. We have only until sundown to comply...a little over thirteen hours."
"I doubt the Queen of Astoril will grant much leniency beyond the setting sun. You must act quickly and with godspeed. All that Ravenshead has left to offer is at your disposal. Take what you need and..."
At this point, the good King is distrubed by a ruckus outside of the chambers. It is several voices, all male, that seem to be in some heated discussion. You can hear muffled shouts and wails, lammenting something lost.
Puzzled, Sturmguard crosses the chambers and opens the doors to the hallway beyond. In the hallway stand five men. Four are dressed and easily identified as clerics of Ravenshead. They wear pristine white robes and are adorned with holy symbols. The fifth man is puzzling. He is an Elf, his body fit and slender, topped with short, dark hair which does little to cover the almond eyes or fine-tipped ears. Draping down from the hairline is an otherwise perfect healthy specimen of an Elven man, early in his years and physically fit.
Aside from this, the man is all but nude, only a tattered sheet halfway thrown over his shoulders and draping about the ground, dirtying on the dusty stone floor. The man stumbles with a strange gait, awkward and without the usual Elven grace the race is known for....something about it seems...very familar....
When the man opens his mouth, you smile--the voice is unmistakable.
"What you do to Mordrock?!?"
You smile even wider. The clerics of Ravenshead have done a fine job; the sacrifice of the small Goblin...well, Elf now, was not in vain.
The clerics advance cautiously, trying to calm the Elf down. Sturmguard laughs out loud.
"You're serious? The Goblin?"
One of the cleric nods as they advance on the reformed Mordrock. He speaks out of the side of his mouth to the king, but still with respect.
"As ordered, we attempted the ritual of revival and found the Goblin's body no longer suitable as a container for his spirit. This form was availabe, dictated by the gods, but the Goblin seems to be rejecting..."
The Elven form of Mordrock shouts in a distgusted tone.
"Look at what you did to Mordrock! Ugly skin!" The Elf pinches a patch of smooth almond skin on his forearm and lets it snap back. "Yucky hair!" Mordrock yanks on his perfect ebony locks as though to rip them out. He continues like this, explaining in his crude tongue about the 'disgusting' features of his new body while pointing to them. Muscled legs and arms, smooth chest lacking any boils or warts...and what is with these ears!
Despite his rather handsome and chiseled appearance, he howls.
"Mordrock ugly!!"
And with that, he collapses to the floor, sheets billowing around him. Sturmguard shakes his head and stiffles whatever laughter was left in his belly. He turns to you and smiles.
"See to your companion, but do so quickly. When you are ready, seek me in the courtyard below to discuss tactics for the attack on Astoril."
And with that, King Sturmguard heads down the stairs with the entourage of clerics in tow. You're left in the threshold of the war room, watching the newly formed Mordrock cry into his rumpled death sheet...
{Discuss tactics, welcome back Mordrock. Let me know when it's good to go.}
Anyway, I don't know if I need to make some rolls or if there are any problems with my plan. Yuri made himself a coffin once, so I figured I could do the same.
{No need at all. I was beginning to wonder where you would snap. Guess we found it.}
The task of burying the horrid once-man is arduous, taking nearly all night--but every ounce of pain your muscles feel is justified. By the time you've built the coffin, sealed the block of ice in it and roped it all together, dawn is nearly upon you. It takes far less time to put the box into the hole and cover it with dirt and by the time the first sleepy rays of orange and pink grace the horizon, the makeshift grave is complete.
And, for the first time in a long time, you feel like you've done good.
The Duke, betrayer of the city and cause of so much death is no where he belongs...far underground, hopefully tormented by the countless souls he sent to the next world.
When the sun moves a bit higher in the sky, each second seems to add more weight to your already limp eyelids. You find a soft spot, right beneath a rotted out tree in front of your old house and curl up for a rest. For a moment, only one single heartbeat, the familar smells of the earth around your old home drive away the horrors of this war, the death of Veya, Mordrid...even the stench of death itself.
But it's only for a moment as your mind slips into deep slumber and is plagued by more dreams...
Your footsteps could not have been faster if a demon was chasing you...and for all purposes, it might as well have been. The city had fallen. Men, women and children were being pulled apart and horribly killed, the undead overrunning the city. Demons had come to Caraleal, and they chased you now.
But you had to make it home, home to your family. There is always a glimmer of hope that all is not lost, that something can be salvaged.
Nearly leaping across the small porch, you barely have time to notice the door is already hanging limply aside, clawed and shredded. Racing down the hallway--the same hallway that you took to the dinner table each night--you nearly slipped on the small pool of blood in its center.
Heart pumping out of your chest, lungs desperately trying to suck in air, you round the corner and catch yourself on the wall. Immediately, your fingers clench the wood trim, your mouth drops and a silent scream escapes your lips.
There is your brother, hands clasped around the hilt of the family blade...and that blade is plunged chest deep into an undead creature. The animated corpse, a mixture of flesh, bone and battered armor, holds your brother bloody throat in its hands. The bony fingers have already clawed your brothers' throat open and he is painted crimson from chest to toes.
The two are locked in a death struggle, the undead pulling your siblings throat free of its skin and your brother driving the blade deeper. Before you can will your muscles to react and advance, both collapse to the hardwood floor. Among them is the rest of your family and a few more of the undead horrors, all still in unlife once more.
Your whole family dead in a valiant fight to escape. Your lungs finally find the air to scream as you lift your brothers' bloodied head frmo the floor...
You snap awake, painfully aware of the awkward angle of your sleep and the soaked clothes from cold sweats. Nearby, the great bird Avyant digs through some a carcass of an elk, a meal he procurred during your slumber. He turns to face you, head tilted to one side, wondering what is next...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
All Others -
Sturmguard smiles once more, pleased by your response.
"I knew the heroes of this land could not refuse. We have only until sundown to comply...a little over thirteen hours."
"I doubt the Queen of Astoril will grant much leniency beyond the setting sun. You must act quickly and with godspeed. All that Ravenshead has left to offer is at your disposal. Take what you need and..."
At this point, the good King is distrubed by a ruckus outside of the chambers. It is several voices, all male, that seem to be in some heated discussion. You can hear muffled shouts and wails, lammenting something lost.
Puzzled, Sturmguard crosses the chambers and opens the doors to the hallway beyond. In the hallway stand five men. Four are dressed and easily identified as clerics of Ravenshead. They wear pristine white robes and are adorned with holy symbols. The fifth man is puzzling. He is an Elf, his body fit and slender, topped with short, dark hair which does little to cover the almond eyes or fine-tipped ears. Draping down from the hairline is an otherwise perfect healthy specimen of an Elven man, early in his years and physically fit.
Aside from this, the man is all but nude, only a tattered sheet halfway thrown over his shoulders and draping about the ground, dirtying on the dusty stone floor. The man stumbles with a strange gait, awkward and without the usual Elven grace the race is known for....something about it seems...very familar....
When the man opens his mouth, you smile--the voice is unmistakable.
"What you do to Mordrock?!?"
You smile even wider. The clerics of Ravenshead have done a fine job; the sacrifice of the small Goblin...well, Elf now, was not in vain.
The clerics advance cautiously, trying to calm the Elf down. Sturmguard laughs out loud.
"You're serious? The Goblin?"
One of the cleric nods as they advance on the reformed Mordrock. He speaks out of the side of his mouth to the king, but still with respect.
"As ordered, we attempted the ritual of revival and found the Goblin's body no longer suitable as a container for his spirit. This form was availabe, dictated by the gods, but the Goblin seems to be rejecting..."
The Elven form of Mordrock shouts in a distgusted tone.
"Look at what you did to Mordrock! Ugly skin!" The Elf pinches a patch of smooth almond skin on his forearm and lets it snap back. "Yucky hair!" Mordrock yanks on his perfect ebony locks as though to rip them out. He continues like this, explaining in his crude tongue about the 'disgusting' features of his new body while pointing to them. Muscled legs and arms, smooth chest lacking any boils or warts...and what is with these ears!
Despite his rather handsome and chiseled appearance, he howls.
"Mordrock ugly!!"
And with that, he collapses to the floor, sheets billowing around him. Sturmguard shakes his head and stiffles whatever laughter was left in his belly. He turns to you and smiles.
"See to your companion, but do so quickly. When you are ready, seek me in the courtyard below to discuss tactics for the attack on Astoril."
And with that, King Sturmguard heads down the stairs with the entourage of clerics in tow. You're left in the threshold of the war room, watching the newly formed Mordrock cry into his rumpled death sheet...
{Discuss tactics, welcome back Mordrock. Let me know when it's good to go.}