Post by K Man on Dec 20, 2004 15:24:41 GMT -5
Newt and Garor - With a few fond farewells and hopes for a better meeting place next time, the ground swells up and around your vision, moving to blurred browns and golds. You sigh, silently hoping your friends remain freinds and survive in this land...and more importantly that their heart remains strong in the face of adversity.
Sadly, within but a moment, you find yourselves in a glade, spitting the taste of dirt from your mouth. You take a few steps forward, brushing aside the nearest tree branch and like some ancient monolith or a colossus, the screaming Dwarven face of Bazarkrak looms, facing your direction.
There is less smoke than you remember Garor, perhaps a result of stubborn King Grandil finally running out of supplies - or perhaps something far more dire is happened and there are less to work the forges. If the rumors are true and messengers were sent for you...
...then there is a dire reason that the fires are lessened.
Choking down the last little bit of pride for the sake of racial continuity, you begin to stroll across the massive glade, headed straight into the screaming mouth of the Dwarf where your future awaits.
You wonder what you will have to say to the stubborn King that had you once exiled and, for some reason, now seeks your presence back in the homelands.
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Hero, Callian, Caelith, Krysta, Girud and Galdren - When questioned about 'The Masters' influence under the waves, Mordrock replies. His voice remains unmistakenly Goblin, despite the magic clouding his features. [Knowledge Check, Master's Troop Mordrock]
"Master never have anyone travel by boat. If we ever need boat, we just take one from town we loot. Some said Master saw no ress....rezz..." Mordrock stumbles over the words. "...reason to go into water. Not from fear 'cause dead don't need to breathe, but he see no reason to go."
The small disguised Goblin simply shrugs, offering little more beyond that.
Delomme, upon hearing the ideas about his people and being transported in smaller bags magically has something to say.
"Ambassadors, the Cannon's Foot survivors DO appreciate the effort and protection that Blackwing has extended us, however we do not need sitting like a hen on an egg. We are not defenseless."
"Nearly every man that survived the blast is a warrior - a soldier. Had anything but 'The SlaughterFog' appeared on our doorstep, we might have survived intact. However, it was the worst 'The Master' had to offer...and we defeated it." Delomme manages a meager smile, a half-hearted attempt to bring together the shattered pieces of his pride. "Please, concern yourselves not with Cannon's Foot, but stemming the reason Cannon's Foot is no more..."
With those last words of advice, Delomme heads off to tend to others.
[Hero, there are no diseased here, just wounded. They kindly take ny healing offered, but not too much. Also, should anyone require Garor's healing before he leaves, let me know and I'll roll.]
[The choices are still up there, where are we heading people?]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Romar and Yuri - [Romar, Wild Empathy check] Vraak, although a monstrous bird of epic proportions, does not seem above listening to others tuned to the wilds. It studies you with infinetly deep black eyes, focusing on you down the length of its beak. With a short squawk and a ruffled plummage about the neck, it seems to speak words silently. Fine. I'll trust him...but if he betrays then you are both prey.
Without much word, Veya hops on the back of her great mount, instructing you both to do the same. Before you have much time to react, the great bird lifts into the sky and hovers a bit, moving over each of your metal mounts. It is the most terrifying visage in your life - that gaping taloned foot reaching for you - but once the claws clasp around your mount and not tear through your flesh, you sigh a bit of relief.
With a sickening lurch, you are airborne...
The ground disappears at an alarming rate, quickly fogged by the clouds swirling over head and clinging to the sides of the mountains. Time and time again during this short flight, you bring your forearms over your eyes expecting to bash into the occasional rock outcropping, expecting to shatter like you were made of glass. However, Vraak seems quite capable of transporting you safely as, within minutes, you feel solid, snow-packed ground beneath your mounts hooves.
Opening your eyes, you are indeed in a small village clinging to the edge of the mountains like a bee hive and buzzing with just as much activity. Women are everywhere, carrying buckets of steaming water, entering the occasional lined tent or tee-pee, or simply standing about wrapped in the warmest of furs.
That's the next thing you notice, the extreme cold. It seems to drive straight through your skin like a dagger, stopping only when it reaches bone. You wonder how anything has managed to survive on such a lightless precipice, but here it is, a small huddled collection of daughters and widows thriving safely out of reach of 'The Master'.
Almost any within sight, through the swirling mists and clouds, stops and looks at both of the arrivals questioningly - both atop metal mounts, but most importantly, both men.
You wonder what your first words will be as Veya leaps from the back of her giant bird, patting it on the neck...
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Sadly, within but a moment, you find yourselves in a glade, spitting the taste of dirt from your mouth. You take a few steps forward, brushing aside the nearest tree branch and like some ancient monolith or a colossus, the screaming Dwarven face of Bazarkrak looms, facing your direction.
There is less smoke than you remember Garor, perhaps a result of stubborn King Grandil finally running out of supplies - or perhaps something far more dire is happened and there are less to work the forges. If the rumors are true and messengers were sent for you...
...then there is a dire reason that the fires are lessened.
Choking down the last little bit of pride for the sake of racial continuity, you begin to stroll across the massive glade, headed straight into the screaming mouth of the Dwarf where your future awaits.
You wonder what you will have to say to the stubborn King that had you once exiled and, for some reason, now seeks your presence back in the homelands.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hero, Callian, Caelith, Krysta, Girud and Galdren - When questioned about 'The Masters' influence under the waves, Mordrock replies. His voice remains unmistakenly Goblin, despite the magic clouding his features. [Knowledge Check, Master's Troop Mordrock]
"Master never have anyone travel by boat. If we ever need boat, we just take one from town we loot. Some said Master saw no ress....rezz..." Mordrock stumbles over the words. "...reason to go into water. Not from fear 'cause dead don't need to breathe, but he see no reason to go."
The small disguised Goblin simply shrugs, offering little more beyond that.
Delomme, upon hearing the ideas about his people and being transported in smaller bags magically has something to say.
"Ambassadors, the Cannon's Foot survivors DO appreciate the effort and protection that Blackwing has extended us, however we do not need sitting like a hen on an egg. We are not defenseless."
"Nearly every man that survived the blast is a warrior - a soldier. Had anything but 'The SlaughterFog' appeared on our doorstep, we might have survived intact. However, it was the worst 'The Master' had to offer...and we defeated it." Delomme manages a meager smile, a half-hearted attempt to bring together the shattered pieces of his pride. "Please, concern yourselves not with Cannon's Foot, but stemming the reason Cannon's Foot is no more..."
With those last words of advice, Delomme heads off to tend to others.
[Hero, there are no diseased here, just wounded. They kindly take ny healing offered, but not too much. Also, should anyone require Garor's healing before he leaves, let me know and I'll roll.]
[The choices are still up there, where are we heading people?]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Romar and Yuri - [Romar, Wild Empathy check] Vraak, although a monstrous bird of epic proportions, does not seem above listening to others tuned to the wilds. It studies you with infinetly deep black eyes, focusing on you down the length of its beak. With a short squawk and a ruffled plummage about the neck, it seems to speak words silently. Fine. I'll trust him...but if he betrays then you are both prey.
Without much word, Veya hops on the back of her great mount, instructing you both to do the same. Before you have much time to react, the great bird lifts into the sky and hovers a bit, moving over each of your metal mounts. It is the most terrifying visage in your life - that gaping taloned foot reaching for you - but once the claws clasp around your mount and not tear through your flesh, you sigh a bit of relief.
With a sickening lurch, you are airborne...
The ground disappears at an alarming rate, quickly fogged by the clouds swirling over head and clinging to the sides of the mountains. Time and time again during this short flight, you bring your forearms over your eyes expecting to bash into the occasional rock outcropping, expecting to shatter like you were made of glass. However, Vraak seems quite capable of transporting you safely as, within minutes, you feel solid, snow-packed ground beneath your mounts hooves.
Opening your eyes, you are indeed in a small village clinging to the edge of the mountains like a bee hive and buzzing with just as much activity. Women are everywhere, carrying buckets of steaming water, entering the occasional lined tent or tee-pee, or simply standing about wrapped in the warmest of furs.
That's the next thing you notice, the extreme cold. It seems to drive straight through your skin like a dagger, stopping only when it reaches bone. You wonder how anything has managed to survive on such a lightless precipice, but here it is, a small huddled collection of daughters and widows thriving safely out of reach of 'The Master'.
Almost any within sight, through the swirling mists and clouds, stops and looks at both of the arrivals questioningly - both atop metal mounts, but most importantly, both men.
You wonder what your first words will be as Veya leaps from the back of her giant bird, patting it on the neck...
__________________________________________________________________________________________
