After the abundant excitement of the morning and early afternoon, Thomas was happy to set about the mindless task of loading the provisions that Dujo had ordered. With sweat streaming down his body and a smile planted firmly upon his features, Thomas hauled a cask of salt-pork up the gangway.
If the crew had any lingering troubles from the recent execution of the traitorous Cooper, they showed it not at all. In truth, as Thomas worked alongside them, the men appeared as if their spirits had been lifted of a burden they had never voiced, or perhaps one they could not put into words in the first instance. In his own right, Thomas felt somehow freer now. All that had transpired had given new life to his love of the Skate, and those that called him their captain. The acts of the First Mate and Jax had particularly touched him, and even now he wondered after the pair and their whereabouts.
As for Antonia, his rogue, the thought of her caramel skin and grey eyes, shining brightly despite their hue, added a spring to his step as he descended belowdecks. It had been difficult to see her leave so soon after his proclamation of his devotion, but he understood her life and its demands. Being a shadowy figure required such prompt departures, and the promise of the night was truly all that Thomas required.
And what a promise it could be, he mused, allowing his piratical brain to run wild for a moment with images of the more dusky skills of the rogue he had yet had the pleasure to experience.
Thomas placed the cask down along with the other food stores, and stood to wipe the sweat from his brow. Around him other seamen bustled to stow the mountains of supplies that were coming in droves to the Dusk Skate’s wharf. Satisfied like a proud father, Thomas began to ascend the short stairway to the main deck, when he was met by Dujo.
The quartermaster was drenched in sweat, his features red from exertion. “Beggin’ pardon Cap’n,” said Dujo. He paused to take in several short and harried breaths. “I’ve got news.”
AmongHeroes
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Always Searching For The Next Great Story
Hello there,
I am AmongHeroes, and I'm happy you're here. I am an experienced roleplayer, writer, and fantastical creator.
♠ - I am an adult in my 30's. As such, I prefer to write with other adults.
♠ - Though I am capable of embodying many varied characters, in 1 x 1 settings I prefer writing as a heterosexual male with a generally dominant/masculine aura.
♠ - Genres I enjoy range from low & high fantasy, sci-fi, horror, gothic, romance, dark romance and noir.
♠ - Adult themes are welcome including violence, sexual encounters, etc.
Do feel free to reach out to me for partnership inquiries or for friendly interaction. I look forward to seeing you 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑒𝑠 we create.
I am made from the stardust of Her heart. Linked beyond time and moons and stars, in every life a soul fitted indelibly to a universe woven in the shape of Her claim.
Most Recent Posts
Dujo, the Dusk Skate’s quartermaster, was running upon only an hour or so of sleep, and he was still yet far from his next appointment with his hammock. He had been up and down the dock shops of Port Royal like a man possessed, trying to outfit the Skate for her impromptu voyage. It was a task that would be nigh impossible for most men, but thankfully for Captain Thomas Lightfoot, Dujo was not most men.
Having just left the Ship Chandlery of Mr. Edward Hartley, Dujo crossed yet another set of supplies from his mental list. He had secured deliveries of everything from pitch to whale oil, and even all the lengths of rope and sail cloth the Skate would require for the coming voyage. It had cost him many a favor, and even more in debt shares for the Captain.
Luckily the Captain has God’s own reputation in matters or credit, or we’d be riding at anchor for a long while yet, no matter the coming endeavor and its promised prize, Dujo thought.
All that remained on the quartermaster’s list was the equipment for the cannon. The Captain had said to prepare the ship for iron, and Dujo intended to do so in spades. Though the Dusk Skate was a formidable ship, the Spanish still possessed the lion’s share of sea power in the Caribbean. Their ships of the line were among the most feared in all the oceans of the world, and thusly Dujo never took the matter of armament lightly.
He rounded southwest at the intersection of Lime Street and Tower Street, turning towards Chocolate Hole, and the armory of Mr. Nathaniel Geddes. Geddes’ armory was the sole supplier of shot and powder for the privateer ships in Port Royal, and having such a valuable enterprise, the man had been wise to house it beneath the deadly reach of the guns of Fort Charles.
Dujo looked to the imposing fort as he walked down the muddy street, squinting in the afternoon sun. Though Fort Charles had been built to protect the harbor of Port Royal, and all the privateer and naval ships that called her home, the inner pirate in Dujo couldn’t help but itch with apprehension in the blanket of her shadow. Soldiers could just a soon send a pirate to the gallows of High Street as protect them from the Don. Dujo scoffed at the thought. More than likely it would be the pirates saving the asses of the soldiers in the event of an attack, and not the other way round.
As he neared the stoutly constructed armory, Dujo decided without much thought that he would change his route to the alleyway just northeast of the armory, and forego any more scrutiny from the coralstone walls of Fort Charles. Entering from the harbor side would allow him to hopefully catch Mr. Geddes by surprise as well, and possibly grant him the upper hand for the coming barter.
Skirting the row of heavy carts that lined the alley, Dujo was just about to round the corner into the armory’s rear entrance when a name reached his ears through the din and bustle of the boardwalk.
“…You say the Crimson Feather put to sea this morning?” Came a rough voice, quieted to a whisper, from within the armory. Unfortunately for its owner, the copper lined walls of the structure reflected even the softest of sounds powerfully, and Dujo heard every word as he halted just beyond the doorway.
“Aye,” said a second voice, one that Dujo recognized as that of Geddes, the armorer. “After the fight with Lightfoot’s lot in the Boar, I heard that ‘er captain was visited by one of the Governor’s men, and as soon as she was fit to sail, the Feather put out with the tide this morning.”
Though Dujo had not been in the Black Boar during the deadly encounter, he had certainly heard of it from his crewmates. His black eyes narrowed.
“What in all hell could make them do that? Certainly they put out without the proper fitting? The Feather had only just arrived three or four glasses before the Skate only a days past, had she not?” said the first voice.
Geddes replied in a voice that even with the favorable acoustics of the walls, Dujo had to strain to hear.
“Well, the word I’ve heard is that the man from the Governor’s mansion had information about a wrecked Donnish galleon somewhere in the Windward Passage. The promise of gold would be the only reason I could see to make the Crimson Feather risk such a voyage without waiting to be refitted.”
At this, the quartermaster’s eyes widened, and without a moment of hesitation, Dujo spun upon his heels and bolted as fast as his short legs would carry him.
Cannon shot would have to wait. The Captain needed to know all he had heard.
Having just left the Ship Chandlery of Mr. Edward Hartley, Dujo crossed yet another set of supplies from his mental list. He had secured deliveries of everything from pitch to whale oil, and even all the lengths of rope and sail cloth the Skate would require for the coming voyage. It had cost him many a favor, and even more in debt shares for the Captain.
Luckily the Captain has God’s own reputation in matters or credit, or we’d be riding at anchor for a long while yet, no matter the coming endeavor and its promised prize, Dujo thought.
All that remained on the quartermaster’s list was the equipment for the cannon. The Captain had said to prepare the ship for iron, and Dujo intended to do so in spades. Though the Dusk Skate was a formidable ship, the Spanish still possessed the lion’s share of sea power in the Caribbean. Their ships of the line were among the most feared in all the oceans of the world, and thusly Dujo never took the matter of armament lightly.
He rounded southwest at the intersection of Lime Street and Tower Street, turning towards Chocolate Hole, and the armory of Mr. Nathaniel Geddes. Geddes’ armory was the sole supplier of shot and powder for the privateer ships in Port Royal, and having such a valuable enterprise, the man had been wise to house it beneath the deadly reach of the guns of Fort Charles.
Dujo looked to the imposing fort as he walked down the muddy street, squinting in the afternoon sun. Though Fort Charles had been built to protect the harbor of Port Royal, and all the privateer and naval ships that called her home, the inner pirate in Dujo couldn’t help but itch with apprehension in the blanket of her shadow. Soldiers could just a soon send a pirate to the gallows of High Street as protect them from the Don. Dujo scoffed at the thought. More than likely it would be the pirates saving the asses of the soldiers in the event of an attack, and not the other way round.
As he neared the stoutly constructed armory, Dujo decided without much thought that he would change his route to the alleyway just northeast of the armory, and forego any more scrutiny from the coralstone walls of Fort Charles. Entering from the harbor side would allow him to hopefully catch Mr. Geddes by surprise as well, and possibly grant him the upper hand for the coming barter.
Skirting the row of heavy carts that lined the alley, Dujo was just about to round the corner into the armory’s rear entrance when a name reached his ears through the din and bustle of the boardwalk.
“…You say the Crimson Feather put to sea this morning?” Came a rough voice, quieted to a whisper, from within the armory. Unfortunately for its owner, the copper lined walls of the structure reflected even the softest of sounds powerfully, and Dujo heard every word as he halted just beyond the doorway.
“Aye,” said a second voice, one that Dujo recognized as that of Geddes, the armorer. “After the fight with Lightfoot’s lot in the Boar, I heard that ‘er captain was visited by one of the Governor’s men, and as soon as she was fit to sail, the Feather put out with the tide this morning.”
Though Dujo had not been in the Black Boar during the deadly encounter, he had certainly heard of it from his crewmates. His black eyes narrowed.
“What in all hell could make them do that? Certainly they put out without the proper fitting? The Feather had only just arrived three or four glasses before the Skate only a days past, had she not?” said the first voice.
Geddes replied in a voice that even with the favorable acoustics of the walls, Dujo had to strain to hear.
“Well, the word I’ve heard is that the man from the Governor’s mansion had information about a wrecked Donnish galleon somewhere in the Windward Passage. The promise of gold would be the only reason I could see to make the Crimson Feather risk such a voyage without waiting to be refitted.”
At this, the quartermaster’s eyes widened, and without a moment of hesitation, Dujo spun upon his heels and bolted as fast as his short legs would carry him.
Cannon shot would have to wait. The Captain needed to know all he had heard.
Lillian Thorne said
So did JayJay actually do something for Hoyle or not? You post wasn't clear. Also Sir, am I right in gathering from your post that with Bain and co just ahead, too far to overhear but in sight, that the second group just witnessed the death of Hoyle's sister?
You are exactly right, LT.
All that happened in the OOC aside, I want to thank you for posting New Yorker. You are most certainly welcome to stay, and I hope to have the opportunity to finish this RP with you and Gabe along for the whole ride.
Atticus-Entrance to the Great Hall
Atticus grunted as he pulled Reginald from the great hall and into the entryway. He released one of his hands from the werewolf’s shoulder to take the wad of strange cloth that Siya held out before him. The fabric was rough, but somehow also slick and wet feeling, like the skin of a snake. Knowing that it was valuable, but unable to think upon the import of the object at the moment, Atticus draped it over one shoulder.
“Thanks,” he said to Siya, punctuating the word with another grunt of exertion.
Atticus looked over his own shoulder to see Veti, still clutching Aislinn closely to her chest, move towards the doorway that led to the stairwell. He saw Archibald Bain and Thad accompanying her as she disappeared into the darkness. Veti’s long stride and muscular form was moving quickly, even with the burdensome body of Hoyle’s sister. Atticus and the others with him were falling behind.
Atticus swore. The building shook with ever increasing ferocity, and the direness of Reginald’s wound was confirmed by Semyon’s inspection. Their only chance was to reach the shade gates, and to do it without delay.
“We can’t stop Semyon,” he called to the Wight, “and Siya, please do what you can. Whatever you have to do, Reginald cannot die. Not like this. Anything any of you can do, we can’t lose him.”
As he finished speaking, Atticus gave a mighty heave, and pulled Reginald up and around until the werewolf’s body was lying across his broad, red back. Using some infernal source of strength he did not fully comprehend, Atticus pressed forward towards the stairwell, trying desperately to catch back up to Veti, Thad, Bain and Aislinn. Using his wings to balance, he bounded down the steps as fast as his legs would carry him.
Of those that followed in his wake, Atticus could not account for them. The strain upon his body was massive, and it took every ounce of focus he possessed to simply keep his muscles from buckling under the bulk of the injured Reginald Hoyle. In a fog he descended ever downward, spiraling along the steps with each passing floor a blur.
When at last they reached the basement, Atticus nearly collapsed. His wings drug upon the stone of the floor like wilted flower petals, and Reginald rolled from his back with a groan of pain. In the low light of the basement, Atticus could just make out the ghostly figures of the shades drifting amongst them. Bain, Veti, and Thad were just ahead, moving towards an open gate. Bain was calling out to the creature that had created the portal, but of what he said, Atticus could not hear.
The incubus turned and gripped Reginald about the shoulders, his large hands barely able to hold on after his exhausting descent.
“Help me,” he said to those with him, “we’ve got to get to that gate.”
Zakhar-The Basement
The white-wolf watched from the shroud of the Wraithcloth, his focus a hum of electric noise between his ears. Before him, the crimson-haired wolf clutched Aislinn Hoyle to her chest, shielding the elder wolf’s body as the little band advanced towards the now opened shade gate.
It was time to strike.
Zakhar moved from his position beside the gate, his strides long, silent, and powerful. The Cossack was drawn back across his body, poised to strike with its deadly silver-plated blade. As he moved forward, the taste of the coming kill fresh upon his lips, Zakhar’s eyes widened in sudden surprise.
With astounding deftness, Zakhar shifted his momentum downwards, skidding along the stone floor as a ball of fire and glass exploded above him. His arms instinctively raised to shield his head, just as the shrapnel from the warlock’s attack thundered into his flesh. Zakhar roared with pain, and the Wraithcloth cloak that shrouded him was torn to shreds as it took the brunt of the power from the magical assault.
Now plainly visible, and in extreme pain, only Zakhar’s relentless training and martial prowess allowed him to continue forward. Coming up from his crouch, Zakhar leapt towards his target, the force of his movement spraying his own blood across the room as he moved. Bringing the sword up as he skidded beneath the figure of Aislinn and the werewolf that bore her in her arms, Zakhar stabbed with all the strength he possessed.
The blade of the Cossack slid with a sickening ease into the Hoyle sister’s back, and Zakhar could feel her spine severing as it moved ever upward, and into the chest of the crimson wolf.
Time slowed, and in that moment Zakhar had a vision of clarity unlike any he had ever experienced. He felt Aislinn’s lifeforce drain from her body. He saw the eyes of the crimson wolf, the heretic, the cur recoil in shock and pain. He felt pleasure.
Overcome with his emotion, the assassin reached up to pluck the pouch from about Aislinn’s waist, and as he did he brought his wolfen lips to the ear of the crimson wolf.
“The kiss of Luna*,” he whispered to her, his voice dripping malice, “is the most fitting of deaths for those whose very blood betrays their right to exist.”
Zakhar pulled his sword free and bounded backwards. In his hand he clutched the pouch, and inside the pouch was the Solas na gealaí—the tooth of Fenris—and the key to the god-wolf’s ultimate release.
With a final snap of his jaws, Zakhar spun upon his heels, and leapt headlong into the open shade gate.
* * * * * * * * *
*-Luna is an old Alchemy term for silver. Veti would know this, and understand Zakhar's meaning.
Atticus grunted as he pulled Reginald from the great hall and into the entryway. He released one of his hands from the werewolf’s shoulder to take the wad of strange cloth that Siya held out before him. The fabric was rough, but somehow also slick and wet feeling, like the skin of a snake. Knowing that it was valuable, but unable to think upon the import of the object at the moment, Atticus draped it over one shoulder.
“Thanks,” he said to Siya, punctuating the word with another grunt of exertion.
Atticus looked over his own shoulder to see Veti, still clutching Aislinn closely to her chest, move towards the doorway that led to the stairwell. He saw Archibald Bain and Thad accompanying her as she disappeared into the darkness. Veti’s long stride and muscular form was moving quickly, even with the burdensome body of Hoyle’s sister. Atticus and the others with him were falling behind.
Atticus swore. The building shook with ever increasing ferocity, and the direness of Reginald’s wound was confirmed by Semyon’s inspection. Their only chance was to reach the shade gates, and to do it without delay.
“We can’t stop Semyon,” he called to the Wight, “and Siya, please do what you can. Whatever you have to do, Reginald cannot die. Not like this. Anything any of you can do, we can’t lose him.”
As he finished speaking, Atticus gave a mighty heave, and pulled Reginald up and around until the werewolf’s body was lying across his broad, red back. Using some infernal source of strength he did not fully comprehend, Atticus pressed forward towards the stairwell, trying desperately to catch back up to Veti, Thad, Bain and Aislinn. Using his wings to balance, he bounded down the steps as fast as his legs would carry him.
Of those that followed in his wake, Atticus could not account for them. The strain upon his body was massive, and it took every ounce of focus he possessed to simply keep his muscles from buckling under the bulk of the injured Reginald Hoyle. In a fog he descended ever downward, spiraling along the steps with each passing floor a blur.
When at last they reached the basement, Atticus nearly collapsed. His wings drug upon the stone of the floor like wilted flower petals, and Reginald rolled from his back with a groan of pain. In the low light of the basement, Atticus could just make out the ghostly figures of the shades drifting amongst them. Bain, Veti, and Thad were just ahead, moving towards an open gate. Bain was calling out to the creature that had created the portal, but of what he said, Atticus could not hear.
The incubus turned and gripped Reginald about the shoulders, his large hands barely able to hold on after his exhausting descent.
“Help me,” he said to those with him, “we’ve got to get to that gate.”
Zakhar-The Basement
The white-wolf watched from the shroud of the Wraithcloth, his focus a hum of electric noise between his ears. Before him, the crimson-haired wolf clutched Aislinn Hoyle to her chest, shielding the elder wolf’s body as the little band advanced towards the now opened shade gate.
It was time to strike.
Zakhar moved from his position beside the gate, his strides long, silent, and powerful. The Cossack was drawn back across his body, poised to strike with its deadly silver-plated blade. As he moved forward, the taste of the coming kill fresh upon his lips, Zakhar’s eyes widened in sudden surprise.
With astounding deftness, Zakhar shifted his momentum downwards, skidding along the stone floor as a ball of fire and glass exploded above him. His arms instinctively raised to shield his head, just as the shrapnel from the warlock’s attack thundered into his flesh. Zakhar roared with pain, and the Wraithcloth cloak that shrouded him was torn to shreds as it took the brunt of the power from the magical assault.
Now plainly visible, and in extreme pain, only Zakhar’s relentless training and martial prowess allowed him to continue forward. Coming up from his crouch, Zakhar leapt towards his target, the force of his movement spraying his own blood across the room as he moved. Bringing the sword up as he skidded beneath the figure of Aislinn and the werewolf that bore her in her arms, Zakhar stabbed with all the strength he possessed.
The blade of the Cossack slid with a sickening ease into the Hoyle sister’s back, and Zakhar could feel her spine severing as it moved ever upward, and into the chest of the crimson wolf.
Time slowed, and in that moment Zakhar had a vision of clarity unlike any he had ever experienced. He felt Aislinn’s lifeforce drain from her body. He saw the eyes of the crimson wolf, the heretic, the cur recoil in shock and pain. He felt pleasure.
Overcome with his emotion, the assassin reached up to pluck the pouch from about Aislinn’s waist, and as he did he brought his wolfen lips to the ear of the crimson wolf.
“The kiss of Luna*,” he whispered to her, his voice dripping malice, “is the most fitting of deaths for those whose very blood betrays their right to exist.”
Zakhar pulled his sword free and bounded backwards. In his hand he clutched the pouch, and inside the pouch was the Solas na gealaí—the tooth of Fenris—and the key to the god-wolf’s ultimate release.
With a final snap of his jaws, Zakhar spun upon his heels, and leapt headlong into the open shade gate.
*-Luna is an old Alchemy term for silver. Veti would know this, and understand Zakhar's meaning.
The New Yorker said
Well, that's not entirely true, but your point is made. I should probably point out that I don't have free roaming access to the internet in my home as I did in school. Generally I post things from the Library. Maybe I'll get something up today, if I'm inspired. I get the feeling that I don't necessarily need to post in order for the story to move on, so I might just let that happen instead. We'll see.
An internet connection is certainly one thing, but the other part of you statement, I will admit, irks me. You don't need to post for the story to move on. Hell, I could write the entire thing myself, print it out, slap a cover onto it and call it a novel. The reason I don't do that is because I like to participate in a RP where I have the pleasure to react and create upon the work of others, and I assume that is why you're here as well.
If you are not inspired, not enjoying the RP, than don't post. I am not a proponent of filler text, so I'm not demanding that of you by any stretch. What I am saying is that if you're going to be a part of a team based creative endeavor, which is what an RP is, than have the courtesy to participate with some alacrity. Before the long weekend you asked for suggestions regarding what to post, and I believe I responded with several very viable options for Gabe to pursue, one of which involved the inclusion of another character that has been absent IC for some time.
I can understand if this RP doesn't pique your interest, I truly do. No story will ever stir inspiration in everyone, and that is totally fine. What is frustrating is to read promises for posts that don't come, especially when they are worded with the same level of desire as one might place in removing gum from the bottom of their shoe.
Eerily quiet...
Anyway, how is everyone today? Are there any new posts coming down the pipe?
Anyway, how is everyone today? Are there any new posts coming down the pipe?
Hello there everyone, I am back from my great 4-day weekend adventure.
I hope you all have enjoyed yourselves while I was away from RPG, and I will second Igraine's vote of extreme gratitude to those who have served the citizens of the United States in the Armed Forces. We will never ever be able to return the favor of your sacrifice.
As for Pieces, I thought a lot about the RP while I was away, and I have come to the conclusion that we should move into the beginnings of the final segment of our little adventure. Never fear, there is still plenty of RP left, just wanted to give a heads up that the next segment of my posts will be leading us towards that end. I hope that everyone is able to catch up IC as much as possible. The pacing might pick up, hopefully because we're all intrigued enough to get right back to writing as things happen. My next post will be coming in about twelve hours or so.
I hope you all have enjoyed yourselves while I was away from RPG, and I will second Igraine's vote of extreme gratitude to those who have served the citizens of the United States in the Armed Forces. We will never ever be able to return the favor of your sacrifice.
As for Pieces, I thought a lot about the RP while I was away, and I have come to the conclusion that we should move into the beginnings of the final segment of our little adventure. Never fear, there is still plenty of RP left, just wanted to give a heads up that the next segment of my posts will be leading us towards that end. I hope that everyone is able to catch up IC as much as possible. The pacing might pick up, hopefully because we're all intrigued enough to get right back to writing as things happen. My next post will be coming in about twelve hours or so.
Hello all,
I'm getting ready to head out for the holiday weekend and won't be back until Monday. First off I want to wish you all a happy weekend, and a pleasant Memorial Day if you're in the United States. If you have been in the military, I want to thank you profoundly for your service...thank you!
@LimeyPanda: When I wrote my last post I went through several re-writes in an attempt to do something meaningful with Jay-Jay that wasn't forced or puppeting your character, and I couldn't do it. At least at the time anyway. Please feel free to move Jay-Jay back with the others, or if you'd prefer to wait, I can try and think on something else to add after I return from my weekend excursion. (See my suggestion to TheNewYorker below)
@TheNewYorker: Off the top of my head, you could have Gabe move to help Siya and Atticus. Or perhaps Gabe has some angelic means to help the injured Reginald Hoyle, or the mortally wounded Aislinn Hoyle? You mentioned that Gabe had expended all the ammunition in his sidearm, so you could interact with Semyon regarding a reload, or something of that nature. Actually you and LimeyPanda could collaborate in a chance meeting of your two characters during the chaos of the battle, and the retreat towards the shade gates. This last part is my favorite of the ideas. Kills two birds with one stone, and get some cool interaction going. Your call of course.
I'm getting ready to head out for the holiday weekend and won't be back until Monday. First off I want to wish you all a happy weekend, and a pleasant Memorial Day if you're in the United States. If you have been in the military, I want to thank you profoundly for your service...thank you!
@LimeyPanda: When I wrote my last post I went through several re-writes in an attempt to do something meaningful with Jay-Jay that wasn't forced or puppeting your character, and I couldn't do it. At least at the time anyway. Please feel free to move Jay-Jay back with the others, or if you'd prefer to wait, I can try and think on something else to add after I return from my weekend excursion. (See my suggestion to TheNewYorker below)
@TheNewYorker: Off the top of my head, you could have Gabe move to help Siya and Atticus. Or perhaps Gabe has some angelic means to help the injured Reginald Hoyle, or the mortally wounded Aislinn Hoyle? You mentioned that Gabe had expended all the ammunition in his sidearm, so you could interact with Semyon regarding a reload, or something of that nature. Actually you and LimeyPanda could collaborate in a chance meeting of your two characters during the chaos of the battle, and the retreat towards the shade gates. This last part is my favorite of the ideas. Kills two birds with one stone, and get some cool interaction going. Your call of course.
Refaltus-The Causeway
Refaltus, like his brethren, was adorned in a heavy cloak and a thick dusting of fine black ash. Also like his pack-mates, Refaltus was prepared to give his life to bring down the walls of Bain & Hoyle Castle.
His pack, known in the mortal tongues as the First Devoted, had already fought and died bravely in this holy mission. Wave after wave had already crashed against the walls of the castle like mighty breakers, bringing rock and mortar down along with the defenders that fought to stop them. The dying fervor of each werewolf shone brightly in the night sky, burning in mighty bursts of ardent blue flame. All fueled by the souls gifted to die for the will of the Lupus Naturae, and the promised coming of the god-wolf.
For his part, Refaltus had not faltered as his brothers and sisters died in bloody droves before they were able to deliver their final gift upon the walls of the castle. All manner of weapon and magical armament had been brought to bear against the First Devoted. In truth only the sheer numbers and zealous resolve of the werewolves had allowed them to press the attack even this far. The causeway was now a highway of shattered wolf corpses, their gore making the cobblestones slick and treacherous.
Refaltus navigated amongst these bodies even now, trudging through the broken and destroyed figures of his pack-mates like so much mud. Somehow he had managed to get to within a dozen yards of the main gateway without being wounded, or adding his own body to the growing mountain of First Devoted. Around him, silver bullets, voracious hellfire, and the silent and drifting presence of what could only be described as Death incarnate, moved with swift and definitive deliverance from the realm of the living.
The young werewolf’s heart quickened, somehow even faster than it already sang within his coal-black chest. The massive, iron-barred archway of the main gate loomed before him. Even as the defenders still rained death down upon the causeway, none appeared to have noticed Refaltus. The shattered battlements above the gate were strangely devoid of any living soul. Refaltus did not smile at his good fortune. His long muzzle closed in a thin-lipped expression of utter and deadly resolve, and the werewolf pressed forward towards the gates with all the swiftness and poise of a man ready to die for his cause.
As the iron bars stood before him, Refaltus willed his soul to release itself, and fuel the destructive power that had been laid upon earlier that day. For a moment he felt the coming release, felt the first brittle brushes of paradise, when everything changed.
There was a shift in his vision. In fact, all his senses changed in dramatic fashion, and Refaltus found that what he had once perceived no longer existed. With eyes swimming in a vision he could not yet comprehend, he gazed upon a woman—no a girl—sporting bright pink curls and icy blue eyes.
Refaltus looked about, utterly confused. There was a dark coastline, with ethereal waters lapping the shoreline. There was the girl, standing there, seemingly yanking the souls of werewolves out of somewhere Refaltus could not see clearly.
Is this death? Is this the paradise I was promised? Refaltus thought with palpable dismay.
Then, the pink-haired girl spoke. Her words brought more confusion, but for some reason the question she posed compelled him to answer.
"Wait, just so we're clear...who did send you guys out here?"
“We are here to bring about a new world,” Refaltus replied, his voice filled with the conviction of a true believer. “The age of the god-wolf is yet to come, and we, the First Devoted, have been granted the gift of being the heralds for his coming.”
Refaltus, like his brethren, was adorned in a heavy cloak and a thick dusting of fine black ash. Also like his pack-mates, Refaltus was prepared to give his life to bring down the walls of Bain & Hoyle Castle.
His pack, known in the mortal tongues as the First Devoted, had already fought and died bravely in this holy mission. Wave after wave had already crashed against the walls of the castle like mighty breakers, bringing rock and mortar down along with the defenders that fought to stop them. The dying fervor of each werewolf shone brightly in the night sky, burning in mighty bursts of ardent blue flame. All fueled by the souls gifted to die for the will of the Lupus Naturae, and the promised coming of the god-wolf.
For his part, Refaltus had not faltered as his brothers and sisters died in bloody droves before they were able to deliver their final gift upon the walls of the castle. All manner of weapon and magical armament had been brought to bear against the First Devoted. In truth only the sheer numbers and zealous resolve of the werewolves had allowed them to press the attack even this far. The causeway was now a highway of shattered wolf corpses, their gore making the cobblestones slick and treacherous.
Refaltus navigated amongst these bodies even now, trudging through the broken and destroyed figures of his pack-mates like so much mud. Somehow he had managed to get to within a dozen yards of the main gateway without being wounded, or adding his own body to the growing mountain of First Devoted. Around him, silver bullets, voracious hellfire, and the silent and drifting presence of what could only be described as Death incarnate, moved with swift and definitive deliverance from the realm of the living.
The young werewolf’s heart quickened, somehow even faster than it already sang within his coal-black chest. The massive, iron-barred archway of the main gate loomed before him. Even as the defenders still rained death down upon the causeway, none appeared to have noticed Refaltus. The shattered battlements above the gate were strangely devoid of any living soul. Refaltus did not smile at his good fortune. His long muzzle closed in a thin-lipped expression of utter and deadly resolve, and the werewolf pressed forward towards the gates with all the swiftness and poise of a man ready to die for his cause.
As the iron bars stood before him, Refaltus willed his soul to release itself, and fuel the destructive power that had been laid upon earlier that day. For a moment he felt the coming release, felt the first brittle brushes of paradise, when everything changed.
There was a shift in his vision. In fact, all his senses changed in dramatic fashion, and Refaltus found that what he had once perceived no longer existed. With eyes swimming in a vision he could not yet comprehend, he gazed upon a woman—no a girl—sporting bright pink curls and icy blue eyes.
Refaltus looked about, utterly confused. There was a dark coastline, with ethereal waters lapping the shoreline. There was the girl, standing there, seemingly yanking the souls of werewolves out of somewhere Refaltus could not see clearly.
Is this death? Is this the paradise I was promised? Refaltus thought with palpable dismay.
Then, the pink-haired girl spoke. Her words brought more confusion, but for some reason the question she posed compelled him to answer.
"Wait, just so we're clear...who did send you guys out here?"
“We are here to bring about a new world,” Refaltus replied, his voice filled with the conviction of a true believer. “The age of the god-wolf is yet to come, and we, the First Devoted, have been granted the gift of being the heralds for his coming.”
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