Assallya

Star Wars: The Other Orders

I'm considering reprising my original Dathomiri. Of course I'll have to rename the planet.

Dathomir was originally created by West End Games to be the place your D&D characters came from. The books, and then the cartoon series changed it a ton from the original.

Maybe... Fayrule or something.

Dungeon Punks

How about a slave bodyguard for our princess? Perhaps only a few years older and has ghosted her everywhere?

Dungeon Punks (A Jolly Good Mixture of Heroic Fantasy and Magitek)

How about a slave bodyguard for our princess? Perhaps only a few years older and has ghosted her everywhere?

Our last march - High Casual (Open)

The blonde mule was a figure of beauty amidst the drab desolation that surrounded them. The wind felt chill against her exposed skin and she found herself wishing she'd had more opportunity to pack before the army fell into rout. Reaching up she ran her thumb along her pointed ear, gold and silver bracelets clinking together.

Assallya looked over the town that they stood upon the edge of and frowned. The clothes still being upon their lines couldn't be the only clue. She gazed at the chimneys for signs of smoke, smelled at the air for signs of cooking food or signs of rotting corpses or spilled blood from the murdered villagers. How long did it take for a corpse to smell anyways?

What would really be useful would be scrying within the buildings. That would take some clean water, and a fair amount of time to perform the rituals. Something she suspected Dorian wouldn't appreciate waiting upon.

"Is anyone here skilled in tracking?" the blonde courtesan asked.

Our last march - High Casual (Open)

Assallya almost had everything. She'd been so close. She'd been trusted confidant, advisor, seer, and occasional lover for the greatest man alive. True, King Baelnorn was not a great man but he was a great king. She was about to be married off to an esteemed lord or duke close to the throne (likely one that wouldn't mind sharing her should the king desire was her assumption) where she would have vast power and wealth, expansive lands and attentive servants.

In all this the emphasis being on "was". Now she was next to nothing. Dorian did not value her skills and why should he? Most of the tools of her trade lay trampled in the tents when they were overrun. None of the King's lieutenants saw the value in having someone able to scry ahead, or soothe the lines and eliminate fear while bracing for a charge. A war was man's work and the work of soldiers and not saucy tarts with potions and pans of water. Indeed, he seemed resentful her very presence seeing her as disruptive to his men's discipline and consuming supplies better suited to keeping his men strong. Many regarded her only as an opportunity for one last desperate tumble before they were cut down by Vyshaan's minions. She would have deserted but, though a mûl, she had not the slightest inkling of how to survive in the woods.

When one of Dorian's goons came about, gathering the expendable and the unwanted, Assallya was not surprised to be addressed and counted amongst them. She was also unsurprised at the string of crude epithets concerning her status as a mongrel bastard and a wanton whore. With a sigh she rose and made her way towards the assembling group lest Dorian get it into his head to solve his problems by accusing her of desertion and hanging her from a nearby tree. When a man had lost like Dorian had they often took great relish in the small petty victories so Assallya was not going to give him the chance.

Ravenloft: Torches in the Night

The city of Falstaff in the county of Fairhaven. That implied a greater nation. She was certainly nowhere near the Heartlands that much was certain. She had assumed she'd stumbled across a faerie road or somehow had been transported up towards the great white north like Icewind Dale. A county didn't sound like it belonged in the great northern wildlands. She would consult her maps but those were inside her vardo. Maps were too valuable to leave about.

Gently snapping the reins, Syeira got her horse moving, following the old soldier and the rest of her newly found fellowship into the city of Falstaff. The iron banded wheels rattled and the springs squeaked and protested as the wagon bounced in and out of frozen ruts of mud.

She also didn't like the term "Mist-Taken". That did not bode well. She wanted to ask what that meant but others had already asked enough of the old man for the moment. They didn't wish to alienate or frustrate the man after he'd been so good as to let them into the city.

Ravenloft: Torches in the Night

Ten levels or so? Hmm... I was thinking a fair bit lower being Ravenloft and was placing myself around third level.

Ravenloft: Torches in the Night

After inviting the wildling boy up atop her wagon Syeira encouraged the young man to fetch another throw blanket and then turned her attention to following the others. Rather, her horse seemed quite content to follow the others. It was a follower by instinct. He was a reliable horse with a good deal of endurance but lacked the spirit to be of use to a warrior's steed.

Even as they approached Syeira was thinking, drawing conclusions, tossing them aside and then formulating new theories as more information presented itself. Obviously there had been a great battle here but none remained to deal with the aftermath. Further, the city was guarded by the old instead of more youthful soldiers while children, who should be working, were running about. This led Syeira to believe that those of middle age, had either gone off to war or had otherwise gone missing. Otherwise their parents would likely be employing them in other endeavours. Her final hypothesis was that the middle aged men had all gone off to war.

Then her small wildling companion began to blurt out questions in a most unsubtle manner before a woman with a nocked arrow presented herself. A knocked arrow was rather rude but she rather imagined her new companions, being so just and chivalrous, would handle the situation without her intervention. Still, in the case of things didn't go well she readied a few spells, bringing them to the tip of her tongue.

Ravenloft: Torches in the Night

The crimson haired lady, adjusted her coin lined emerald hued hood so that those below could better see her. It was a simple gesture that implied openness and honesty. Nobody ever trusted someone that hid her face inside a hood all the time. She was pale of complexion which caused the henna lines on her face and leather headband with its semiprecious stones to stand out in stark contrast.

Oh wonderful, Syeira thought to herself, a paladin. Worse still, the woman had a surname which likely meant noble lineage; That or pretentious nature. Still, there were none better to protect thieves, scalawags and confidence women. The greatest ally of villainy they were as you had to actually perform an act of ill nature before them before they swept into action. As a result, though she was not overly fond of their prattling about gods and duty, she had to admit she did feel a bit safer given the hellish landscape that surrounded them.

"Syeira-," she replied, breath misting before her ruby painted lips. She would have offered her hand save for the fact she was leaning down from atop the wooden walled wagon. "-and you are quite correct. The mists were subtle but even a fool could not miss the sudden shift from the month of Kythorn to Alturiak in the span of moments"

Syeira adjusted the blanket she had wrapped around her body which was beginning to fall and tucked it back into place.

"You speek sooth noble knight," she then added, "I shall join you, if you would have me, upon this short dallying trip."

Ravenloft: Torches in the Night

Syeira's horse plodded along placidly. The vardo wagon jostled and bounced about at the whim of the ice crusted ruts that comprised this frozen road. The horse did not seem perturbed in the least the frozen corpses. In truth, they did not irk her overly but her horse was quite oblivious. There was no point in going back as she strongly suspected, given the sudden change in season, that going back would not return her thence she came. Fate decreed this for some reason. Be it the will of the gods or something else it had been decided for her. Thus she continued forward.

In time she approached a number of what seemed to be adventurers. At least, that's what an eclectic group of warriors, clergy and who knew what else evoked in her mind. They seemed newly met, certainly not a cohesive group from the way they held themselves apart from one another.

"Hail travelers," she greeted them, waving one hand decorated in circles and symbols in henna ink, "I do believe I am lost. By Waukeen's coin, pray someone tell me where we are?"