BCTheEntity

A Tolkien based RP: Out of the Past

@Jbcool Oh. I did not realise it was my turn to post. My apologies.

Hellscapers! [PRETTY MUCH ALWAYS ACCEPTING EXCEPT WHEN WE HAVE TEN PEOPLE (WE DON'T)!]

'Alriiight, then let's do this shit!' Deprave yelled, grabbing the alcoholic by the legs and yanking him up to rest his legs over his shoulders... and then it occurred to him that he'd probably fall off, being that he'd blown a hole through his groin and all. But he had a quick fix for that: pulling out two of his old chains from the box they came in, he flung them over a shoulder each, roughly tying them together under his arms to hold the man on his back in place, then grabbed both his AA12s from their holsters and tossed them upward, trusting that the crazy person would actually catch the weapons and not drop them like a total idiot.

And then the knight screamed something about "this team being the greatest" or whatever- and with Deprave in it, it probably was- before blowing a goddamn hole in the goddamn wall. Deprave blinked at the sight, only to begin laughing his head off at the carnage. 'Bloody fucking hell, Johnny,' he exclaimed, 'who knew you had it in you?! You dumb bastard.' Grinning wildly now, and even licking his lips a little, Deprave stepped through the hole, eyeing up the armless demon through the hole as if he weren't a moderate threat. 'So, you little fuckboy,' he stated to the clearly-trying-too-hard creature, 'which would you prefer: getting shot a bunch of times, or getting your legs pulled clean off? Here's a tip: removing your legs will be more fun.'

Into The Dark: Mercenaries (Heroes of Fame and Fortune)

And so they slew the Deathknight and the bandits alike. And so they became verified mercenaries. And so did a week pass.

And yet did everything remain about as it was for Nuva Doer. He would probably receive no greater respect from the populace for having become a mercenary, if anything losing some in the eyes of some for the very same reason, his weaponised arm continuing to restrain his ability to lurk in public places without being ostracised nonetheless; furthermore, he continued to remain highly secretive about his true race whilst about his would-be companions, eating separately to all and sundry as desired, and indeed doing what he could to avoid notice when plausible, or to push the others away when necessary. If they learned of his heritage, that he was the spawn of dark elf rather than woad, he was quite certain they'd be just as unforgiving as any farmer... and he wasn't too keen on befriending them regardless.

Yet he couldn't help but ponder about what the Captain had stated the week before about his informant, the elf called Secret. "The girl who did her research on each and every one of you." Again the query passed through his head: how much?

It was almost a shame he couldn't ask either of them about it for the moment, for Kayden was at the official guild hall, and Secret was nowhere to be seen, whilst Nuva had remained in Hillcrest Fortress, along with Morek the dwarf and Jex the drabarian. Neither were particularly good conversation, which suited Nuva just fine; so long as his only need to talk to either was to acquire access to food supplies, he was more than content to wait out the time until his next mission came up. And in fairness, he'd gained a degree of restrained fondness for both the dwarven ale and elven wine in the vault. Both were exquisite in their own ways, though he'd so far restrained himself to just a glass of one or both per day. He'd rather not tempt more than his fair share of any supplies- a fight with an opponent of unknown skill, let alone an ally, was undesirable even considering his own experience- and he was sure Morek would let him know when he'd had too much either way.

Speaking of which, it was, he felt, about time to acquire some sustenance. As he walked down to the vault, Nuva idly pondered his eating habits: he tried not to eat too much to accompany his drinks, but his size alone guaranteed that he would need a greater quantity of food than most, never mind the need to maintain himself in his downtime through training, itself inducing yet more hunger in him. At very least, he believed Jex needed to eat about as much as him, if not more, so he could hardly be accused of taking more than his fair share... not that he was entirely certain. Once he'd acquired his portions, he'd depart to a more remote section of the fort, there to consume his meal apart from the others in the building. He hardly wanted to risk...

Well, it wasn't worth considering that. He'd reached his location, and the dwarf guarding the vault, and to Morek he stated roughly what he desired: 'Ham, bread, ale. Perhaps some carrots if they're present.' If he was being impolite, he hadn't noticed yet; maybe the dwarf liked his gruffness, or maybe he despised him for a perceived lack of respect on his part. Telling was difficult, for those who cared to try, and again, if the dwarf would rather not associate with him, so much the better.

Into The Dark: Tales of Maroleth

Naturally, having a sword pointed at you is not an entirely pleasant experience, leading Settionne to take a step away from the blade as he raised his eyebrows. He supposed the Lizardman was rather smarter than he'd given it credit for, but nothing he'd said warranted having a sword aimed at him, surely? He might have to confiscate that later (for everyone else's safety, of course), at least until the Lizardman needed it. Still, the intended effect of persuading the Lizardman to join their party was nonetheless achieved, though further conversation about the point was interrupted by the arrival of an... interesting man. Very old, yet very muscular, and surprisingly jovial for somebody who, inexplicably, had decided to live on the outskirts of the Southlands. He could clearly handle it, of course; a trident like that was probably very useful, and sure to be worth a lot, perhaps even able to be sold as new, if only the flecks of blood on the points were cleaned away. The question about Werewolves was rather odd, though. The sort of thing that'd make you ask questions about the asker's profession...

And then the Lizardman asked if, what was his name, the Elf's Elk was friend or food, then directing the question at Sett himself. How rude. Not that he could exactly question an obviously-superior fighter, even as it proceeded to try and intimidate him with its words. Best to give the appropriate impression of his profession, he supposed: 'No, no, not at all, good sir!' he began waffling in a rapid and scared tone. 'I suppose I'd be annoyed too if a large group of strangers entered into my home! Rest assured, none of us are at all edible, least of all myself! Trust me when I say, my flesh is quite stringy and tough, with a very unbecoming flavour, not at all befitting of the palate of a bea- eing,' he stuttered, cutting himself off with a choking cough to hide his near-slip up. No good calling the Lizardman a beast, primitive as it was, and no good continuing in that tone if it meant he lost himself in his words and got stabbed for the trouble.

'P-pardon me, frog in my throat,' Sett continued with a small, apologetic smile, patting his chest and speaking in a more reasonable manner. 'I'm hardly used to the, ah, aroma of a swamp such as this... as I was saying, your palate is surely better acclimated to the flesh of the mighty beasts you slay than of our small group. You mentioned you'd lost your home?' he rambled on, wanting to get past the topic of flesh eating before the Lizardman changed his mind about that. 'I am sorry for your loss; if it helps, I shall pray for you and for your aforementioned home, if you so desire me to of course.' A more friendly smile punctuated the end of his sentence; once again, there was no need to aggravate this Lizardman, as that could lose both its assistance and his own life in the process.

Actually, now that he thought about it, he really did want to end his conversation with the Lizardman, even if that meant being forced to talk to the strange man who had just approached them. For all Sett knew, the man could be a Werewolf himself! Would any other being really want to live in the wilderness of the Southlands beyond the confines of even the barest notion of a civilisation? Even a small village, practically hanging from its fingernails... actually, no, he didn't know the man hadn't travelled from such a place. He supposed it made sense not to assume the man was in fact a wildling, though he still ought to be cautious nonetheless. With his luck, he'd be just as skilled a warrior as the Lizardman, making a clean theft nigh-impossible. A pity, that.

Hellscapers! [PRETTY MUCH ALWAYS ACCEPTING EXCEPT WHEN WE HAVE TEN PEOPLE (WE DON'T)!]

At the sight of the gun, and the feeling of bullets bouncing off his skin practically harmlessly, Deprave merely gave a dreadful laugh, noting (just) that the knight was already on his way over there. With the more annoying threat about to be dealt with, he decided instead to charge through the smoke at the two men with melee weapons, bulldozing the machete wielder to the ground. Deciding first to handle him whilst ignoring the clubman, he grabbed the man's arm by the wrist, only to smash his body into the floor on either side of him repeatedly, before throwing him full force into his partner, grinning all the while. O, what ecstasy, to feel a victim's body break beneath his might! If others could match up to his present power in this landscape, he had yet to meet them! Perhaps this "Nefas" would be one of them, if he could just draw the character out...

And it occurred to him that perhaps he had a good way of doing that. That insane fellow, Grug... Greg, Grag? Whatever his name was - he was lying on the ground right now, near-invisible through the smoke from Deprave's own height, but nonetheless stationary. It didn't take too long for the proto-Mayan to find his way to the groin-deprived man in question, watching as he asked his... mug, right, he had that, for a lot of something called "absinth". Not that Deprave cared too much about whatever that was, but he figured whatever the maniac had planned would be less productive than what he himself had in mind.

'Right, Glug or whatever you're called, I've got a proposal for you!' Deprave announced at the general direction of the man, caring not a jot for whoever was listening. 'Since you fucked up your dick and can't move around at all, you need a way to get moved around. As it happens, I also need more arms than I have to wield all my shit, and you haven't ruined yours yet. You wanna be my extra arms, Gloop?'

A Tolkien based RP: Out of the Past

I did it. Finally, after way too goddamn long, I've made a post that places Saptheth in the inn.

A Tolkien based RP: Out of the Past

Evidently, the Ifrit had it in mind to get himself drunk, as they were wont to do. Or at least fed, as most beings required. Much as Saptheth lacked the means to achieve either goal, he followed the stout humanoid into the inn anyway, observing the sign hanging over the entrance and the generally positive attitude of most others inside at that moment. As far as architecture went, Rohan was sorely lacking compared to the often grand and glorious buildings of Balchoth that he was accustomed to, though in fairness, he'd admit that their lands were rather greener than those of his somewhat arid homeland. Then again, a surprising amount of his home continent was far from habitable by any but the sturdiest of men, desert-laden as it was; Balchoth itself had thrived for a high density of oasises to build towns and cities around, giving it an advantage over many of its neighbouring lands in both prosperity and, if he said so himself, appearance.

That said, it seemed everyone else in this small party was finding themselves seating around the same table, near a man who, upon some listening in, claimed to be the king's foremost smith. If that was so... but they were leaving on the morrow. No smith could forge suitable armour for a horse in a night, and he of course lacked the funds to ensure he could buy some for his new mount. He'd have to trust that it'd be properly armoured for a fight by the stable boy, or whoever handled that aspect of horse preparation. He'd heard surprisingly good things about Westron iron... would that iron were more common in his homeland. In any case, he didn't care to take a seat- he wondered if the guards would even let him- and so he simply folded his arms and stood, listening to the group from a distance as they engaged in their banal conversation, until such time as the knight- the only one, he was sure, who might pose any sort of notable threat to his life were he to engage them all- rose from the table and left, apparently aiming to get an early night's sleep, and seemingly failing to notice Saptheth outright. And with him gone... well, he was sure conversation would be a tad more interesting if it didn't devolve into two men crossing blades. Or at least attempting to before one of them was riddled with bolts. If nothing else, he could remind the rest who would really be in charge of proceedings.

Saptheth approached the table the rest of the group were seated round, flanked by the guards meant to stop him acting up, though for the care he gave them, he felt he could handily have passed them off as his own. Once it was reached, he again chose not to sit, instead leaning down to rest his elbows upon the surface. 'Since we speak of what needs to be said,' he interjected, once again in Westron, 'it ought to be... explained... that, no matter what your opinions of me and mine, I believe the anvil bears acqu- ...finding. So long as I am not acc- attacked without need, I will be glad of your... help, in this manner. Clearly, the threat in... volved in it falling into the wrong hands is quite great. If the Ifrit's reaction is anything to go by,' he concluded, nodding in Branack's direction at his mention.

@Jbcool@Vor@Sigurd@POOHEAD189@DrunkasaurusRex

Into The Dark: Tales of Maroleth

@Fetzen Alright. Sorry about the confusion.

Into The Dark: Tales of Maroleth

@Fetzen ...okay, so that thing Settionne did? That's called reverse psychology. The idea is to imply, in a deliberately indirect fashion, that they have something important they need to do, and so getting the Lizardman interested in what exactly it is. Like baiting a hook.

Into The Dark: Tales of Maroleth

Yet despite the little sense of foreboding, the half-giant didn't clearly see the point behind the short priest's speech until he implied that there could very well be 'more pressing concerns' than possibly saving half the world from the doom breaking out of its centre.

@Fetzen

Hate to tell you this, Fetzen, but I think An-Hasst might have parsed Settionne's interaction with the lizard incorrectly. So far as I (and Sett) can see, nobody's told this particular lizard why there's a big old party of various non-native races wandering through the Southlands, so the idea is to first convince the Lizardman there are better uses for his/her skill at arms than beast slaying, e.g. helping the party with their goal, and secondly getting him/her to help out with the aforementioned world-saving. For instance, by accompanying them on their world-saving quest, and/or providing maps of the Southlands, which is something the party needs in the first place.