Lake of fire?
*puts on shades*
Good thing I brought a kettle.
YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!
*puts on shades*
Good thing I brought a kettle.
YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!
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When Lancelot spoke of the King's death, Ysobel was the first to cry out her defiance.
The regent was in error. He must be. He had been misled. It was some trick of the foreign hordes. God would not send Arthur and his finest men on a quest of such holy significance only to bring him low so far from Britan's shores. She would not name the Regent a liar, but it did not matter to her what he claimed to know. Her heart told her King Arthur could not be dead and her heart was never wrong.
But when Lancelot spoke of cause, she fell silent. When he spoke of God's will, her eyes darkened, and when at last he spoke of heresy, she unslung her shield, gripping the handle of her weapon, grimly. She was young, and not wise, but she had heard men speak this way before, use those very words. All had been the same, beneath their knowing faces and silver tongues. All had served the same master. And there was no longer any doubt in her mind that the regent was ensorcelled or insane.
She turned to the doors -- too late, the heavy timbers creaking as the tall sliver of daylight behind them narrowed and disappeared with a booming thud. She pushed through the shouting throng as the pitch began to rain, set her shoulder and ran with all her determination and strength, slamming her black-armored body like an iron ram against the enormous doors. She felt the surface warp with the impact, felt the wooden bar groan and splinter, but neither would give way, pushing her back like a giant's hand. She cried out for aid, her voice piercing through the panicked tumult for only the merest moment before the shouting turned to screams, and with a noise like the exhalation of Hell itself the entire chamber erupted into a roaring abyss of flames.
The few who came to aid her were weak, too weak. One collapsed, a squire, barely a man, choking and sputtering at her feet as they heaved. Another fled, stumbling over his fellows, desperate for a way out. Men ran like livestock, bellowing and burning. If another of the great champions of strength had been with her in that hour, she knew they could have cracked the murderous portal like baked clay. They could have saved every soul within that roiling inferno. Tears and bitter ash stung her eyes as she forced herself uselessly against the burning wood with a clamoring thud, again and again. They could have done it.
She screamed out loud, pounding her fist against the doors, drawing up short only as she imagined some half-heard voice crying to her over the apocalyptic din.
".....service ladders... columns... best chance!..."
She turned back, barely able to see a familiar-looking shadow slither up one of the looming pillars through the roiling clouds of hot, suffocating pitch.
It was a sign.
She heaved the boy over her shoulder, dragging him along with her through the billowing black smoke and lapping sea of liquid fire. Pain blazed in every part of her body, her armor searing through its crude padding to her skin, sweat pouring from her face. She held her breath as long as she could, forcing herself to run with her eyes shut through the crackling storm to the barely-visible ladder. Her lungs burned as she forced herself to climb without inhaling, gripping the rungs with one hand, hauling the stricken squire up along with her with the other.
It was agony. Every muscle in her body rebelled as she dragged them up through the searing, pestilential clouds and punishing heat. Her arms felt as though they were being torn from their sockets as she heaved her weight and his directly upward by bare, bloody inches. Men screamed and died beneath her, and she climbed, one step after another, one handhold after the next. The burning cinders beneath them disappeared, leaving nothing below and nothing above but oily, choking blackness. She gave no thought to how far she had climbed. Two steps? Two hundred? Her head swam in the heat and a darkness that owed nothing to the inferno crept in at the edges of her vision. Her lungs spasmed, demanding she draw in the tainted air and die. It didn't matter. She would go on no matter the pain. God would not forsake her.
And nor
would she
forsake
Unseen hands gripped her own and she felt her armor crest a solid surface. She coughed, gasping, retching and sucking in lungfuls of cleaner air as she tumbled over, spending the last of her strength to pull the young squire up with her.
"Rise, poor brother," she choked, hoarsely, "God hath delivered us from the fire. Stand, and let us make our way from this accursed place."
The young man gave no reply. Ysobel wiped cinders from her eyes, taking his hand and trying to help him to his feet.
He was dead.
She stared, blinking wordlessly at the pale, lifeless hand in hers. There were no words. And no one to say them to.
...They could have done it.
They could have done it.
The regent was in error. He must be. He had been misled. It was some trick of the foreign hordes. God would not send Arthur and his finest men on a quest of such holy significance only to bring him low so far from Britan's shores. She would not name the Regent a liar, but it did not matter to her what he claimed to know. Her heart told her King Arthur could not be dead and her heart was never wrong.
But when Lancelot spoke of cause, she fell silent. When he spoke of God's will, her eyes darkened, and when at last he spoke of heresy, she unslung her shield, gripping the handle of her weapon, grimly. She was young, and not wise, but she had heard men speak this way before, use those very words. All had been the same, beneath their knowing faces and silver tongues. All had served the same master. And there was no longer any doubt in her mind that the regent was ensorcelled or insane.
She turned to the doors -- too late, the heavy timbers creaking as the tall sliver of daylight behind them narrowed and disappeared with a booming thud. She pushed through the shouting throng as the pitch began to rain, set her shoulder and ran with all her determination and strength, slamming her black-armored body like an iron ram against the enormous doors. She felt the surface warp with the impact, felt the wooden bar groan and splinter, but neither would give way, pushing her back like a giant's hand. She cried out for aid, her voice piercing through the panicked tumult for only the merest moment before the shouting turned to screams, and with a noise like the exhalation of Hell itself the entire chamber erupted into a roaring abyss of flames.
The few who came to aid her were weak, too weak. One collapsed, a squire, barely a man, choking and sputtering at her feet as they heaved. Another fled, stumbling over his fellows, desperate for a way out. Men ran like livestock, bellowing and burning. If another of the great champions of strength had been with her in that hour, she knew they could have cracked the murderous portal like baked clay. They could have saved every soul within that roiling inferno. Tears and bitter ash stung her eyes as she forced herself uselessly against the burning wood with a clamoring thud, again and again. They could have done it.
She screamed out loud, pounding her fist against the doors, drawing up short only as she imagined some half-heard voice crying to her over the apocalyptic din.
".....service ladders... columns... best chance!..."
She turned back, barely able to see a familiar-looking shadow slither up one of the looming pillars through the roiling clouds of hot, suffocating pitch.
It was a sign.
She heaved the boy over her shoulder, dragging him along with her through the billowing black smoke and lapping sea of liquid fire. Pain blazed in every part of her body, her armor searing through its crude padding to her skin, sweat pouring from her face. She held her breath as long as she could, forcing herself to run with her eyes shut through the crackling storm to the barely-visible ladder. Her lungs burned as she forced herself to climb without inhaling, gripping the rungs with one hand, hauling the stricken squire up along with her with the other.
It was agony. Every muscle in her body rebelled as she dragged them up through the searing, pestilential clouds and punishing heat. Her arms felt as though they were being torn from their sockets as she heaved her weight and his directly upward by bare, bloody inches. Men screamed and died beneath her, and she climbed, one step after another, one handhold after the next. The burning cinders beneath them disappeared, leaving nothing below and nothing above but oily, choking blackness. She gave no thought to how far she had climbed. Two steps? Two hundred? Her head swam in the heat and a darkness that owed nothing to the inferno crept in at the edges of her vision. Her lungs spasmed, demanding she draw in the tainted air and die. It didn't matter. She would go on no matter the pain. God would not forsake her.
And nor
would she
forsake
Unseen hands gripped her own and she felt her armor crest a solid surface. She coughed, gasping, retching and sucking in lungfuls of cleaner air as she tumbled over, spending the last of her strength to pull the young squire up with her.
"Rise, poor brother," she choked, hoarsely, "God hath delivered us from the fire. Stand, and let us make our way from this accursed place."
The young man gave no reply. Ysobel wiped cinders from her eyes, taking his hand and trying to help him to his feet.
He was dead.
She stared, blinking wordlessly at the pale, lifeless hand in hers. There were no words. And no one to say them to.
...They could have done it.
They could have done it.
While I can understand the position of those who want to withdraw at this point -- frankly, the tone of the game couldn't have whiplashed any harder if you'd had Lancelot tell his goons to "keep us busy" while he returned to his secret base on the moon -- the sympathy I can muster is limited. As regards myself, I am stretched a little IRL thin right now but am definitely sticking around and will hopefully have a post up soon.
Take heart, ye faithful. This is the crucible in which legends are forged.
Take heart, ye faithful. This is the crucible in which legends are forged.
As a nihilist, I'm intrigued. Tell me more.
And that's the exit call for Gobskag Greenteef! I thought this was a good time to extricate myself gracefully. Best of wishes to everyone still remaining in the RP. May you get rich -- or get richer trying!
In the dead of night, Gobskag scuttled through a hole in the crumbling wall, loot-sack bulging with stolen food and ill-gotten gains. Mercenary work was right good, he thought to himself. You could get rich without even doing any fighting! Chengizz's ruby alone would make him a gob to be reckoned with. He was well on his way to being downright respectable.
"Now where did dey say we was goin'?...." he muttered to himself, leering over a crude, upside-down map with an X scrawled onto the coastline. He squinted at the horizon until he saw a tree that looked kind of like a picture of a tree on the map, and scuttled off in that direction, confident he'd reach Loosinny in no time at all.
Legends tell us of how the conniving shaman did indeed arrive at his destination, after traveling the breadth of the continent for years in the wrong direction; felling terrible beasts, carrying out daunting quests, slowly becoming both a grizzled veteran and something of a folk antihero, cackling in the face of authority. Tales are told of how he burgled the blue college against impossible odds, taking only a few bread rolls and a new hat, and using the headmaster's desk drawer as a privvy. Songs are sung of how he rescued the fair Duchess Aveline from the clutches of the Raven cult, felling countless Daemons and swinging her to safety across a bottomless fissure, only to ask if she knew what Luccini was and how were you supposed to get there again?...
Yes, whole decades passed before that huddled, dusty shape shuffled slowly into the border of Luccini. The goblin was wizened, now, darker in color, missing one beady eye and wearing a fake grey beard hooked over his ears and dangling down to the ground from his chin, just to make sure everyone knew he was proper venerable now. Onlookers whispered in awed, hushed tones of the Prophecy, the foretelling of the day Gobskag the Glorious would arrive at the port and unseat the reigning Prince, claiming his throne. But the grizzled green veteran only leered, sagaciously, and bought out the Prince's flagship in a jaw-dropping display of cunning negotiation and charisma. He hired on a select crew of eager adventure-seekers, including a giant, anchor-wielding ogre first mate, raised the Scarey Face flag and set sail, coursing on to lands unknown.
Yet as the great ship was casting off, some brave, pluckish young boy called out to the goblin hero, begging the secret of his almost supernatural good fortune. The greenskin mercenary looked back and could only leer, in as close to a kindly fashion as he was capable of. His one good eye twinkled like a beady red marble.... and the ruined socket of the other glimmered with an even deeper, faintly magical crimson sheen.
"Lad," he chuckled, tapping the eye-stone, "I owes it all to me lucky ruby."
"Now where did dey say we was goin'?...." he muttered to himself, leering over a crude, upside-down map with an X scrawled onto the coastline. He squinted at the horizon until he saw a tree that looked kind of like a picture of a tree on the map, and scuttled off in that direction, confident he'd reach Loosinny in no time at all.
Legends tell us of how the conniving shaman did indeed arrive at his destination, after traveling the breadth of the continent for years in the wrong direction; felling terrible beasts, carrying out daunting quests, slowly becoming both a grizzled veteran and something of a folk antihero, cackling in the face of authority. Tales are told of how he burgled the blue college against impossible odds, taking only a few bread rolls and a new hat, and using the headmaster's desk drawer as a privvy. Songs are sung of how he rescued the fair Duchess Aveline from the clutches of the Raven cult, felling countless Daemons and swinging her to safety across a bottomless fissure, only to ask if she knew what Luccini was and how were you supposed to get there again?...
Yes, whole decades passed before that huddled, dusty shape shuffled slowly into the border of Luccini. The goblin was wizened, now, darker in color, missing one beady eye and wearing a fake grey beard hooked over his ears and dangling down to the ground from his chin, just to make sure everyone knew he was proper venerable now. Onlookers whispered in awed, hushed tones of the Prophecy, the foretelling of the day Gobskag the Glorious would arrive at the port and unseat the reigning Prince, claiming his throne. But the grizzled green veteran only leered, sagaciously, and bought out the Prince's flagship in a jaw-dropping display of cunning negotiation and charisma. He hired on a select crew of eager adventure-seekers, including a giant, anchor-wielding ogre first mate, raised the Scarey Face flag and set sail, coursing on to lands unknown.
Yet as the great ship was casting off, some brave, pluckish young boy called out to the goblin hero, begging the secret of his almost supernatural good fortune. The greenskin mercenary looked back and could only leer, in as close to a kindly fashion as he was capable of. His one good eye twinkled like a beady red marble.... and the ruined socket of the other glimmered with an even deeper, faintly magical crimson sheen.
"Lad," he chuckled, tapping the eye-stone, "I owes it all to me lucky ruby."
~Fin~
Morgana would have made a better speech. It's probably a Mimic, or a Zubat.
Aye milorde.
Ysobel dismounted at the bridge, thumping heavily to the moist grass as Sir Arian was grudgingly admitted inside. The sun crested the Cathedral above the walls, near-blinding her, and she smiled in spite of the day's grim tidings, her lips moving as she gave silent thanks to God.
"This is as far as I go," rumbled the giant mounted beside her. "Ill memory. Bad blood. Too soon to bear. I'll glean what news I may and make camp afore I hie me back to the village."
The little knight stood tiptoe and offered up her arms. The scarred old man leaned in the saddle, letting her embrace him. It was a comical scene, and yet, none who watched found it in themselves to laugh.
"Go with God, friend of my friend." she murmured gently by his rough cheek. "I shall see thee when the Lord wills it, and all is again well."
Black Piotr breathed a short, bitter laugh.
"I'll not hold my breath," he said, turning about. "Dear little fool."
He said it fondly. Forlornly.
Ysobel watched him go, disappearing into the greenery and haze. And then she took the reins in one black-mailed hand and crossed on foot, leading her white pony across the length of the bridge to the towering gate where the two would-be watchmen slouched in their rough mail. They straightened as the girl approached, the clip-clop clip-clop of loyal hooves sounding a wooden song behind her. Her face was stern, purposeful.
The watchman who had spoken to Arian cleared his throat whilst his companion stared rigidly ahead like a young boy who knows full well his sibling has been caught in some callous wrong, and has no wish to share in his punishment.
"Hr-hrmm, hail and be welcome to..."
The man fell silent. The virgin looked up at him without fear or kindness, staring him down, her gaze scornful, relentless and unbearably pure.
"...I, ah..."
By degrees the veteran crumbled, slowly averting his eyes from those of the little woman, unable to hold her eyes despite their difference in age and stature. Ysobel regarded him in silence as he withered beneath the weight of his own guilt.
"I hath heard it once said that men hath entertained angels unawares," she spoke, her bright little voice hard as crystal.
"...Yes, m'lady."
"Have a mind of thy tongue, knave," she went on. "Lest it one day wag at the wrong hound."
"I... Hrm!" the man swallowed, shamefaced, mumbling into his boots. "...I do most 'umbly beg yer pardon, m'lady."
"Tis not my pardon thou shouldst beg." she said, tersely, drawing on the reins. The pony snorted dismissively, the clip-clop of hooves passing away with the heavy chime of iron.
The grizzled watchmen let out their collective breaths. They exchanged one brief, wordless glance, and there saw enough of one another's shame to turn away in remorse, and not take their eyes from the bridge again.
At last beyond the wall and into the bustle of Camelot, Ysobel lifted her arm high as she caught sight of the sign of the leaping fish before the Keep, waving and lifting up her voice.
"Sir Delwin!" she called, piercing the air like a joyful clarion. Perhaps he would not remember her, the distant, little black figure with her banner and horn. But the fisher-knight's humility and noble bearing had remained ever in her memory.
"This is as far as I go," rumbled the giant mounted beside her. "Ill memory. Bad blood. Too soon to bear. I'll glean what news I may and make camp afore I hie me back to the village."
The little knight stood tiptoe and offered up her arms. The scarred old man leaned in the saddle, letting her embrace him. It was a comical scene, and yet, none who watched found it in themselves to laugh.
"Go with God, friend of my friend." she murmured gently by his rough cheek. "I shall see thee when the Lord wills it, and all is again well."
Black Piotr breathed a short, bitter laugh.
"I'll not hold my breath," he said, turning about. "Dear little fool."
He said it fondly. Forlornly.
Ysobel watched him go, disappearing into the greenery and haze. And then she took the reins in one black-mailed hand and crossed on foot, leading her white pony across the length of the bridge to the towering gate where the two would-be watchmen slouched in their rough mail. They straightened as the girl approached, the clip-clop clip-clop of loyal hooves sounding a wooden song behind her. Her face was stern, purposeful.
The watchman who had spoken to Arian cleared his throat whilst his companion stared rigidly ahead like a young boy who knows full well his sibling has been caught in some callous wrong, and has no wish to share in his punishment.
"Hr-hrmm, hail and be welcome to..."
The man fell silent. The virgin looked up at him without fear or kindness, staring him down, her gaze scornful, relentless and unbearably pure.
"...I, ah..."
By degrees the veteran crumbled, slowly averting his eyes from those of the little woman, unable to hold her eyes despite their difference in age and stature. Ysobel regarded him in silence as he withered beneath the weight of his own guilt.
"I hath heard it once said that men hath entertained angels unawares," she spoke, her bright little voice hard as crystal.
"...Yes, m'lady."
"Have a mind of thy tongue, knave," she went on. "Lest it one day wag at the wrong hound."
"I... Hrm!" the man swallowed, shamefaced, mumbling into his boots. "...I do most 'umbly beg yer pardon, m'lady."
"Tis not my pardon thou shouldst beg." she said, tersely, drawing on the reins. The pony snorted dismissively, the clip-clop of hooves passing away with the heavy chime of iron.
The grizzled watchmen let out their collective breaths. They exchanged one brief, wordless glance, and there saw enough of one another's shame to turn away in remorse, and not take their eyes from the bridge again.
At last beyond the wall and into the bustle of Camelot, Ysobel lifted her arm high as she caught sight of the sign of the leaping fish before the Keep, waving and lifting up her voice.
"Sir Delwin!" she called, piercing the air like a joyful clarion. Perhaps he would not remember her, the distant, little black figure with her banner and horn. But the fisher-knight's humility and noble bearing had remained ever in her memory.
Loka walked sullenly with her arms wrapped around her body, following where the Inquisitor lead.
She had needed it. Of course he couldn't understand. But she had been right. She knew when she needed things. The little silver blessing had saved her life. She had done the right thing.
The werewolf's head bounced sickeningly against Gregor's thigh as he marched. They would stay in Oaksheart, he said. Did you notice how wild and mad it was, he said.
"Yes, I noticed," she said, bitterly. "It was as if the world was screaming at me. I could hear its blood, inside my head. Taste it."
She looked back miserably at the fading fires, and the charnel pit that the man-beast had made its home.
"The village is this way." She pointed at an oblique angle through the impenetrable thicket of shadows. "I can still smell the..."
The bottom dropped out of her mind.
Loka trailed off, slow realization creeping up her gut. Her head turned sharply from the direction of the road to look back at the distant shadow of the lair. To regard the loathsome severed head, thick with male pheromones, gripped in the dark shape of the Inquisitor's gloved hand. She craned her neck to stare straight up at the pallid, drifting northern moon.
The moon. That odd and yet familiar scent to the blood. So that was it. The answer had been right in front of her all the time.
"There is another," she said, bleakly, as the moon disappeared behind the heavy bank of cloud. "It's a female."
She had needed it. Of course he couldn't understand. But she had been right. She knew when she needed things. The little silver blessing had saved her life. She had done the right thing.
The werewolf's head bounced sickeningly against Gregor's thigh as he marched. They would stay in Oaksheart, he said. Did you notice how wild and mad it was, he said.
"Yes, I noticed," she said, bitterly. "It was as if the world was screaming at me. I could hear its blood, inside my head. Taste it."
She looked back miserably at the fading fires, and the charnel pit that the man-beast had made its home.
"The village is this way." She pointed at an oblique angle through the impenetrable thicket of shadows. "I can still smell the..."
The bottom dropped out of her mind.
Loka trailed off, slow realization creeping up her gut. Her head turned sharply from the direction of the road to look back at the distant shadow of the lair. To regard the loathsome severed head, thick with male pheromones, gripped in the dark shape of the Inquisitor's gloved hand. She craned her neck to stare straight up at the pallid, drifting northern moon.
The moon. That odd and yet familiar scent to the blood. So that was it. The answer had been right in front of her all the time.
"There is another," she said, bleakly, as the moon disappeared behind the heavy bank of cloud. "It's a female."
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