Azarthes said
I like that I when I have my RPG window half screened your name bleeds into your post.
The name is goddamn awful every time I'm on my phone.
Dervish Member
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STATUS: Remember, nobody actually enjoys roleplaying if there isn't at least five shameful fetishes uncovered by the 2nd page. 5 yrs ago
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Remember, nobody actually enjoys roleplaying if there isn't at least five shameful fetishes uncovered by the 2nd page.
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7 yrs ago
Somebody stole my mood ring. I don't know how to feel about it.
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7 yrs ago
Let's be honest, it's far more satisfying and challenging to actually imagine what a character looks like than paste a hundred gifs of a celebrity and call it good.
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7 yrs ago
So, a team of players who are good at playing as a team in a team-based game are individually bad players. Seems kind of silly when you put it like that, no?
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7 yrs ago
My goal these days is to have an RP that can actually finish, or the very least, last a few years. I see way too many die on page one to take chances
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Lowering the site's value since January 2012.
Most Recent Posts
The name is goddamn awful every time I'm on my phone.
Too late. Maryev has entered the build... yard. Wut.
Maryev wordlessly listened to what the ghost had to say. He inwardly smiled a grim bit of satisfaction. You cannot hurt me now. I doubt you could lay a hand on my even in my full form, but I'm not here for a pissing contest. the ghost had said. It was so sure of its superiority it looked down upon everything else, even letting slip something as vital as the fact it possessed a corporeal form. It could be hurt, or killed. It just had to present itself. Maryev didn’t point out the ghost’s blunder, content to let it tell itself it was secure and untouchable. The Darknut would play the part until it exposed itself, if need be, and show it the error of its arrogance. It wasn’t a matter of if it could be harmed now; it was a matter of when and how. Those answers would come in time, if it so chose to continue harassing him.
He turned his thoughts to what the ghost was proposing. Some form of employment? The thought was repugnant, working for something less than him. He was not a common sellsword, he was a proud warrior and a noble, a man of status. Since when was the last time you walked the halls of Unyus with your head held high? You’ve been scraping by and starving since you awoke by the lake. he chided himself as he felt the ghost vanish from his shade. Looking upon the village before him, Maryev growled. It would be fun, but ultimately fruitless to tear it apart brick by brick. The people were not his enemy, as much as he despised them. He just wanted to be left to his own devises and leave them to theirs unless he needed to use them for something. He lifted his rapidly diminishing rupee purse and frowned. He needed the rupees to survive, and he wasn’t going to resort to being little more than a bandit to shake people down for their wealth. He was barely surviving, let alone thriving. What harm could it be to find if someone was willing to offer him rupees? The realization that he’d need others to reclaim his birthright and return home was hardly a new one to the Darknut warrior, but he had refused to entertain the idea. Maryev was no one’s servant.
But now, he had no choice.
Cursing under his breath, Maryev lowered his visor and grabbed his sword and shield, walking through the graveyard gates. He would entertain the ghost’s proposition, for now. But in the meantime, he would carry himself with pride and let anyone else gathered in the specified place see him as a man of pride and purpose, not as a desperate beggar in need of gems. He would learn if he was right to pay heed to the ethereal trickster soon enough.
Marching upon the graveyard, he paid no heed to the headstones as he passed – their stories had ended, no great deeds could be accomplished by dead men. It wasn’t long before he saw a gathered group, the young scrawny girl who had skulked by him minutes earlier (whatever did she have to offer anyone?), another woman who was unnaturally pale and gangly in ill-fitting clothing who looked as if she were mentally vacant given her purposeless stares, a man in face concealing garment who seemed too flamboyant to be taken seriously, little more than a jester (in Maryev’s culture, an absolute dreg who was little better than the stooges who tended to his chamber pot), and a somewhat sinister looking figure in a robe that concealed everything about him… or it. There was something decidedly unpleasant and unnatural about him, not unlike a practitioner of dark arts. The robe gave off a similar vibe as the ghost from earlier, and Maryev wondered if this was indeed the ghost who had spoken to him earlier? He approached wordlessly and stood sentry, silently observing the others. His purpose of being here would be revealed soon enough and he was in no hurry to entertain the peasants.
He turned his thoughts to what the ghost was proposing. Some form of employment? The thought was repugnant, working for something less than him. He was not a common sellsword, he was a proud warrior and a noble, a man of status. Since when was the last time you walked the halls of Unyus with your head held high? You’ve been scraping by and starving since you awoke by the lake. he chided himself as he felt the ghost vanish from his shade. Looking upon the village before him, Maryev growled. It would be fun, but ultimately fruitless to tear it apart brick by brick. The people were not his enemy, as much as he despised them. He just wanted to be left to his own devises and leave them to theirs unless he needed to use them for something. He lifted his rapidly diminishing rupee purse and frowned. He needed the rupees to survive, and he wasn’t going to resort to being little more than a bandit to shake people down for their wealth. He was barely surviving, let alone thriving. What harm could it be to find if someone was willing to offer him rupees? The realization that he’d need others to reclaim his birthright and return home was hardly a new one to the Darknut warrior, but he had refused to entertain the idea. Maryev was no one’s servant.
But now, he had no choice.
Cursing under his breath, Maryev lowered his visor and grabbed his sword and shield, walking through the graveyard gates. He would entertain the ghost’s proposition, for now. But in the meantime, he would carry himself with pride and let anyone else gathered in the specified place see him as a man of pride and purpose, not as a desperate beggar in need of gems. He would learn if he was right to pay heed to the ethereal trickster soon enough.
Marching upon the graveyard, he paid no heed to the headstones as he passed – their stories had ended, no great deeds could be accomplished by dead men. It wasn’t long before he saw a gathered group, the young scrawny girl who had skulked by him minutes earlier (whatever did she have to offer anyone?), another woman who was unnaturally pale and gangly in ill-fitting clothing who looked as if she were mentally vacant given her purposeless stares, a man in face concealing garment who seemed too flamboyant to be taken seriously, little more than a jester (in Maryev’s culture, an absolute dreg who was little better than the stooges who tended to his chamber pot), and a somewhat sinister looking figure in a robe that concealed everything about him… or it. There was something decidedly unpleasant and unnatural about him, not unlike a practitioner of dark arts. The robe gave off a similar vibe as the ghost from earlier, and Maryev wondered if this was indeed the ghost who had spoken to him earlier? He approached wordlessly and stood sentry, silently observing the others. His purpose of being here would be revealed soon enough and he was in no hurry to entertain the peasants.
Who all is exactly at the Graveyard now? I need to be running off for most of the day, so I don't have a lot of time to be going back through the posts and would like to be able to respond appropriately when I get back. :D
Thanks in advance, best of friends!
Thanks in advance, best of friends!
Poast is up!
While he was loathed to let anyone have the pleasure of distracting him from his meal, Maryev couldn’t help but notice even the graveyard had a high rate of foot traffic passing by, including a young Hylian girl who wisely gave him a wide berth and more importantly never attempted conversation. Did people have no respect for the dead, he wondered. Not that he particular cared for some long dead and rotting Sheikah corpses, if he remembered correctly from his studies in his youth, but he had specifically chosen to loiter by the graveyard in the off chance that the people in Kakariko had some form of standards of decency and would leave him in peace.
Alas, luck was not on his side, and the people of Hyrule were just as shitty as ever. He finished his meal and tossed the bone and last sinews of flesh into the bush somewhere, where perhaps a small child would choke to death on it. He sighed contentedly. That was the fullest meal he’d had in days, and he didn’t have to scavenge it.
Suddenly, a feeling of unease crept over Maryev and he looked up and around cautiously, mindful of the sword and shield resting at his side. Perhaps the proximity of the graveyard was giving him thoughts of Poes or ghosts or other such nonsense, but this felt like much more than a childish spook of the imagination. This felt like standing on the battlefield and wondering if the enemy had an archer trained on you that very moment. The Darknut knew the odds of that here were unlikely, unless those cheap balsawood bows he had seen children running around shooting wadded arrows pitifully about 5 meters at their fellow runts were far more lethal than expected.
As if his mind were capitalizing on his unease, something caught the corner of his eye like an apparition appearing. He grunted, shut his eyes to give them a moment’s reprieve and then looked over where he had seen the apparition of his imagination.
What he saw was decidedly not imaginary, not unless the mutton was drugged with hallucinogenic, which would handily explain why people seemed to be enjoying the dreadful festival. It was also now that he realized that the bone he threw was now being held aloft by what looked like an orange hand of hair. What did the butcher sell him? If he were sober enough, he’d march back and demand answers and potentially more of his wares. Maryev’s ghost decided to speak then, immediately ruling out the hallucination theory. This one was far too lucid.
“Do you make it a habit to sneak up on people and then fondle their scraps?” Maryev demanded. “And any plain fool can see you aren’t Hylian, or at least aren’t now. So tell me, specter, why have you decided to rub my refuse all over yourself and interrupt me? I have a difficult enough time tolerating things I am able to hurt. It remains to be seen if you fit into that category.” He thought about the way the ghost phrased something. “So. You figured out the obvious that eludes most of these people that I’m not one of them. Now why don’t you go bother that blacksmith down the hill? Him and his child deserve a good spook. I am not interested.”
Alas, luck was not on his side, and the people of Hyrule were just as shitty as ever. He finished his meal and tossed the bone and last sinews of flesh into the bush somewhere, where perhaps a small child would choke to death on it. He sighed contentedly. That was the fullest meal he’d had in days, and he didn’t have to scavenge it.
Suddenly, a feeling of unease crept over Maryev and he looked up and around cautiously, mindful of the sword and shield resting at his side. Perhaps the proximity of the graveyard was giving him thoughts of Poes or ghosts or other such nonsense, but this felt like much more than a childish spook of the imagination. This felt like standing on the battlefield and wondering if the enemy had an archer trained on you that very moment. The Darknut knew the odds of that here were unlikely, unless those cheap balsawood bows he had seen children running around shooting wadded arrows pitifully about 5 meters at their fellow runts were far more lethal than expected.
As if his mind were capitalizing on his unease, something caught the corner of his eye like an apparition appearing. He grunted, shut his eyes to give them a moment’s reprieve and then looked over where he had seen the apparition of his imagination.
What he saw was decidedly not imaginary, not unless the mutton was drugged with hallucinogenic, which would handily explain why people seemed to be enjoying the dreadful festival. It was also now that he realized that the bone he threw was now being held aloft by what looked like an orange hand of hair. What did the butcher sell him? If he were sober enough, he’d march back and demand answers and potentially more of his wares. Maryev’s ghost decided to speak then, immediately ruling out the hallucination theory. This one was far too lucid.
“Do you make it a habit to sneak up on people and then fondle their scraps?” Maryev demanded. “And any plain fool can see you aren’t Hylian, or at least aren’t now. So tell me, specter, why have you decided to rub my refuse all over yourself and interrupt me? I have a difficult enough time tolerating things I am able to hurt. It remains to be seen if you fit into that category.” He thought about the way the ghost phrased something. “So. You figured out the obvious that eludes most of these people that I’m not one of them. Now why don’t you go bother that blacksmith down the hill? Him and his child deserve a good spook. I am not interested.”
idlehands said
Now I see where all these new posters are coming from. Look at this guy's sign, says Nat sent him
It probably is Nat.
Annnd post for the other group is up!
Spoiler tags if necessary and all that shit.
Spoiler tags if necessary and all that shit.
Hunding Bay, South of Hammerfell, 18 Rains Hand…
The harsh truth about sailing was that you were at the mercy of the gods whenever you set out. Harding and her crew, seasoned sailors one and all, knew the storm was coming the morning before. The slight change of air pressure, the slightly sharper winds belied an impending peril despite the clear blue skies. More weight was shifted into the lowest deck as ballast to help keep the schooner balanced in the coming storm. Harding suspected even then it was not going to be enough, and consulting with her helmsmen, a sea artist who was perhaps one of the most accomplished sailors in the West, informed the Captain of the grim news; there was no way they’d find a safe cove within two days. They were at the mercy of the divines, it seemed.
She had instructed her passengers, particularly the ones in heavy armour, to store it all in a large airtight barrel that would be fastened to the central mast in case the worst was to happen, which would be the ship capsizing. Anyone caught in heavy armour, regardless of their prowess at swimming, would quickly be sunk and drowned without a hope in Oblivion of rescue. The Breton woman had seen that one happen far too many times to treat it lightly; it was a damned horrific way for a man to die.
The first of the rains hit an hour after sunrise. The sky was blackened like a soot and it thrashed the hull and the masts like a wave, the near horizontal rains threatening to push the crew to the starboard side and overboard, were they not careful. Many of Harding’s crew in fixed positions secured themselves with lengths of rope, as maintaining one’s perch up high was a perilous thing when there was little blocking the fury of the storm. The sea was picking up as well; waves crashed into the hull, spilling sea water over the deck in a powerful flood. Several crewmembers lost their footing and fell onto their backs, scrambling to grab a hold of anything as they slid. The captain cursed and ordered her helmsmen to take them further in land. A crack of thunder filled the air and a blinding bolt of lightning crossed the sky as if it were a chilling omen. Despite the rain, Harding could tell she was sweating.
It was not a good place to be.
Although the crew could not see it, within 40 minutes the shoreline was fast approaching according to the sea artist, and Harding was struggling to keep her balance on the wet deck. Some of her passengers, including Marassa, had chosen to sit anchored near the center of the deck, not daring stand or get in the seasoned crew’s way. Harding paid them little mind when she heard the helmsman shout in alarm, and she turned in time to see a water spout bearing down on the schooner, perhaps two kilometers out.
Ordering the helmsmen to make it straight for the shore, the man complied, turning the wheel with every bit of strength he could muster, the sails fighting against his wishes every degree of turn he earned for his efforts. The ship was now racing a storm; if they were to be hit directly by the water spout, they’d surely flounder and perish. Several tense minutes passed as the ship raced, rocking violently as the waves picked up in ferocity. Harding herself gripped the bannister so hard her knuckles threatened to burst forth from her flesh. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, as if willing her ship to outpace the storm. A cry came from foredeck, “She’s missed us! Thank Akatosh…”
The relief was immediately lost by a chilling, shrill cry. “ROGUE WAVE! BRACE FOR IMPACT!”
Harding turned swiftly, trying to ascertain where the threat was coming from and immediately wished she hadn’t. She scarcely had a moment to scream before the monstrous, towering wave overcame the ship and the world went dark.
Eventually after some time, the sky cleared and Marassa came to as she lay prone on the deck of the ship, the blinding light of the day burning her eyes, forcing her to cover her eyes with a forearm weakly. Her abdomen killed, the rope harness that had been fastened to secure her had dug in deep during the storm and felt like it had almost ripped her in half. Pulling a dagger free from her belt, which had miraculously stayed on her, she cut the rope free and breathed a sigh of relief as she mustered enough energy to summon a restoration spell that slowly eroded the pain. The khajiit wasn’t sure how long she laid still after that, but she eventually found it in herself to sit upright and struggle to her feet.
The ship had run aground on either a large island or the mainland, and if Marassa’s memory served her well, there were no islands near where they were sailing when the storm hit. The crew lay dazed around her, some walking uneasily from place to place, trying diligently to do their work, although it immediately became clear that they would not be going anywhere; the mast had a large stress fracture that threatened to splinter the wood in two. It was unsettling enough that the khajiit took a few steps away from the pillar with its ragged, torn sails. She found Harding sitting outside of her cabin, mending her broken arm with her own restoration spell. She looked miserable.
The Breton looked up and spoke before she was greeted. “I hate to admit it, but this isn’t the first time this happened to me ship.” She muttered anxiously, helping herself gingerly to her feet with no small amount of effort. Marassa moved to help the woman by throwing her arm over her shoulders. The khajiit suspected the captain would not have accepted the offer had she been more herself. The Breton looked devastated as she looked about the ship, shaking her head. “Twelve hands lost, either by virtue of being dead aboard or taken out to sea. Your friends all made it.” She said, answering Marassa’s unspoken question. The woman walked with a pronounced limp and looked up at the sky. “It’s going to be dark in a few short hours. We’ll make camp on the beach and figure out if we can salvage the ship or if we have to scuttle her. It breaks me fucking heart.” She said, pulling away from Marassa with an appreciative nod as she started to bark orders to the survivors to mobilize them. It was going to be hard labour.
One of the virtues of a beached, damaged ship was the fact that firewood was not hard to come by, as various shattered and splintered planks gave more than enough for several beach fires that would last throughout the night. Marassa and her companions had their own fires and Harding was nowhere to be seen, likely making use of her largely untouched cabin. She’d likely be the only one sleeping well this night.
While people made small talk around their respective fires, the mood was understandably subdued and Marassa in particular was frustrated. She had no idea how far away they were from Hegathe, and while she knew that she was lucky to be alive and was spared a grueling journey overland, this was an unfortunate setback that did nothing but try her patience. She had found a whetstone in the hull and was tending to her sword that was laid across her armoured lap, her items obtained in the time after she had awoken and the crew got to work. She helped set up a perimeter of spikes and various light items were strung across lengths of rope as an early warning sign against predators or bandits. Who would attack a sizable and armed ship crew was either brave or suicidal.
Before Marassa could turn in for the night, her ears detected the unmistakable sound of the line being tripped by something. She was immediately on her feet, scanning the horizon for the intruder, her khajiit eyes penetrating the dark handily. She immediately regretted what she saw.
“SCORPIANS!” she bellowed, standing to and moving towards the line. The pirates who were asleep stumbled awake with a startle and those who were still awake scrambled for their weapons. Those closest to the line weren’t close enough and were set upon by the massive armoured arachnids, many easily six feet in length or more. Powerful stings punctured bodies and claws tore flesh asunder and three men and a women were immediately overcome by the creatures, disappearing screaming under a writhing mass of far too many legs.
“How many?!” an alarmed voice yelled from Marassa’s left.
“Dozens, at least!” She called back as she quartered off against the first of the beasts, hoping her armour would be strong enough to withstand the blow.
Casting feather upon herself, Marassa moved quickly and dodged a sting from the scorpion, which immediately had its tail severed and the point of her greatsword driven into its head, her support hand on the grip partway up the blade, giving the weapon a function not unlike a spear. The victory was shallow, as the writhing tide in front of her was far from depleted. Quickly casting a magelight into the sand before her, the horror she was witnessing was now visible to the others.
A part of her wishes she drowned, but Marassa had endured worse, and she was not going to die to several dull-witted creatures, not this close to hear goal.
Bellowing out a feral feline warcry, Marassa charged forward to meet her foe.
The harsh truth about sailing was that you were at the mercy of the gods whenever you set out. Harding and her crew, seasoned sailors one and all, knew the storm was coming the morning before. The slight change of air pressure, the slightly sharper winds belied an impending peril despite the clear blue skies. More weight was shifted into the lowest deck as ballast to help keep the schooner balanced in the coming storm. Harding suspected even then it was not going to be enough, and consulting with her helmsmen, a sea artist who was perhaps one of the most accomplished sailors in the West, informed the Captain of the grim news; there was no way they’d find a safe cove within two days. They were at the mercy of the divines, it seemed.
She had instructed her passengers, particularly the ones in heavy armour, to store it all in a large airtight barrel that would be fastened to the central mast in case the worst was to happen, which would be the ship capsizing. Anyone caught in heavy armour, regardless of their prowess at swimming, would quickly be sunk and drowned without a hope in Oblivion of rescue. The Breton woman had seen that one happen far too many times to treat it lightly; it was a damned horrific way for a man to die.
The first of the rains hit an hour after sunrise. The sky was blackened like a soot and it thrashed the hull and the masts like a wave, the near horizontal rains threatening to push the crew to the starboard side and overboard, were they not careful. Many of Harding’s crew in fixed positions secured themselves with lengths of rope, as maintaining one’s perch up high was a perilous thing when there was little blocking the fury of the storm. The sea was picking up as well; waves crashed into the hull, spilling sea water over the deck in a powerful flood. Several crewmembers lost their footing and fell onto their backs, scrambling to grab a hold of anything as they slid. The captain cursed and ordered her helmsmen to take them further in land. A crack of thunder filled the air and a blinding bolt of lightning crossed the sky as if it were a chilling omen. Despite the rain, Harding could tell she was sweating.
It was not a good place to be.
Although the crew could not see it, within 40 minutes the shoreline was fast approaching according to the sea artist, and Harding was struggling to keep her balance on the wet deck. Some of her passengers, including Marassa, had chosen to sit anchored near the center of the deck, not daring stand or get in the seasoned crew’s way. Harding paid them little mind when she heard the helmsman shout in alarm, and she turned in time to see a water spout bearing down on the schooner, perhaps two kilometers out.
Ordering the helmsmen to make it straight for the shore, the man complied, turning the wheel with every bit of strength he could muster, the sails fighting against his wishes every degree of turn he earned for his efforts. The ship was now racing a storm; if they were to be hit directly by the water spout, they’d surely flounder and perish. Several tense minutes passed as the ship raced, rocking violently as the waves picked up in ferocity. Harding herself gripped the bannister so hard her knuckles threatened to burst forth from her flesh. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, as if willing her ship to outpace the storm. A cry came from foredeck, “She’s missed us! Thank Akatosh…”
The relief was immediately lost by a chilling, shrill cry. “ROGUE WAVE! BRACE FOR IMPACT!”
Harding turned swiftly, trying to ascertain where the threat was coming from and immediately wished she hadn’t. She scarcely had a moment to scream before the monstrous, towering wave overcame the ship and the world went dark.
Eventually after some time, the sky cleared and Marassa came to as she lay prone on the deck of the ship, the blinding light of the day burning her eyes, forcing her to cover her eyes with a forearm weakly. Her abdomen killed, the rope harness that had been fastened to secure her had dug in deep during the storm and felt like it had almost ripped her in half. Pulling a dagger free from her belt, which had miraculously stayed on her, she cut the rope free and breathed a sigh of relief as she mustered enough energy to summon a restoration spell that slowly eroded the pain. The khajiit wasn’t sure how long she laid still after that, but she eventually found it in herself to sit upright and struggle to her feet.
The ship had run aground on either a large island or the mainland, and if Marassa’s memory served her well, there were no islands near where they were sailing when the storm hit. The crew lay dazed around her, some walking uneasily from place to place, trying diligently to do their work, although it immediately became clear that they would not be going anywhere; the mast had a large stress fracture that threatened to splinter the wood in two. It was unsettling enough that the khajiit took a few steps away from the pillar with its ragged, torn sails. She found Harding sitting outside of her cabin, mending her broken arm with her own restoration spell. She looked miserable.
The Breton looked up and spoke before she was greeted. “I hate to admit it, but this isn’t the first time this happened to me ship.” She muttered anxiously, helping herself gingerly to her feet with no small amount of effort. Marassa moved to help the woman by throwing her arm over her shoulders. The khajiit suspected the captain would not have accepted the offer had she been more herself. The Breton looked devastated as she looked about the ship, shaking her head. “Twelve hands lost, either by virtue of being dead aboard or taken out to sea. Your friends all made it.” She said, answering Marassa’s unspoken question. The woman walked with a pronounced limp and looked up at the sky. “It’s going to be dark in a few short hours. We’ll make camp on the beach and figure out if we can salvage the ship or if we have to scuttle her. It breaks me fucking heart.” She said, pulling away from Marassa with an appreciative nod as she started to bark orders to the survivors to mobilize them. It was going to be hard labour.
One of the virtues of a beached, damaged ship was the fact that firewood was not hard to come by, as various shattered and splintered planks gave more than enough for several beach fires that would last throughout the night. Marassa and her companions had their own fires and Harding was nowhere to be seen, likely making use of her largely untouched cabin. She’d likely be the only one sleeping well this night.
While people made small talk around their respective fires, the mood was understandably subdued and Marassa in particular was frustrated. She had no idea how far away they were from Hegathe, and while she knew that she was lucky to be alive and was spared a grueling journey overland, this was an unfortunate setback that did nothing but try her patience. She had found a whetstone in the hull and was tending to her sword that was laid across her armoured lap, her items obtained in the time after she had awoken and the crew got to work. She helped set up a perimeter of spikes and various light items were strung across lengths of rope as an early warning sign against predators or bandits. Who would attack a sizable and armed ship crew was either brave or suicidal.
Before Marassa could turn in for the night, her ears detected the unmistakable sound of the line being tripped by something. She was immediately on her feet, scanning the horizon for the intruder, her khajiit eyes penetrating the dark handily. She immediately regretted what she saw.
“SCORPIANS!” she bellowed, standing to and moving towards the line. The pirates who were asleep stumbled awake with a startle and those who were still awake scrambled for their weapons. Those closest to the line weren’t close enough and were set upon by the massive armoured arachnids, many easily six feet in length or more. Powerful stings punctured bodies and claws tore flesh asunder and three men and a women were immediately overcome by the creatures, disappearing screaming under a writhing mass of far too many legs.
“How many?!” an alarmed voice yelled from Marassa’s left.
“Dozens, at least!” She called back as she quartered off against the first of the beasts, hoping her armour would be strong enough to withstand the blow.
Casting feather upon herself, Marassa moved quickly and dodged a sting from the scorpion, which immediately had its tail severed and the point of her greatsword driven into its head, her support hand on the grip partway up the blade, giving the weapon a function not unlike a spear. The victory was shallow, as the writhing tide in front of her was far from depleted. Quickly casting a magelight into the sand before her, the horror she was witnessing was now visible to the others.
A part of her wishes she drowned, but Marassa had endured worse, and she was not going to die to several dull-witted creatures, not this close to hear goal.
Bellowing out a feral feline warcry, Marassa charged forward to meet her foe.
ReaptheMusic said
Hnnnggggg fine can we at least dance around a fireplace like savages or something? <--- this one right here.
You have yourself a deal. It has to be that exact dance or the deal is off, young lady.
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