Googer like. Googer want.
gorgenmast Member
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7 mos ago
LUV GOIN 2 A RENNASANZ FAIR. LOTTA FAGET NERDBOYS BUT GAWTDAMM I LUV THEM TURKYLEGS. COULD BOUTA DOZZEN OF THEM TASTY LIL FUCKS. LEMME GET A HELL YEAH BRUTHER
4
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7 mos ago
MY PAPAW TOLLD ME 1 THING: SON WHEN UR MY AGE, UR GONA APPRESHIATE TAKIN A GOOD SHIT. AND BRUTHER, HE WUZ RITE! KEN I GETTA FUCKEN HELL YEAH?
5
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1 yr ago
GONNA HAVE 2 DO SUM COMONITY SERVISE BC I GOT A FUKKIN DUI. I ASKED THE JUDGE IF HITTIN ON FAT-ASSED MEXICAN GIRLS CULD BE A SERVISE 2 THA CUMUNITY! LEMME GET A GOTTDAM HELL YEA BRUTTHER!!
3
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1 yr ago
SMASHMBURGERS, MORE LIKE TRASH MY ASSHOLEBURGERS.. THOS GREEZY LIL FUCKS GIVE ME DIARRHEA N GAS LIKE U WOLD NOT BELEEVE. BEEN SHITTIING MY ASS OFF ALL NITE. CAN I GET A FUKKIN HELL YEAH BROTHER???/
2
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1 yr ago
I like a man that knows what he wants. And I love when what he wants is to wear a pirate’s hat and poop on my chest whilst saying “Arr! Swab the poopdeck ye scurvy hedgepig!” Aye aye, daddy! 🥵😫🏴☠️
7
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Bio
lol who gives a shit
Most Recent Posts
Personal Information
Name: Vanda Melo
Age: 17
Gender: Male
Height/Weight: 5 feet, 7 inches. 130 lbs.
Hobbies: His time as an apprentice with the Clocksmith's Guild has given Vanda an appreciation for tinkering. He enjoys writing, and his assistance writing peer-reviewed treatises in collaboration with Avalice faculty demonstrates that he is fairly adept.
Appearance: [WIP]
History: During his first two years at Avalice, Vanda was presumed by much of the faculty and student body to be a future member of the Seven: those most gifted and prestigious of the great arcane university at Genealogia. The savant junior underclassman was writing peer-reviewed treatises at age 14. At 15, he was teaching classes - technically in the capacity of a professor's-aide, though his pupils would confess that his lectures were more edifying than those of tenured instructors. Vanda's genius was unprecedented and his graduation seemed assured.
But when Headmaster Augustine moved Vanda from Class Wisteria to Class Camellia in an effort to provide some leadership to Avalice's struggling pupils, everything about Vanda changed. It would seem that the so called "Curse of Class C" would not be so easily broken. It would seem the Class Camellia's misfortune had rubbed off on even Avalice's most prestigious young student.
Vanda had always been moody and capricious, and rumor had it that Vanda had a falling out with his wealthy parents. Nobody was quite sure what caused the row between the noble couple and their son; Vanda was something of a loner and never confided much to his few acquaintances. Whatever caused the disagreement, it resulted in Vanda needing to pay his own way through Avalice's substantial tuition and board expenses.
During the break between semesters, Vanda became an apprentice of the Clocksmiths' Guild. The meticulousness and precision demanded by the craft suited Vanda well. Vanda became a valuable apprentice to the guild, helping not only to build the namesake clocks of the guild, but also arcanometers: high-precision tools used to detect and quantify the presence of mana. In the process of building and studying these advanced devices, Vanda became preoccupied with the belief that living beings were clockwork devices of a different - more complicated sort.
As Vanda began his junior upperclassman semester, the academy's librarian's noticed a worrying pattern to their pupil's new reading habits. Vanda borrowed translations of ancient tomes detailing strange magics, books of the dead, and scrolls written in the untranslated calligraphy of the devils. Some of Vanda's requests were forbidden texts containing hidden knowledge deemed hazardous and unfit for the virgin eyes of unprepared pupils.
And while members of the faculty began to fret over Vanda's reading habits, disquieting rumors about Vanda's studies circulated among the pupils. Whispers told of Vanda drowning mice in a pitcher of water, and then using electrodes tethered to power crystals to galvanize them back to life.
Vanda went to fewer and fewer of his classes in the middle of that semester, until one day late in the fall when Vanda completely left. The faculty still contest that Vanda dropped out, but rumor among the students holds that Vanda was actually expelled. The exact cause for the expulsion varies from storyteller to storyteller, but many rumors hold necromancy and a missing girl from Class Iris in common.
Nearly a year has passed since Vanda abruptly left Avalice last semester. Rumor holds that an investigation by the faculty found that Vanda committed no wrong, and that the disgraced pupil is soon to return to the academy. As the start of the semester draws near, the professors have little to say regarding Vanda's purported return for his final semester. Whether or not Vanda is to return this year remains to be seen. Some students protest his purported return, and a few vow to exact justice for what they claim Vanda did to the Iris girl.
Combat Information
Magic Class: Alteration
Mana Color: Sickly green
Mana Characteristic: Akin to a wasp's sting: faint and almost imperceptible at first. Gradually builds into a lingering sharpness.
Equipment:
Arcanometer - The Clocksmith's Guild, in addition to clocks, constructs and designs high-precision clockwork technology used in the more developed parts of the world. One such piece of technology is the arcanometer - a device used to detect and measure mana. As an apprentice to the guild, Vanda was able to construct his own arcanometer. Superficially, the arcanometer looks very similar to a noble's pocketwatch or compass. A dial hand fashioned from an exotic manaphilic metal, such as aztjalum, points toward the nearest mana-bearing body or the highest concentration if there are multiple in the vicinity. A second dial hand points to various graduations on the dial of the arcanometer, which show how much mana is present. In a combat situation, arcanometers are reliable means of knowing if the opponent is a powerful sorcerer or if they might be concealing some powerful enchanted device.
Spells:
-Fibrillate: In ancient times, it was thought that the heart was the vessel of the soul. In Vanda's studies, he has learned that it is nothing more than a pump coordinated by electrical impulses. Throw these electrical impulses off, and the heart of even the strongest warrior will begin to spasm ineffectively. It takes very little mana to achieve a lethal fibrillation, and few healers in this day and age can recognize the cause until it is too late. Vanda needs to be able to place his palm on the foe's chest to cast this spell. Metal armor or thick clothing diminishes its efficacy.
-Thunderbolt: A crackling lance of green thunder magic erupts from Vanda's fingertips. A flashy, loud spell that is capable of electrocuting foes and igniting clothing and other flammable objects. Air is not exceptionally conductive, and so launching a bolt of lightning through the air at an opponent is mana-intensive. Electric energy courses to ground through the path of least resistance, which in many combat situations might be through a foe's sword or plate armor. Its efficacy is highly variable. Not Vanda's favorite combat spell, though it has its uses.
-Resuscitate: Just as electrical mana can be used to paralyze a heart, it can also be used to restart a heart that has recently stopped beating. In some more primitive parts of the world, such magic may be mistaken for necromancy.
Name: Vanda Melo
Age: 17
Gender: Male
Height/Weight: 5 feet, 7 inches. 130 lbs.
Hobbies: His time as an apprentice with the Clocksmith's Guild has given Vanda an appreciation for tinkering. He enjoys writing, and his assistance writing peer-reviewed treatises in collaboration with Avalice faculty demonstrates that he is fairly adept.
Appearance: [WIP]
History: During his first two years at Avalice, Vanda was presumed by much of the faculty and student body to be a future member of the Seven: those most gifted and prestigious of the great arcane university at Genealogia. The savant junior underclassman was writing peer-reviewed treatises at age 14. At 15, he was teaching classes - technically in the capacity of a professor's-aide, though his pupils would confess that his lectures were more edifying than those of tenured instructors. Vanda's genius was unprecedented and his graduation seemed assured.
But when Headmaster Augustine moved Vanda from Class Wisteria to Class Camellia in an effort to provide some leadership to Avalice's struggling pupils, everything about Vanda changed. It would seem that the so called "Curse of Class C" would not be so easily broken. It would seem the Class Camellia's misfortune had rubbed off on even Avalice's most prestigious young student.
Vanda had always been moody and capricious, and rumor had it that Vanda had a falling out with his wealthy parents. Nobody was quite sure what caused the row between the noble couple and their son; Vanda was something of a loner and never confided much to his few acquaintances. Whatever caused the disagreement, it resulted in Vanda needing to pay his own way through Avalice's substantial tuition and board expenses.
During the break between semesters, Vanda became an apprentice of the Clocksmiths' Guild. The meticulousness and precision demanded by the craft suited Vanda well. Vanda became a valuable apprentice to the guild, helping not only to build the namesake clocks of the guild, but also arcanometers: high-precision tools used to detect and quantify the presence of mana. In the process of building and studying these advanced devices, Vanda became preoccupied with the belief that living beings were clockwork devices of a different - more complicated sort.
As Vanda began his junior upperclassman semester, the academy's librarian's noticed a worrying pattern to their pupil's new reading habits. Vanda borrowed translations of ancient tomes detailing strange magics, books of the dead, and scrolls written in the untranslated calligraphy of the devils. Some of Vanda's requests were forbidden texts containing hidden knowledge deemed hazardous and unfit for the virgin eyes of unprepared pupils.
And while members of the faculty began to fret over Vanda's reading habits, disquieting rumors about Vanda's studies circulated among the pupils. Whispers told of Vanda drowning mice in a pitcher of water, and then using electrodes tethered to power crystals to galvanize them back to life.
Vanda went to fewer and fewer of his classes in the middle of that semester, until one day late in the fall when Vanda completely left. The faculty still contest that Vanda dropped out, but rumor among the students holds that Vanda was actually expelled. The exact cause for the expulsion varies from storyteller to storyteller, but many rumors hold necromancy and a missing girl from Class Iris in common.
Nearly a year has passed since Vanda abruptly left Avalice last semester. Rumor holds that an investigation by the faculty found that Vanda committed no wrong, and that the disgraced pupil is soon to return to the academy. As the start of the semester draws near, the professors have little to say regarding Vanda's purported return for his final semester. Whether or not Vanda is to return this year remains to be seen. Some students protest his purported return, and a few vow to exact justice for what they claim Vanda did to the Iris girl.
Combat Information
Magic Class: Alteration
Mana Color: Sickly green
Mana Characteristic: Akin to a wasp's sting: faint and almost imperceptible at first. Gradually builds into a lingering sharpness.
Equipment:
Arcanometer - The Clocksmith's Guild, in addition to clocks, constructs and designs high-precision clockwork technology used in the more developed parts of the world. One such piece of technology is the arcanometer - a device used to detect and measure mana. As an apprentice to the guild, Vanda was able to construct his own arcanometer. Superficially, the arcanometer looks very similar to a noble's pocketwatch or compass. A dial hand fashioned from an exotic manaphilic metal, such as aztjalum, points toward the nearest mana-bearing body or the highest concentration if there are multiple in the vicinity. A second dial hand points to various graduations on the dial of the arcanometer, which show how much mana is present. In a combat situation, arcanometers are reliable means of knowing if the opponent is a powerful sorcerer or if they might be concealing some powerful enchanted device.
Spells:
-Fibrillate: In ancient times, it was thought that the heart was the vessel of the soul. In Vanda's studies, he has learned that it is nothing more than a pump coordinated by electrical impulses. Throw these electrical impulses off, and the heart of even the strongest warrior will begin to spasm ineffectively. It takes very little mana to achieve a lethal fibrillation, and few healers in this day and age can recognize the cause until it is too late. Vanda needs to be able to place his palm on the foe's chest to cast this spell. Metal armor or thick clothing diminishes its efficacy.
-Thunderbolt: A crackling lance of green thunder magic erupts from Vanda's fingertips. A flashy, loud spell that is capable of electrocuting foes and igniting clothing and other flammable objects. Air is not exceptionally conductive, and so launching a bolt of lightning through the air at an opponent is mana-intensive. Electric energy courses to ground through the path of least resistance, which in many combat situations might be through a foe's sword or plate armor. Its efficacy is highly variable. Not Vanda's favorite combat spell, though it has its uses.
-Resuscitate: Just as electrical mana can be used to paralyze a heart, it can also be used to restart a heart that has recently stopped beating. In some more primitive parts of the world, such magic may be mistaken for necromancy.
I wrote this about two weeks back and then forgot all about it. I'll post it anyway if anyone wants to recycle ideas from it.
Name: Far Askan
Flag:
Quick description of your nation: The twin islands of Askan were the last Mycorian lands to become part of the Arkronian dominion. Separated from the mainland by thirty leagues of frigid sea, no one knew
The side your nation was on during the 3th rebellion: Either with the throne or with the rebels
Population/races:
Culture/society:
Religion:
History: The twin islands of Askan were the last lands to become part of the Arkronian dominion. The Arkronian conquest was delayed not by the fierce independence of the native peoples, but rather by isolation. Separated from the mainland by thirty leagues of frigid sea, no one on the mainland knew that the Askan Isles even existed until just after the Second Rebellion. During the conflicts of the Rebellion, a conscripted peasant by the name of Lamon Surefoot saved the life of his Arkronian commander. After peace was won at Tallingan Forest, Surefoot was rewarded for his brave actions with a writ of enfeoffment: a deed to establish a manor of his own in the sparsely-populated wilderness on Mycoria's northeastern coast.
For two generations, Surefoot and his son eked out a rude existence at their coastal settlement. A short growing season and poor, rocky soil made farming unfruitful at the settlement came to be known as Surefoot's Folly. Lamon's son Dorik gave up on farming as he had marginally-better luck fishing and whaling the frigid seas north of Surefoot's Folly. On a whaling foray, an autumn storm cast Dorik's fishing boat far out to sea. Accustomed to short fishing voyages within sight of shore, neither Dorik nor his crew were proficient navigators, and so they meandered aimlessly across the sea for several days, hoping just to sight land. With water and provisions long since exhausted, Dorik and his crew nearly perished at sea. But after six days adrift, land was sighted not to the south, but to the north.
Dorik and his crew disembarked on a rocky peninsula. Shortly after satisfying their ravenous hunger on cockles and abalone harvested from rocky tidepools, they realized that the coastal contours of this headland matched no stretch of land on their maps. With their hunger and thirst sated and their curiosity piqued, Dorik and his crew sailed along the coast. A three-day long circumnavigation revealed that this landmass was not some peninsula, but a very large island far removed from the mainland. As soon as Dorik found his way back to Surefoot's Folly, he gathered as many boats and men as he could muster for a prolonged expedition to this newly-discovered land.
Dorik returned to the island the following spring with a crude flotilla of fishing boats, fifty men, and pack mules, establishing a camp near his initial beachhead that would later become Urchin Landing. Dorik's expedition went inland and discovered a barren, windswept country. Wind-stunted junipers and brushy tufts of willow bush were the only vegetation on the island save for the scraggly tufts of grass that grew upon the gravelly earth that fed herds of wooly yaks and reindeer.
And despite such an unforgiving land and clime, Dorik's expedition found that this country was already inhabited. A race of stout, hairy men living in hamlets of stone huts made this country their home. Clad in crude hide loincloths and speaking in a jabbering tongue that bore no resemblance to their Arkronian language, the native men of the island quailed at the sight of Dorik's expedition - poorly outfitted and armed as they were. The pitiful natives did naught but cower in the corners of their huts as Dorik's men helped themselves to whatever food and belongings they desired. These were the first of a great many crimes the Mycorians would commit against the people that would come to be known as the Seal-Eaters.
Upon returning from that expedition, Dorik discovered that the seal pelts and walrus tusks they had stolen from the Seal-Eaters fetched handsome sums in foreign bazaars. Dorik quickly realized that the island he had discovered was a veritable gold mine; a gold mine that old he had access to. He wasted little time in pawning off the writ of enfeoffment for Surefoot's Folly to some half-wit in the Capital and used the proceeds to procure a merchant's cog that he loaded with timbers, nails, mortar, goats, and a company of crossbow-toting mercenaries.
Dorik's third visit to the island of the Seal-Eaters was a conquest for lack of a better word. Conquest would imply that there was a struggle or resistance against the Mycorians. What little opposition Dorik and his mercenaries met was put down with ruthless one-sidedness. Loincloth-wearing savages armed with whalebone spears had no hope against Dorik's chainmail-clad crossbowmen. A handful of such massacres were more than sufficient to quell the remaining Seal-Eaters. In a single summer, the entire southern island was subdued, and the Seal-Eaters were put to work building a fortress for their foreign masters at Urchin Landing.
Eventually, the royal court in Arkron caught wind of the glut of rare seal pelts and ivory appearing in markets across Mycoria and traced their origin back to Dorik Surefoot - by now a fabulously-wealthy merchant with connections throughout the land. A fleet of Arkronian galleys was dispatched and eventually discovered Dorik's stronghold at Urchin Landing. The Arkronian captain was furious that these lands were kept a secret and not reported to the crown. In spite of the blockade, Dorik was able to request a favor from the descendants of that Arkronian commander his father had rescued during the Rebellion - now a prominent family with the ability to exert influence on the royal court. With pressure from Arkron relented, Dorik offered to pay royal duties in arrears on the pelts and ivory sold over the past decade and swear fealty to the Arkronian liege. The royal court accepted the offer, and Dorik Surefoot - naming the islands after the Arkronian commander that his father rescued - became the lord of Far Askan, a vassal of the Arkronian Kingdom.
Dorik and his heirs became fabulously wealthy hunting seals, walrus, and whales from their septentrional dominion. But the wealth of the Mycorian lords was jealously kept from the Seal-Eater peasantry. Naturally a timid and demure people, the serfs of Askan could only tolerate so many injustices until even they reached their breaking point. During the Third Rebellion, the Seal-Eaters saw their opportunity to avenge themselves against their Arkronian-aligned masters. On the Northern Island, the Seal-Eaters carried out a massacre against the Mycorian walrus hunters and burned the outposts of Borean Keep, Heatherstone, and Summer Harbor. Hundreds of Mycorian guardsmen were killed in the uprisings. Only the stone walls of Urchin Landing kept the Seal-Eaters from completely removing the Mycorians from their homeland once and for all. But with the Vulpin Treachery came a sudden end to the Third Rebellion, allowing Lord Surefoot's forces sent abroad to serve the crown to return in time to put down the Seal-Eater revolt and restore Mycorian rule to Askan.
Once the Seal-Eaters had been subdued, a series of vicious reprisals was carried out against the populace. The most infamous of these punishment was Lord Garik Surefoot's order to cut out the tongue of every Seal-Eater man old enough to have participated in the rebellion, so that the words of
Government:
Economy:
Military:
Territory:
Factions:
Characters:
Name: Far Askan
Flag:
Quick description of your nation: The twin islands of Askan were the last Mycorian lands to become part of the Arkronian dominion. Separated from the mainland by thirty leagues of frigid sea, no one knew
The side your nation was on during the 3th rebellion: Either with the throne or with the rebels
Population/races:
Culture/society:
Religion:
History: The twin islands of Askan were the last lands to become part of the Arkronian dominion. The Arkronian conquest was delayed not by the fierce independence of the native peoples, but rather by isolation. Separated from the mainland by thirty leagues of frigid sea, no one on the mainland knew that the Askan Isles even existed until just after the Second Rebellion. During the conflicts of the Rebellion, a conscripted peasant by the name of Lamon Surefoot saved the life of his Arkronian commander. After peace was won at Tallingan Forest, Surefoot was rewarded for his brave actions with a writ of enfeoffment: a deed to establish a manor of his own in the sparsely-populated wilderness on Mycoria's northeastern coast.
For two generations, Surefoot and his son eked out a rude existence at their coastal settlement. A short growing season and poor, rocky soil made farming unfruitful at the settlement came to be known as Surefoot's Folly. Lamon's son Dorik gave up on farming as he had marginally-better luck fishing and whaling the frigid seas north of Surefoot's Folly. On a whaling foray, an autumn storm cast Dorik's fishing boat far out to sea. Accustomed to short fishing voyages within sight of shore, neither Dorik nor his crew were proficient navigators, and so they meandered aimlessly across the sea for several days, hoping just to sight land. With water and provisions long since exhausted, Dorik and his crew nearly perished at sea. But after six days adrift, land was sighted not to the south, but to the north.
Dorik and his crew disembarked on a rocky peninsula. Shortly after satisfying their ravenous hunger on cockles and abalone harvested from rocky tidepools, they realized that the coastal contours of this headland matched no stretch of land on their maps. With their hunger and thirst sated and their curiosity piqued, Dorik and his crew sailed along the coast. A three-day long circumnavigation revealed that this landmass was not some peninsula, but a very large island far removed from the mainland. As soon as Dorik found his way back to Surefoot's Folly, he gathered as many boats and men as he could muster for a prolonged expedition to this newly-discovered land.
Dorik returned to the island the following spring with a crude flotilla of fishing boats, fifty men, and pack mules, establishing a camp near his initial beachhead that would later become Urchin Landing. Dorik's expedition went inland and discovered a barren, windswept country. Wind-stunted junipers and brushy tufts of willow bush were the only vegetation on the island save for the scraggly tufts of grass that grew upon the gravelly earth that fed herds of wooly yaks and reindeer.
And despite such an unforgiving land and clime, Dorik's expedition found that this country was already inhabited. A race of stout, hairy men living in hamlets of stone huts made this country their home. Clad in crude hide loincloths and speaking in a jabbering tongue that bore no resemblance to their Arkronian language, the native men of the island quailed at the sight of Dorik's expedition - poorly outfitted and armed as they were. The pitiful natives did naught but cower in the corners of their huts as Dorik's men helped themselves to whatever food and belongings they desired. These were the first of a great many crimes the Mycorians would commit against the people that would come to be known as the Seal-Eaters.
Upon returning from that expedition, Dorik discovered that the seal pelts and walrus tusks they had stolen from the Seal-Eaters fetched handsome sums in foreign bazaars. Dorik quickly realized that the island he had discovered was a veritable gold mine; a gold mine that old he had access to. He wasted little time in pawning off the writ of enfeoffment for Surefoot's Folly to some half-wit in the Capital and used the proceeds to procure a merchant's cog that he loaded with timbers, nails, mortar, goats, and a company of crossbow-toting mercenaries.
Dorik's third visit to the island of the Seal-Eaters was a conquest for lack of a better word. Conquest would imply that there was a struggle or resistance against the Mycorians. What little opposition Dorik and his mercenaries met was put down with ruthless one-sidedness. Loincloth-wearing savages armed with whalebone spears had no hope against Dorik's chainmail-clad crossbowmen. A handful of such massacres were more than sufficient to quell the remaining Seal-Eaters. In a single summer, the entire southern island was subdued, and the Seal-Eaters were put to work building a fortress for their foreign masters at Urchin Landing.
Eventually, the royal court in Arkron caught wind of the glut of rare seal pelts and ivory appearing in markets across Mycoria and traced their origin back to Dorik Surefoot - by now a fabulously-wealthy merchant with connections throughout the land. A fleet of Arkronian galleys was dispatched and eventually discovered Dorik's stronghold at Urchin Landing. The Arkronian captain was furious that these lands were kept a secret and not reported to the crown. In spite of the blockade, Dorik was able to request a favor from the descendants of that Arkronian commander his father had rescued during the Rebellion - now a prominent family with the ability to exert influence on the royal court. With pressure from Arkron relented, Dorik offered to pay royal duties in arrears on the pelts and ivory sold over the past decade and swear fealty to the Arkronian liege. The royal court accepted the offer, and Dorik Surefoot - naming the islands after the Arkronian commander that his father rescued - became the lord of Far Askan, a vassal of the Arkronian Kingdom.
Dorik and his heirs became fabulously wealthy hunting seals, walrus, and whales from their septentrional dominion. But the wealth of the Mycorian lords was jealously kept from the Seal-Eater peasantry. Naturally a timid and demure people, the serfs of Askan could only tolerate so many injustices until even they reached their breaking point. During the Third Rebellion, the Seal-Eaters saw their opportunity to avenge themselves against their Arkronian-aligned masters. On the Northern Island, the Seal-Eaters carried out a massacre against the Mycorian walrus hunters and burned the outposts of Borean Keep, Heatherstone, and Summer Harbor. Hundreds of Mycorian guardsmen were killed in the uprisings. Only the stone walls of Urchin Landing kept the Seal-Eaters from completely removing the Mycorians from their homeland once and for all. But with the Vulpin Treachery came a sudden end to the Third Rebellion, allowing Lord Surefoot's forces sent abroad to serve the crown to return in time to put down the Seal-Eater revolt and restore Mycorian rule to Askan.
Once the Seal-Eaters had been subdued, a series of vicious reprisals was carried out against the populace. The most infamous of these punishment was Lord Garik Surefoot's order to cut out the tongue of every Seal-Eater man old enough to have participated in the rebellion, so that the words of
Government:
Economy:
Military:
Territory:
Factions:
Characters:
Lee woke to the constant dripping of water from the bathroom faucet. Blinking groggily, he slowly pulled himself off the floor, staring in drunken bewilderment at Chad's smartphone-illuminated face floating in the darkness of the bathroom.
"You feelin' alright, buddy?" Chad said at last, parting his gaze from the phone screen to meet Lee's confused stare.
"What the hell happened? Did you put fuckin' roofies in my Heineken?"
"I was hoping you'd tell me what happened." Chad said, scooching in closer. "You went to the bathroom right when the power went out. I went to check on you and found you on the floor. I mean, I could see you were breathing but even then, I was starting to get worried because it's been more than an hour."
"So you just... left me on the fucking floor?"
"I wasn't sure if you had a spinal injury so I didn't want to risk moving you around."
"What are you talking about, Chad? If you were so worried, why didn't you just call an ambulance like a normal human being?"
"First of all, dude, if you think someone might have fucked their neck or back up, you're not supposed to drag them around because it might pinch your spinal cord and make shit worse. That's what they taught me back when I was a lifeguard. Second of all, I can't call an ambulance because cell service is down."
"That's probably because you have T-Mobile," Lee surmised. "You can't even take a call in my apartment with that shit."
"You've got Verizon and your phone doesn't have service either. Nobody's phone was working at the bar."
Lee reached for his phone back from Chad and checked it himself. He tried calling Chad's number, then the front desk number at work, then his mom's number. Endless dial tones each time. He tried opening up the Safari app and was instantly met with a blank screen. No service whatsoever.
"What the hell's going on, dude?" Asked Lee. "Last thing I remember, I heard some emergency message come on over the Spotify music earlier. Is there some sort of disaster going on? Did the nuclear plant go full Chernobyl or some shit?"
"That message was the weirdest thing ever," Chad recalled. "It cut out halfway through because the power went out, but it was talking about a 'biological hazard' or something. It said you're supposed to stay inside and avoid human contact. I mean, shit dude, maybe the Snake Falls plant really did have a meltdown."
"What did everyone else at the bar do?"
"I think just about everyone else went home to wait this thing out. Obviously I wasn't going anywhere until I was sure you were okay. The bartenders are closing up early, but I think we're the only ones still here besides them."
"Let's bounce then," Lee decided, finally getting back onto his feet. "Uber's probably not going to be running right now, but we can walk back to the apartment in about 45 minutes."
"45 minutes might be a long time to be outside if there's anthrax or some shit out in the air."
"That's true, but we don't really know how long this thing might last. If it's going to be more than a few hours, we're gonna need food and water. This bar doesn't have shit for food and warm PBRs are not going keep us very hydrated."
"You've got a point," Chad agreed. "Let's get out of here."
Ever the germaphobe, Lee wedged his elbow into the bathroom door handle and opened it up without once touching it with his hands.
"There needs to be a law that bathroom doors have to open out, not in," Lee complained as he stepped into the comparative light of the bar. "After you've gone and washed your hands all you do is just recontaminate them and undo everything as soon as you touch that germ-infested door handle."
"Typical Lee," Chad sighed. "Raccoon City's been Chernobyl'd and you're worried about germs on a bathroom door. And that's after you've been laying on the pissed-on bathroom floor for over an hour!"
"Listen, just because we're having a power outage doesn't mean I can't have my pet peeves. You don't see me bitching at you right now about how pineapple has no business anywhere near a pizza."
The bar was dark - even darker than before the power outage when a few strands of Christmas lights strung up over the bar and liquor cabinets behind it were the only illumination. Even with those light strands out, the streetlights just outside the front windows provided just enough light for Lee and Chad to negotiate the bar. Behind the counter, one of the bartenders used the flashlight on his phone to provide some light as he loaded the last of the mugs and shot glasses into a small dishwasher under the bar, ready to be washed the next morning when the power came back on and this strange event had concluded.
"Biohazard apocalpyse ain't gonna stop you from milkin' the clock, huh?" Chad teased the lone bartender as he and Lee made for the door.
"Buddy, I get paid like $2 an hour not counting tips," the bartender retorted as he kicked the dishwasher shut with the back of his heel. "Do you see a lot of generously-tipping patrons in here right now? I'm basically volunteering."
"Hey, if the anthrax outbreak or whatever is happening gets to you before you leave, I'll tell you're next of kin you died doing what you loved."
"This is definitely not what I love. If that were the case, I'd be-"
The bartender was cut off by the front door being thrown violently open, to the point of nearly shattering the sheet of tempered glass that comprised the door. Standing in the threshold was a bedraggled man clad in a hole-riddled sweater and filthy, frayed jeans. A spotty beard of long, dirty whiskers radiated from his face at odd angles. His whole body heaved with every breath as he stared with wide and wild eyes at the bartender. Spittles of frothy saliva dripped from an open mouth, but even more shocking was perhaps the two bloody gashes on his left arm. Tacky, coagulated blood oozed out from around two large tears in the sleeve of his jacket.
"Fucking tweakers," the bartender mumbled under his breath. "Hey, we're closed!"
The wounded vagrant gave a gurgling snarl and stumbled over toward the bar at a brisk pace.
"We're closed, asshole! Take a hike!"
The vagrant was not dissuaded and awkwardly crawled over the counter. The bartender approached the quivering intruder as he crawled over the bar and fell onto the floor and gave him a swift kick across the jaw. To his astonishment, the vagrant did not collapse into an unconscious heap, but only gave an agitated snarl. The vagrant seized the bartender by the leg and with a vicelike grip, pulled the leg to his open mouth and bit down.
"AUGGH FUCK!" Screamed the bartender. "HE JUST FUCKING BIT ME!"
The bartender flew into a frenzied rage against the attacker, stomping with all his might against the vagrant clawing at him on the floor. No matter how hard he kicked, the vagrant did not stop or even flinch. With another yank on the bartender's leg, the bartender was pulled down onto the floor. From behind the bar counter, furious shouting quickly transitioned into terrified screaming.
Lee was paralyzed with fear, though as soon the bartender was dragged down to the floor, Chad had grabbed one of the empty Heineken bottles from their table and bounded over to the bar counter. Gripping the bottle by the handle, he slammed the bottle down against the edge of the counter. Tiny shards of green glass plinked upon the surface of the bar counter and the floor as a very jagged half of the bottle was left firmy planted in Chad's fist. He vaulted over the bar and witnessed the bartender and his attacker struggling against one another upon the non-slip rubber floormat drenched in blood. The vagrant growled savagely as he tore ribbons of bloody flesh out of the bartender's thigh; the bartender's screaming was now reduced to pathetic whimpering as he tried fruitlessly to claw away.
Chad planted the jagged end of the broken Heineken bottle into the shoulder of the savage vagrant. Even as the glass shards drove through the man's flesh and splintered against the shoulderblades, the vagrant was not deterred from consuming the bartender's leg - who by now had passed out from blood loss or traumatic shock. Now was Chad's turn to be paralyzed with fear, slowly backing away from the horrific display of cannibalism that he was unable to stop.
A loud burst diverted Chad and Lee's attention from the dying bartender to the front of the bar. One of the front windows exploded in a cascade of shattered glass. Silhouetted in the somehow-still-functional streetlights were another two intruders. Lee recognized one of thm as one of the bearded hipsters he had seen seated at the bar an hour earlier; the other was a 50-something Vietnamese woman with nearly a quarter of the skin of her face torn off. They stood in amidst the crinkling crystals of tempered glass shards, watching with jerky head motions as the shards continued to pop and clink on the ground. Gradually, their eyes focused on Chad and Lee.
"Run!" Chad screamed.
Chad vaulted over the bar counter and followed Lee as he made his way toward the back of the bar, brushing past the bathrooms toward a rear exit: a metal emergency exit door with a pushbar. The new assailants could be heard snarling and growling as they set off after them. Lee slammed into the pushbar of the door and threw it open; propping it open just long enough for Chad to exit before slamming the door shut into the bloodied faces of their cannibal pursuers. Lee felt two heavy thuds on the other side as he braced the door shut.
Chad and Lee found themselves in in a narrow alley behind the bar; just wide enough for a box truck to drive through. A few municipal streetlights that had managed to stay on in spite of the power outage illuminated the alley in a yellow-orange glow that cast long, dark shadows behind the dumpsters, empty pallets, and other refuse laying in the alley. There were no other murderous cannibals back here, but that was only true so long as Chad and Lee held the door shut. The attackers on the other side of the bar's emergency exit door slammed and clawed against their combined weight. Even while pressing furiously against it, the door creaked open ever so slightly with each slam against it. Bloody fingers reached out ravenously from behind the door. A third growling voice could be heard just inside, and soon a fourth joined the chorus of bloodthirst.
"I can't hold it much longer!" Lee exclaimed. Hands and soon entire arms were reaching out from behind the door. Lee took a glance around the alley, and he took note of a nearby pallet laying against the back of the bar. Without warning, Lee left Chad to hold the bar's rear door shut as he ran over to the pallet.
"Where the hell are you going?!"
Lee pulled the pallet up onto its side and pushed it over to the door, wedging it right under the handle and propping it up against the pavement. Lee nudged Chad away from the door, leaving the pallet to wedge the door shut even as the attackers shoved against it.
"That shit's not gonna hold them, dude!" Chad exclaimed. Even now, the flimsy balsam wood of the pallet was flexing and cracking against the combined force of the murderous throng inside the bar.
"Not for long, it isn't," Lee agreed, starting down the alley and beckoning for Chad to follow. "So let's get the fuck out of here."
"You feelin' alright, buddy?" Chad said at last, parting his gaze from the phone screen to meet Lee's confused stare.
"What the hell happened? Did you put fuckin' roofies in my Heineken?"
"I was hoping you'd tell me what happened." Chad said, scooching in closer. "You went to the bathroom right when the power went out. I went to check on you and found you on the floor. I mean, I could see you were breathing but even then, I was starting to get worried because it's been more than an hour."
"So you just... left me on the fucking floor?"
"I wasn't sure if you had a spinal injury so I didn't want to risk moving you around."
"What are you talking about, Chad? If you were so worried, why didn't you just call an ambulance like a normal human being?"
"First of all, dude, if you think someone might have fucked their neck or back up, you're not supposed to drag them around because it might pinch your spinal cord and make shit worse. That's what they taught me back when I was a lifeguard. Second of all, I can't call an ambulance because cell service is down."
"That's probably because you have T-Mobile," Lee surmised. "You can't even take a call in my apartment with that shit."
"You've got Verizon and your phone doesn't have service either. Nobody's phone was working at the bar."
Lee reached for his phone back from Chad and checked it himself. He tried calling Chad's number, then the front desk number at work, then his mom's number. Endless dial tones each time. He tried opening up the Safari app and was instantly met with a blank screen. No service whatsoever.
"What the hell's going on, dude?" Asked Lee. "Last thing I remember, I heard some emergency message come on over the Spotify music earlier. Is there some sort of disaster going on? Did the nuclear plant go full Chernobyl or some shit?"
"That message was the weirdest thing ever," Chad recalled. "It cut out halfway through because the power went out, but it was talking about a 'biological hazard' or something. It said you're supposed to stay inside and avoid human contact. I mean, shit dude, maybe the Snake Falls plant really did have a meltdown."
"What did everyone else at the bar do?"
"I think just about everyone else went home to wait this thing out. Obviously I wasn't going anywhere until I was sure you were okay. The bartenders are closing up early, but I think we're the only ones still here besides them."
"Let's bounce then," Lee decided, finally getting back onto his feet. "Uber's probably not going to be running right now, but we can walk back to the apartment in about 45 minutes."
"45 minutes might be a long time to be outside if there's anthrax or some shit out in the air."
"That's true, but we don't really know how long this thing might last. If it's going to be more than a few hours, we're gonna need food and water. This bar doesn't have shit for food and warm PBRs are not going keep us very hydrated."
"You've got a point," Chad agreed. "Let's get out of here."
Ever the germaphobe, Lee wedged his elbow into the bathroom door handle and opened it up without once touching it with his hands.
"There needs to be a law that bathroom doors have to open out, not in," Lee complained as he stepped into the comparative light of the bar. "After you've gone and washed your hands all you do is just recontaminate them and undo everything as soon as you touch that germ-infested door handle."
"Typical Lee," Chad sighed. "Raccoon City's been Chernobyl'd and you're worried about germs on a bathroom door. And that's after you've been laying on the pissed-on bathroom floor for over an hour!"
"Listen, just because we're having a power outage doesn't mean I can't have my pet peeves. You don't see me bitching at you right now about how pineapple has no business anywhere near a pizza."
The bar was dark - even darker than before the power outage when a few strands of Christmas lights strung up over the bar and liquor cabinets behind it were the only illumination. Even with those light strands out, the streetlights just outside the front windows provided just enough light for Lee and Chad to negotiate the bar. Behind the counter, one of the bartenders used the flashlight on his phone to provide some light as he loaded the last of the mugs and shot glasses into a small dishwasher under the bar, ready to be washed the next morning when the power came back on and this strange event had concluded.
"Biohazard apocalpyse ain't gonna stop you from milkin' the clock, huh?" Chad teased the lone bartender as he and Lee made for the door.
"Buddy, I get paid like $2 an hour not counting tips," the bartender retorted as he kicked the dishwasher shut with the back of his heel. "Do you see a lot of generously-tipping patrons in here right now? I'm basically volunteering."
"Hey, if the anthrax outbreak or whatever is happening gets to you before you leave, I'll tell you're next of kin you died doing what you loved."
"This is definitely not what I love. If that were the case, I'd be-"
The bartender was cut off by the front door being thrown violently open, to the point of nearly shattering the sheet of tempered glass that comprised the door. Standing in the threshold was a bedraggled man clad in a hole-riddled sweater and filthy, frayed jeans. A spotty beard of long, dirty whiskers radiated from his face at odd angles. His whole body heaved with every breath as he stared with wide and wild eyes at the bartender. Spittles of frothy saliva dripped from an open mouth, but even more shocking was perhaps the two bloody gashes on his left arm. Tacky, coagulated blood oozed out from around two large tears in the sleeve of his jacket.
"Fucking tweakers," the bartender mumbled under his breath. "Hey, we're closed!"
The wounded vagrant gave a gurgling snarl and stumbled over toward the bar at a brisk pace.
"We're closed, asshole! Take a hike!"
The vagrant was not dissuaded and awkwardly crawled over the counter. The bartender approached the quivering intruder as he crawled over the bar and fell onto the floor and gave him a swift kick across the jaw. To his astonishment, the vagrant did not collapse into an unconscious heap, but only gave an agitated snarl. The vagrant seized the bartender by the leg and with a vicelike grip, pulled the leg to his open mouth and bit down.
"AUGGH FUCK!" Screamed the bartender. "HE JUST FUCKING BIT ME!"
The bartender flew into a frenzied rage against the attacker, stomping with all his might against the vagrant clawing at him on the floor. No matter how hard he kicked, the vagrant did not stop or even flinch. With another yank on the bartender's leg, the bartender was pulled down onto the floor. From behind the bar counter, furious shouting quickly transitioned into terrified screaming.
Lee was paralyzed with fear, though as soon the bartender was dragged down to the floor, Chad had grabbed one of the empty Heineken bottles from their table and bounded over to the bar counter. Gripping the bottle by the handle, he slammed the bottle down against the edge of the counter. Tiny shards of green glass plinked upon the surface of the bar counter and the floor as a very jagged half of the bottle was left firmy planted in Chad's fist. He vaulted over the bar and witnessed the bartender and his attacker struggling against one another upon the non-slip rubber floormat drenched in blood. The vagrant growled savagely as he tore ribbons of bloody flesh out of the bartender's thigh; the bartender's screaming was now reduced to pathetic whimpering as he tried fruitlessly to claw away.
Chad planted the jagged end of the broken Heineken bottle into the shoulder of the savage vagrant. Even as the glass shards drove through the man's flesh and splintered against the shoulderblades, the vagrant was not deterred from consuming the bartender's leg - who by now had passed out from blood loss or traumatic shock. Now was Chad's turn to be paralyzed with fear, slowly backing away from the horrific display of cannibalism that he was unable to stop.
A loud burst diverted Chad and Lee's attention from the dying bartender to the front of the bar. One of the front windows exploded in a cascade of shattered glass. Silhouetted in the somehow-still-functional streetlights were another two intruders. Lee recognized one of thm as one of the bearded hipsters he had seen seated at the bar an hour earlier; the other was a 50-something Vietnamese woman with nearly a quarter of the skin of her face torn off. They stood in amidst the crinkling crystals of tempered glass shards, watching with jerky head motions as the shards continued to pop and clink on the ground. Gradually, their eyes focused on Chad and Lee.
"Run!" Chad screamed.
Chad vaulted over the bar counter and followed Lee as he made his way toward the back of the bar, brushing past the bathrooms toward a rear exit: a metal emergency exit door with a pushbar. The new assailants could be heard snarling and growling as they set off after them. Lee slammed into the pushbar of the door and threw it open; propping it open just long enough for Chad to exit before slamming the door shut into the bloodied faces of their cannibal pursuers. Lee felt two heavy thuds on the other side as he braced the door shut.
Chad and Lee found themselves in in a narrow alley behind the bar; just wide enough for a box truck to drive through. A few municipal streetlights that had managed to stay on in spite of the power outage illuminated the alley in a yellow-orange glow that cast long, dark shadows behind the dumpsters, empty pallets, and other refuse laying in the alley. There were no other murderous cannibals back here, but that was only true so long as Chad and Lee held the door shut. The attackers on the other side of the bar's emergency exit door slammed and clawed against their combined weight. Even while pressing furiously against it, the door creaked open ever so slightly with each slam against it. Bloody fingers reached out ravenously from behind the door. A third growling voice could be heard just inside, and soon a fourth joined the chorus of bloodthirst.
"I can't hold it much longer!" Lee exclaimed. Hands and soon entire arms were reaching out from behind the door. Lee took a glance around the alley, and he took note of a nearby pallet laying against the back of the bar. Without warning, Lee left Chad to hold the bar's rear door shut as he ran over to the pallet.
"Where the hell are you going?!"
Lee pulled the pallet up onto its side and pushed it over to the door, wedging it right under the handle and propping it up against the pavement. Lee nudged Chad away from the door, leaving the pallet to wedge the door shut even as the attackers shoved against it.
"That shit's not gonna hold them, dude!" Chad exclaimed. Even now, the flimsy balsam wood of the pallet was flexing and cracking against the combined force of the murderous throng inside the bar.
"Not for long, it isn't," Lee agreed, starting down the alley and beckoning for Chad to follow. "So let's get the fuck out of here."
In
Can I pretty please with a cherry on top, have these posts removed?
→
4 yrs ago
Forum: Suggestions/Problems
No.
Top 10 Anime Betrayals contender
First of all, that's crazy that you also started Roleplaying in Runescape too. I too did some in-game roleplaying similar to your experience, albeit in what was probably a much more primitive fashion before moving to space opera roleplays on the Runescape forums.
Having just read Gharekh's latest post and being positively blown away, I second the recommendation to check out Vampire Princes. Gharekh's earlier posts were all well written, but honestly, I didn't see how he was going to be anything but a minor character. That all changed at the end your last post. Now we have a truly malign vampire the likes of which we haven't seen before. Edward and Dregen have a run for their money.
Having just read Gharekh's latest post and being positively blown away, I second the recommendation to check out Vampire Princes. Gharekh's earlier posts were all well written, but honestly, I didn't see how he was going to be anything but a minor character. That all changed at the end your last post. Now we have a truly malign vampire the likes of which we haven't seen before. Edward and Dregen have a run for their money.
Wow.
"Prince Edward, while your men are decidedly brave and loyal, they are very much outnumbered. Had we wished harm upon you and your followers, we would have already carried it out."
"To be fair, they have already inflicted some harm," black-eyed Bartolomue chimed in.
"You were subdued," the Firelander leader corrected. "If we wished you actual harm, you'd have been slain before you were even aware of our presence."
"In any case, Prince Edward, I can assure you that you and your followers shall be treated amicably. No harm shall come to any of them."
"To be fair, they have already inflicted some harm," black-eyed Bartolomue chimed in.
"You were subdued," the Firelander leader corrected. "If we wished you actual harm, you'd have been slain before you were even aware of our presence."
"In any case, Prince Edward, I can assure you that you and your followers shall be treated amicably. No harm shall come to any of them."
"I am a servant of the Prophet Ongu, the Left-Handed Lord, the Son of the Moon God. He is the immortal master of Amhezan; what your people call the Fire Lands. Before your birth, Prince Edward, our Prophet visited the Lands Under Shadow and learned the wisdom of your father. In time, he came to call Zachaeus a friend. A fortnight past, a vision came to our Prophet. He knew that Zachaeus' son had found his way into his wards, and sent me here to find him."
"I know it must seem unbelievable to the ears of an outlander," the Firelander said, noting Edward's incredulous scowl. "But to our people the Prophet's wisdom simply is. You will soon find that the Prophet's wisdom is no more incredible than the fact that the sun sets and falls each day without fail. His foresight and truth are immutable laws of nature. His wisdom is infallible; his will irresistible."
"And what, then, wills your master?" Asked Bartolomue. The eyes of Edward, his guards, and the Firelanders went to the Guard Commander as his Firelander captors brought him before their leader. His eye was blackened from where one of his captors had struck him, visibly unnerving the other guards although Edward remained resolute.
"The Prophet seeks an audience with Prince Edward."
The leader of the Firelanders gave a sharp whistle and the sound of pine needles crunching softly underfoot could be heard as some large beast was galvanized into action from the darkness of the forest. Edward's guards aimed their crossbows at whatever approached. Ambling into the torchlight of the clearing in front of the trapper's cabin came a four-strong team of shaggy, two-humped camels - exotic beasts that elicted dumbfounded awe in Edward's guards. Leather tack and saddles strapped upon their shoulders held up a giant wooden palanquin. The Firelander leader grunted something in his native tongue to the camels, bringing the camel team to a halt directly in front of Prince Edward. With gurgling groans of annoyance, the camels awkwardly stooped down onto their knees, lowering the palanquin to a comfortable height at which it could be entered. The leader of the Firelanders approached the palanquin and opened a door for Edward to enter.
The interior of the palanquin was spacious indeed, and could comfortably seat four. Giant seating cushions were neatly arranged inside, and windows were affixed with several layers of breathable silk curtains that would serve to block the sun's rays - clearly fashioned with vampire occupants in mind.
"Your wife and son shall ride with you," the Firelander said, beckoning Edward inside the palanquin with a flourish of the hand. "Your men shall walk with us. We will make the journey to the Prophet's court as comfortable as possible, but do recall that his will is irresistible. Refusing to heed the Prophet's summons is not an option."
"I know it must seem unbelievable to the ears of an outlander," the Firelander said, noting Edward's incredulous scowl. "But to our people the Prophet's wisdom simply is. You will soon find that the Prophet's wisdom is no more incredible than the fact that the sun sets and falls each day without fail. His foresight and truth are immutable laws of nature. His wisdom is infallible; his will irresistible."
"And what, then, wills your master?" Asked Bartolomue. The eyes of Edward, his guards, and the Firelanders went to the Guard Commander as his Firelander captors brought him before their leader. His eye was blackened from where one of his captors had struck him, visibly unnerving the other guards although Edward remained resolute.
"The Prophet seeks an audience with Prince Edward."
The leader of the Firelanders gave a sharp whistle and the sound of pine needles crunching softly underfoot could be heard as some large beast was galvanized into action from the darkness of the forest. Edward's guards aimed their crossbows at whatever approached. Ambling into the torchlight of the clearing in front of the trapper's cabin came a four-strong team of shaggy, two-humped camels - exotic beasts that elicted dumbfounded awe in Edward's guards. Leather tack and saddles strapped upon their shoulders held up a giant wooden palanquin. The Firelander leader grunted something in his native tongue to the camels, bringing the camel team to a halt directly in front of Prince Edward. With gurgling groans of annoyance, the camels awkwardly stooped down onto their knees, lowering the palanquin to a comfortable height at which it could be entered. The leader of the Firelanders approached the palanquin and opened a door for Edward to enter.
The interior of the palanquin was spacious indeed, and could comfortably seat four. Giant seating cushions were neatly arranged inside, and windows were affixed with several layers of breathable silk curtains that would serve to block the sun's rays - clearly fashioned with vampire occupants in mind.
"Your wife and son shall ride with you," the Firelander said, beckoning Edward inside the palanquin with a flourish of the hand. "Your men shall walk with us. We will make the journey to the Prophet's court as comfortable as possible, but do recall that his will is irresistible. Refusing to heed the Prophet's summons is not an option."
Present
Pine boughs above roared softly in the evening breeze as Edward withdrew into his cabin in the evening. The warm glow of the hearth shone out through the doorway into the darkened forest as the vampire prince quietly opened and then locked the door so as not to disturb his sleeping followers within, casting orange firelight upon Bartolomue for a moment before leaving him in the dark once more.
He almost always took the night watch, as it allowed him to share most of his waking hours with his nocturnal liege. As the Commander of the Guard of Castle Bathory, it also seemed fitting to him that he should accept the more strenuous duties and lead by example. It was important to maintain a sense of duty and discipline, Bartolomue felt, even after all that had happened. Never mind that Castle Bathory and all but a handful of its guardians had been destroyed in Ulrek's War. As long as Edward and his son drew breath, the House of Zachaeus Bathory still remained and Bartolomue would serve them until his dying breath. That final breath was now much nearer than when he had started, for almost thirty years had passed since he made that pledge to the previous Guard Commander on the eve of Castle Bathory's destruction.
He was scarcely a man when he accepted the role of Guard Commander and was tasked with escorting Edward and Emily out of the doomed castle to safety. Twenty-seven years later, he had given nearly all of his life to Prince Edward. They had spent the past three decades moving from country to country like thieves on the lam. In the first few years after Ulrek's War, Edward and his loyal retinue had been welcomed into the courts of kings and lords, their hospitality belying selfish hopes of using the last Bathory heir as a puppet vassal to rule the Lands Under Shadow in their stead. But as time went on, and the Disciples of Solomon went farther afield to achieve Solomon Kane's quest to rid the world of vampires, the remnant of House Bathory was welcome in increasingly fewer lands. Now, Edward and his retinue lived in true exile in remote lands on the edge of the world: an abandoned trapper's cabin in the Red Forest near the edge of the Fire Lands.
The guard commander sat against the shaggy trunk of a red pine, staring out into the starlit forest, he wondered as he often did whether he had wasted his life in service to Edward. Edward was no closer to earning his father's throne than he was when he accepted the mantle of Guard Commander. In truth, Edward was in a much worse position than when Ulrek and Solomon Kane ousted him from the Lands Under Shadow. Five years after leaving the Lands Under Shadow, Edward and his retinue were the pampered guests of a wealthy merchant living in the safety of a walled compound in the great city of Aepiranth; twenty-seven years on, they lived like peasants in a sod-roof cabin of half-rotten timbers situated in a brutish, untamed land hundreds of leagues from home. What would another ten years bring?
It's not about my life, Bartolumue reminded himself, it's about those of the ones I left behind.
Bartolumue recounted the rumors that made their way from the Lands Under Shadow: the once-unified kingdom had become a barbaric and violent hell in the absence of the vampire lords. Petty kings - increasingly under the sway of the zealous Disciples of Solomon - waged constant war across the land. Reavers from the Broken Lands plied the coasts and rivers, taking boys as thralls and maidens as wives. Peasants were enslaved by dwarves to mine mithril in their ancestral mines. Violence and terror ruled the Lands Under Shadow in the absence of the vampires. If there was any chance to return Edward and restore order to their homeland, Bartolomue was resolved to take that chance. For in truth, it was his people languishing under the duress of war and famine and terror that he had pledged his eternal support to, not some exiled vampire prince.
He sat quietly in the dark for some time, allowing his eyesight to readjust to the dim starlight of the forest before resuming his patrol around the camp. Wielding the crossbow issued to him as a castle guard some thirty years ago and a short scimitar favored by the local people of the Fire Lands, Bartolomue set out into the forest. His studded leather cuirass creaked softly as each inhalation pressed his paunch against the undersized armor. The grizzle-bearded guard may not have been in peak fighting condition any longer, though Bartolomue was still a seasoned fighter to be sure. Many an assassin and vampire hunter attempting to take Edward or Emily's life had met an end at Bartolomue's hand, and he still had plenty of fight left in him.
A ghostly call sounded through night as the guard captain patrolled the forest: a deep, resonant howl in the distance that transitioned into a high-pitched squeal. A terrifying sound if one didn't know the source, but Bartolomue recognized it at once as the bugle of a stag elk - a strange but harmless denizen of these exotic woods. Theirs was a crepuscular call, notifying Bartolomue that dawn would be coming soon. Through the pine boughs up above, the night sky slowly began to transition from black to dark blue: confirmation that the night was nearly through.
Perhaps it was knowledge that his watch was nearly over that lowered his guard, but it was much too late when the guard captain heard a sound that - unlike the calling of the elk - was much more sinister.
Footfalls on the pine-needles behind him.
Bartolomue spun on his heels immediately, leveling his crossbow, and found himself face-to-face with the round, swarthy faces of two Firelander men. Clad in lamellar armor, their bows were already drawn with vicious iron arrowheads aimed directly at his chest. Several moments of tense silence passed as Bartolomue and the Firelanders held their weapons pointed at one another.
"Lower your weapon," whispered one of the Firelanders in an almost unintelligible accent. The fact that they even knew his language at all was impressive enough.
Bartolomue held his crossbow toward the Firelanders, but glanced back at the cabin behind him. The guard captain knew he wouldn't survive this encounter, not against both of them. But he could at least alert Edward and his other fighting men before he was slain.
"INTRUDERS!" Bartolomue screamed before being struck across the face and having his crossbow and sword physically removed from his posession.
Shouts of alarm rang out from the cabin at once. Prince Edward accompanied by five crossbow-armed men stormed out the door into the forest at once. In the torchlight of Edward's men-at-arms, they saw some twenty to thirty men clad in lamellar armor surrounding the cabin, bows drawn but aimed just beneath Edward and his men, perhaps as a show of some small measure of good will.
Edward's guards shared no such goodwill to the intruders, pointing their crossbows directly at the cohort of exotic warriors surrounding them despite being hopelessly outnumbered.
"Who goes there?!" Edward's guards barked "Identify yourselves!"
Two of the lamellar-clad warriors stepped aside, allowing the presumed leader of the Firelander warriors to step forward toward Edward. Unarmed, but clad in a tunic studded with lamellar plates, his face was round and chubby - even more so than was typical for the nomads of the Fire Lands with their fatty diets. Perhaps a noble among their people? Did the Fire Lands even have nobles to speak of? Edward's men had presumed the people of this country to be simple barbarians with no sense of social order. But the armor and weaponry clearly demonstrated a level of craftsmanship that was not possible among true barbarians. Whatever this man was, he approached Edward and gave a brief bow of the head in respect.
"Please, lower your weapons," the leader of the Firelanders requested in the tongue of the Lands Under Shadow. "We are friends of Prince Edward Bathory."
Pine boughs above roared softly in the evening breeze as Edward withdrew into his cabin in the evening. The warm glow of the hearth shone out through the doorway into the darkened forest as the vampire prince quietly opened and then locked the door so as not to disturb his sleeping followers within, casting orange firelight upon Bartolomue for a moment before leaving him in the dark once more.
He almost always took the night watch, as it allowed him to share most of his waking hours with his nocturnal liege. As the Commander of the Guard of Castle Bathory, it also seemed fitting to him that he should accept the more strenuous duties and lead by example. It was important to maintain a sense of duty and discipline, Bartolomue felt, even after all that had happened. Never mind that Castle Bathory and all but a handful of its guardians had been destroyed in Ulrek's War. As long as Edward and his son drew breath, the House of Zachaeus Bathory still remained and Bartolomue would serve them until his dying breath. That final breath was now much nearer than when he had started, for almost thirty years had passed since he made that pledge to the previous Guard Commander on the eve of Castle Bathory's destruction.
He was scarcely a man when he accepted the role of Guard Commander and was tasked with escorting Edward and Emily out of the doomed castle to safety. Twenty-seven years later, he had given nearly all of his life to Prince Edward. They had spent the past three decades moving from country to country like thieves on the lam. In the first few years after Ulrek's War, Edward and his loyal retinue had been welcomed into the courts of kings and lords, their hospitality belying selfish hopes of using the last Bathory heir as a puppet vassal to rule the Lands Under Shadow in their stead. But as time went on, and the Disciples of Solomon went farther afield to achieve Solomon Kane's quest to rid the world of vampires, the remnant of House Bathory was welcome in increasingly fewer lands. Now, Edward and his retinue lived in true exile in remote lands on the edge of the world: an abandoned trapper's cabin in the Red Forest near the edge of the Fire Lands.
The guard commander sat against the shaggy trunk of a red pine, staring out into the starlit forest, he wondered as he often did whether he had wasted his life in service to Edward. Edward was no closer to earning his father's throne than he was when he accepted the mantle of Guard Commander. In truth, Edward was in a much worse position than when Ulrek and Solomon Kane ousted him from the Lands Under Shadow. Five years after leaving the Lands Under Shadow, Edward and his retinue were the pampered guests of a wealthy merchant living in the safety of a walled compound in the great city of Aepiranth; twenty-seven years on, they lived like peasants in a sod-roof cabin of half-rotten timbers situated in a brutish, untamed land hundreds of leagues from home. What would another ten years bring?
It's not about my life, Bartolumue reminded himself, it's about those of the ones I left behind.
Bartolumue recounted the rumors that made their way from the Lands Under Shadow: the once-unified kingdom had become a barbaric and violent hell in the absence of the vampire lords. Petty kings - increasingly under the sway of the zealous Disciples of Solomon - waged constant war across the land. Reavers from the Broken Lands plied the coasts and rivers, taking boys as thralls and maidens as wives. Peasants were enslaved by dwarves to mine mithril in their ancestral mines. Violence and terror ruled the Lands Under Shadow in the absence of the vampires. If there was any chance to return Edward and restore order to their homeland, Bartolomue was resolved to take that chance. For in truth, it was his people languishing under the duress of war and famine and terror that he had pledged his eternal support to, not some exiled vampire prince.
He sat quietly in the dark for some time, allowing his eyesight to readjust to the dim starlight of the forest before resuming his patrol around the camp. Wielding the crossbow issued to him as a castle guard some thirty years ago and a short scimitar favored by the local people of the Fire Lands, Bartolomue set out into the forest. His studded leather cuirass creaked softly as each inhalation pressed his paunch against the undersized armor. The grizzle-bearded guard may not have been in peak fighting condition any longer, though Bartolomue was still a seasoned fighter to be sure. Many an assassin and vampire hunter attempting to take Edward or Emily's life had met an end at Bartolomue's hand, and he still had plenty of fight left in him.
A ghostly call sounded through night as the guard captain patrolled the forest: a deep, resonant howl in the distance that transitioned into a high-pitched squeal. A terrifying sound if one didn't know the source, but Bartolomue recognized it at once as the bugle of a stag elk - a strange but harmless denizen of these exotic woods. Theirs was a crepuscular call, notifying Bartolomue that dawn would be coming soon. Through the pine boughs up above, the night sky slowly began to transition from black to dark blue: confirmation that the night was nearly through.
Perhaps it was knowledge that his watch was nearly over that lowered his guard, but it was much too late when the guard captain heard a sound that - unlike the calling of the elk - was much more sinister.
Footfalls on the pine-needles behind him.
Bartolomue spun on his heels immediately, leveling his crossbow, and found himself face-to-face with the round, swarthy faces of two Firelander men. Clad in lamellar armor, their bows were already drawn with vicious iron arrowheads aimed directly at his chest. Several moments of tense silence passed as Bartolomue and the Firelanders held their weapons pointed at one another.
"Lower your weapon," whispered one of the Firelanders in an almost unintelligible accent. The fact that they even knew his language at all was impressive enough.
Bartolomue held his crossbow toward the Firelanders, but glanced back at the cabin behind him. The guard captain knew he wouldn't survive this encounter, not against both of them. But he could at least alert Edward and his other fighting men before he was slain.
"INTRUDERS!" Bartolomue screamed before being struck across the face and having his crossbow and sword physically removed from his posession.
Shouts of alarm rang out from the cabin at once. Prince Edward accompanied by five crossbow-armed men stormed out the door into the forest at once. In the torchlight of Edward's men-at-arms, they saw some twenty to thirty men clad in lamellar armor surrounding the cabin, bows drawn but aimed just beneath Edward and his men, perhaps as a show of some small measure of good will.
Edward's guards shared no such goodwill to the intruders, pointing their crossbows directly at the cohort of exotic warriors surrounding them despite being hopelessly outnumbered.
"Who goes there?!" Edward's guards barked "Identify yourselves!"
Two of the lamellar-clad warriors stepped aside, allowing the presumed leader of the Firelander warriors to step forward toward Edward. Unarmed, but clad in a tunic studded with lamellar plates, his face was round and chubby - even more so than was typical for the nomads of the Fire Lands with their fatty diets. Perhaps a noble among their people? Did the Fire Lands even have nobles to speak of? Edward's men had presumed the people of this country to be simple barbarians with no sense of social order. But the armor and weaponry clearly demonstrated a level of craftsmanship that was not possible among true barbarians. Whatever this man was, he approached Edward and gave a brief bow of the head in respect.
"Please, lower your weapons," the leader of the Firelanders requested in the tongue of the Lands Under Shadow. "We are friends of Prince Edward Bathory."
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