Hexaflexagon

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

I'll have Kaz take the back way around the lake, he'll be the last to get to the cabin most likely.

@Deja

Drow: As a species they are known for their combat prowess, treachery, silver tongues, remorseless killing, and most importantly running late to all the family gatherings.

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

Blood, death, chaos. Sometimes it bothered how quickly it came to him. How easily he could rectify ending a life, no matter how horrid and disgusting that life may be. But in his own eyes he was a monster slayer, and monsters came in all shapes and sizes. At least that was what he told to allow himself to sleep at night. As his laughter faded away as his siblings got down to more serious business, he silently cleaned his blade. It was a form of meditative practice: calming the mind through battle through some sort of regimental task. Brand had taught him during his tutelage to stretch, it was something simple that he used to calm himself yet risk his baser instincts taking over and slipping into a bloodrage. As he aged stretching became cleaning his blade as it seemed to become tainted more and more. He listened as he brought the rag across the cool metal wiping away the blemishes and making it shine once more. Your blade is an extension of yourself. Treat it well and it shall treat you as a king. Another quip from adoptive father, it seemed the more engrossed he got into the affairs of Bosfryd the more his ghost would never let him go. He listened as a plan was formed. It made sense to Sigur; Brand's old cabin was secluded and well off the beaten path, and more importantly since his death nobody was suspect ghosts of the past to haunt the wreck. He would of preferred if they had been able to capture one of Harold's officers. The information would of been more reliable and instead they would have to go by extend word and mouth. Though information could still be mined from them, patrol locations, weapon caches, and other useful kernels of information. It all depend on how hard they pushed their captives, how many lines they were willing to cross. Sigur knew he was willing to cross such lines in the name of justice, but he had his doubts with some. And if things were to transpire how he imagined they would, then that may be a problem further down the line. But he did not worry himself with such idle thoughts at the current time and place. If an issue would arise they would address it when it came. His eyes drifted over to Kazahk in silence. The last time Sigur had seen the drow was before his kin-slaying escapades, a fact that he only learned about later in letters sent to him by Brand. Brand always felt the need to send him a letter when he knew that Sigur would be stationed in one city for awhile. To retell how his siblings were and how the Nightwood was faring. At the beginning Sigur did not reply but Brand kept on sending the messages and eventually Sigur softened and sent replies. Brand knew him better than most people alive or dead, and Brand knew how much underneath his intimidating exterior he cared for his siblings, for the people he left behind. The last reply Brand had sent said that he was taking up serious matters with William and that the kingdom would change soon enough. If only Sigur knew what he meant, if he only he could of warned him. Though in his heart he knew he could of never convinced Brand, as gentle and kind as he could be; he was a stern one when it came to his sense of justice. He understand why those around him distrusted Kazahk in the way they did. What they must of seen was in no way comparison of what words could describe. And he knew of the own deep cultural superstitions about the ashen colored people, he himself had experienced the so called "Drow treachery" as it were. But to taint his own brother with the image of Ysar, that was unfair to him. Judgement was to be unscrupulous, untainted by personal views. But his time traveling the world had shown him that maybe it was best to forgive while they were still alive, how many men would be alive if he allowed them mercy, how many would of done better things? And to be truthful they needed Kazahk as much as anyone else. He was an experienced fighter and could handle most situations thrown at him. Was that the pragmatic outlook yes, but in violence and retribution everyone is cutthroats at the end of the blood red line. Even though Sigur was considering giving him a chance, it did not atone for what he had done. To kill a brother in cold blood, he would either prove his worth again to the family, or he would die forever known as the kinslayer. It was choice that Sigur could help facilitate but in no way could he make the choice easy for him. Evidently it seemed that they had come to a decision and for the first time since the combat Sigur spoke. " Aye, so we all had off into the woods." He then walked over behind the bar and leaned down and found a lose floorboard. He then pulled up a heavy stone reveling a small hiding hole known only to Old Dunstan and his closest friends. Emma would surely find it there later. Sigur slowly produced something from his coin purse. Out came shining heavy coins, the sort that most people only dreamed of witnessing in a lifetime. They were legal tender of the Southern Traders and henceforth would be excepted almost anywhere as fair tender for their value. The inquisitional eye might wonder how Sigur acquired such coin and if asked he only replay that the price of blood was a high one indeed. Sigur spoke calmly to the ghosts that he felt in the room. "Thank you Dunstan for the hospitality you had always shown our family. May Gruumsh guide you on your immortal journey, and may this coin resolve debts that can never be repayed." Slowly he dropped the coins into the hole as priest would bless a grave before recovering it to be found again at a later date. He arose most solemnly juxtaposing the terrible warrior that stood in his place moments before. "Remember go silent, leave no trace, and may the trees guide you home."

A Sea of Stars [Space Opera Military RPG]

Oh, I'm game for some epic space escapades. I've been playing some Freelancer and Star Ruler recently, and have had a hankering to write some epic space stuff again.

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

And so fight one concludes. Current Score Harold = 0 Ragtag band of revenge driven adventures = 1 Go Team!

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

The familiar call to battle, the cacophony of shouts and unbarred steel. Their was familiarity in the chaos and it felt like home to Sigur. The battlefield was the home of vagabonds, sellswords, and mercenaries alike. Something deep inside of him struggled though, the part of him that had put his life following the way of the blade behind. He knew what coming back to Bosfyrd meant though, it meant more than just paying his respects. Five years it seemed was not enough for him to distance himself from it all. His hand clenched his blade as he took a breath. Everything leading up to this point going through his head, every choice and every action. He knew what a life of violence brought, and he had a taste of what a life of peace could be like. But looking into the eyes of the nervous girl behind the bar he knew. All of this occurring in the span of seconds as he came to a decision. The Green Mountain would live once more. He drew his sword from the scabbard as he turned to face the guards. Sigur was an impressive and fearsome sight to witness in the moment of battle. His hulking frame matched only by the sword he held in his hand. Forged in the flames of the Southern Cities, it was a fearsome sight to behold. It was to be frank, a rather large instrument of death. For most men to use it effectively they would have to hold it aloft with two hands and be resorted to using only clumsy overhand swings and sweeps that threatened to throw them off balance. Sigur was able to wield it effectively with one hand and with precise pinpoint strikes. The very sight of him usually did a number to the moral of his opponents. Their minds having no choice but to conjure up old tales of orcish berserkers ripping through entire regiments. The guards looked perplexed and took one step back unsure of what to do sword raised. Moments later a rope dart slammed into his arms and he was yanked across the floor. Lysandra, he thought he had seen a flick of red hair somewhere in the back corner of the Scuffed Boots. He moved forward to meet the guard with a statuesque intensity of a seasoned warrior. He swung his blade hard putting all his force behind the swing. The guard stood little chance as the blade hit with a well precised sundering blow at a lighter connecting plate of the guard's mail. The guard's flesh beneath provided little in terms of slowing the bleed as it cleaved through muscle and sinew. Blood sputtered across Sigur's face as the blade came free through the other side. Sigur did not spare a glance backwards, he didn't need vision to tell the men was most certainty dead. Eyes glanced at the blade coated with crimson Sigur moved forward towards the remaining two guards that Kazahk had sent to the ground. They were getting up slowly as the rest of his siblings slowly surrounded them. Sigur made mental note of the status of the other guards, they already had a few still breathing for questioning. Anymore survivors would just complicate matters. Taking the initiative he walked forward and unceremoniously buried his blade downward into the chest of one of them. During this execution of sorts his eyes met with Kazahk's and sent out a simple stern message. We will talk later. As he withdrew his blade the other man scrambled backwards getting up to his feet only to end up being cornered between a wall and the half-orc. "What are you all!?" the guard croaked out as Sigur approached. "The Nightwood sends its regards." Those words spoken with chilling calmness were all the guard got as his life met its end against cold steel. Sigur turned to face his siblings and a small smile appeared on his face. Looking at the tavern and the carnage that had ensued he could only laugh at the absurdity of it all. Of all of them meeting one another once again in such a situation. So that was what he did, he began to laugh, a deep and warm laugh that filled the room as he sheathed his blade. "Well, that was interesting."

Live long, and prosper.

I guess the ship finally got out of danger. Godspeed Mr. Nimoy, Godspeed. We shall always remember your great contributions to humanity.

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

Look, Bob, what part of this don't you understand, eh? It's a matter of style, okay? A proper brawl doesn't just happen. You don't pile in, not anymore. Now, Oyster Dave here - put your helmet back on, Dave - will be the enemy in front, and Basalt, who as we know, don't need a helmet, he'll be the enemy coming up behind you. Okay, it's well past knuckles time, let's say Gravy there has done his thing with the Bench Swipe, there's a bit of knife play, we've done the whole Chandelier Swing number, blah blah blah, then Second Chair - that's you, Bob - you step smartly between their Number Five man and a Bottler, swing the chair back over your head, like this - sorry, Pointy - and then swing it right back onto Number Five, bang, crash, and there's a cushy six points in your pocket. If they're playing a dwarf at Number Five, then a chair won't even slow him down, but don't fret, hang on to the bits that stay in your hand, pause one moment as he comes at you, then belt him across both ears. They hate that, as Stronginthearm here will tell you. Another three points. It's probably going to be freestyle after that but I want all of you, including Mucky Mick and Crispo, to try for a Double Andrew when it gets down to the fist-fighting again. Remember? You back into each other, turn around to give the other guy a thumping, cue moment of humorous recognition, then link left arms, swing round and see to the other fellow's attacker, foot or fist, it's your choice. Fifteen points right there if you get it to flow just right. Oh, and remember we'll have an Igor standing by, so if your arm gets taken off do pick it up and hit the other bugger with it, it gets a laugh and twenty points. On that subject, do remember what I said about getting everything tattooed with your name, all right? Igors do their best, but you'll be on your feet much quicker if you make life easier for him and, what's more, it's your feet you'll be on. Okay, positions, everyone, let's run through it again... ~Discworld: Going Postal ---- Barfights, an essential tool to any writer that wants to establish how gritty their setting is. And we love them all the same. Though I sort of feel bad for the guards, and the horrible shenanigans that will soon be unleashed upon them. They had no idea what they were getting into, they just wanted to be villains, they didn't know that a bunch of adventures would be in town. lol

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

"Aye, the collectors of the coin have heavy hands indeed." Sigur muttered in mutual agreement as he raised his cup to his mouth. The garrison at Bosfryd seemed to be nothing more than a collection of scoundrels meant to suppress the populace. Even so give a scoundrel the blessing of a king, and they act like lords themselves. It sickened Sigur, men of the watch were supposed to be defenders of the peace, keepers of the land, a fact that Barkstead's men understand well, and a concept that was as alien to Harold's thugs as washing themselves. Sigur was slightly shocked of how much Masef had aged since he had last seen the boy sitting across from him. When Sigur had left Brand's care the boy was just eight winters young, a young pup by most standards. A curious young child that always got into trouble, and always seemed to find a way to have his punishments diverted to his older siblings. For a young one he was sly as a fox. Though at times Sigur wanted to crush the boy, he had warmed up to him eventually. He wondered if he had still kept up with his longbow training after Sigur had left. Though it had seemed that the young child he once knew had certainly matured into a strapping young lad. In a way this made the aging half-orc feel equal parts nostalgic and very old himself. How he longed for those simpler years back before everything seemed to become distorted, and confused in his heart. The two talked very little as they sat at the table both nursing their own drinks, but the little words they did have carried sparks and flecks of information on them. Quinn always did have the flare for the theatrical when they were younger and his entrance showed that this side of him had not dampened with age. When the "honest merchant" came to their table offering his brandy, something deep inside of the half-orc chuckled even as he held a straight face. Sigur decided to play along with the show and with a quick exchange of coins for a glass of fine brandy, the hunter offered a chair to the merchant, and it all seemed normal. In a very quick span three brothers had become united together under one roof once again. It felt good to Sigur, it felt right. "But yes, the Pilgrim Road was quite thirsty, and I fear the road to come will be even more thirsty." "Indeed. The air was unnaturally calm this morning of my hunt. A storm must be coming." The half-orc added in agreement to his younger brother, though it may of seemed like just talk of the weather to any of those not listening carefully. Moments later the "guardsmen" entered the building. Sigur kept casual as they barked their demands, and he seemed to just continue to enjoy his drink. In reality he was scoping out the room they were in as it evolved into a battlefield in his mind. He watched the faces of the worried girls and other patrons, making notes of their positions just in case they did not have the good sense to run. He finished his analysis just as the last drop left his cup, and he made little show of standing up and placing the cup upon the table. "Excuse me gentlemen, I must go pay my tab and be off. I would not want to anger our guests" Without any other words he left his brothers at the table and walked back over to the bar. He placed himself strategically between the guards and the serving girl with the nervous look in her eyes. He shuffled around in his pocket for coins, as he did his eyes flickered up to the girl's and a moment of recognition was passed. He was not going to let the beasts have their way. His other hand slowly descend towards the hilt of his blade and he waited. It would be just like old times it seemed.

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

Blood Debt: Medieval/Fantasy Vengeance

Yeah, we all have lives and understand that you can't be online all the time. I don't know about everyone else, but I'd rather have a good post than something you rushed out because you felt you had to.