Avatar of Jeddaven
  • Last Seen: 1 mo ago
  • Joined: 10 yrs ago
  • Posts: 453 (0.12 / day)
  • VMs: 0
  • Username history
    1. Jeddaven 10 yrs ago

Status

Recent Statuses

1 yr ago
Current Dragons and such
4 likes

Bio

she/her pronouns. I'm interested in a wide variety of roleplays, but I tend toward prefering High Fantasy and High Sci Fi settings (think Elder Scrolls or Warhammer 40k). Whether it's a Nation Roleplay (I love digging into fictional politics) something on a smaller, individual scale, or something in between, there's a good chance I might be interested! I especially enjoy fantasy setting with weird, esoteric fluff - up to and including the nonsense that happens in Elder Scrolls, or, occasionally, Age of Sigmar.

Fave settings /period/ are Warcraft, and Golarion. WH40k and AoS are close.

Most Recent Posts





Somewhere near the Duskwood Crossroads


Something wasn’t sitting right with Gregory.

Murders weren’t all that uncommon in Duskwood. Everyone knew that -- the only thing that was more common, perhaps, was one of the myriad threats in the haunted hood -- from zombies, to ghosts, to overgrown spiders, to garden-variety wolves-- to kill some wayward traveler, some poor child or foolish young man that’d wandered out from Darkshire just a little too far in the dead of night... It kept happening. Again, and again, and again, including everyone from inexperienced or overconfident locals, to Watchmen, all the way to greedy merchants making the mistake of traveling the roads without heavy escorts (or underpaid escorts, as it often was).

By all rights, then, the death of this particular merchant shouldn’t have been troubling at all.

Letting out an annoyed grunt, Watcher Dodds rose from his squatting position, lantern in hand, staring out over the wrecked cart with a deeply suspicious glare. The cart? Toppled by an abandoned farmstead, broken into pieces as if it’d been toppled over entirely.

The horse? Gone. Not a hint of its presence. The cargo? Vanished. Stolen, not a hint of it either. It was clean.

The merchant?

There wasn’t much left of the merchant. Scraps of flesh, necrotizing bone, signs of animal scavenging...

That was the problem. Independently, any one of those facts would’ve made perfect sense. The merchant was bitten, likely by one of the spiders he spent so much of his time culling, his body dissolved, and the animals left picked over the scraps.

...Then there was the problem of the cart. It hadn’t merely been toppled, but truly wrecked -- not the work of the spiders out this far west. The missing cargo? Who could’ve stolen it? The one upside of living in Duskwood was the rarity of bandit attacks. It wasn’t profitable -- not in the least. You’d lose a dozen men for a single iron sword.

The wrinkles, however, didn’t stop here, as he’d quickly realized. Next, his eyes flashed back to the half-dissolved corpse.

It’s still here. He reminded himself, reaching up to run a hand through his half-swept, golden blonde hair. He’d lost men to spider attacks, and they rarely, if ever, simply bit someone and left the body to rot, typically preferring to drag them away, wrap them in webbing, and wait for the corpse to dissolve after a good few bites of venom.

A cart ruined, a body rotting as if bitten and somehow abandoned by one of the local venomous web spider...

And the merchant. The merchant. It’d been a simple enough matter to reach out to Marshal Stoutmantle for information, and, indeed, this wasn’t the first time the merchant had made this particular trip. Interviews with a handful of the Darkshire townfolk had shown that he’d been through before, and Stoutmantle’s records shown that, without fail, this merchant made his way through Westfall without incident nearly a dozen times.

That was what was stumping Gregory Dodds.

There were only a few ways someone made it through Westfall safely -- dumb luck, heavy guard, or a handful or two of gold shuffled in the Defias Brotherhood’s direction.

The one time he didn’t make the trip safely, a strange series of events strike, on hispatrol route, and they add up less and less the more he looks at them.

Something was wrong, deeply wrong, and Watcher Dodds was damn sure he was going to get to the bottom of it.

With a grunt and a sigh, sliding his sword from its sheath, Dodds turned to make the long march back to Darkshire.

Hymalazia


Wings soared higher than the clouds, the body they bore banking around and floating above the glittering death of defense grids whose makers’ bones have long since been reduced to dust and ash. Every five thousand five hundred and seventy-three seconds, precisely on the mark, the masterful pilot of House Hastings performed a deep dive in order to avoid a kill satellite’s decaying orbit that threatened to cause all within the crew compartment to black out from the sudden stress of gravity and activated ancient and esoteric technology to prevent the same discomfort - and more importantly, jostling - in the cargo compartment. Though the Stormbird is ambivalent in its mortality, its crew is far less so of she who is ensconced within its bowels on this flight. Neither ground nor void is safe, not truly, not even within the claimed domains of their master - the aspiring Master of Mankind, and failure in this task would bring a shame far more bitter than mere death.

At long last they approached the roof of the world, the cloud-piercing peaks of the Himalazias coming into view, stark and austere. These bristled with some of the most foreboding weapons left to humanity, but these the Ambivalent Mortality raced towards without fear, even as alert runes and targeting designators blazed on the instruments. Within the Lines, the great fortress-mountains at the heart of the plateau, exotic energies stirred ever so softly in their half-slumbers as fire control sages coaxed them to readiness if the order came to destroy the swift-moving speck that flew across their skies.

Ident runes roared silently across the aether, challenge and response met and accepted, and the moment of danger faded as swiftly as it had begun. A landing pad was designated, nestled deep between the highest peaks of the bleeding world that had challenged all comers for generations untold, near the great work that was even now unmaking such natural grandeurs to expand the glory of man. A lone figure in simple robes awaited them, unheeding the backwash emitted by the Stormbird’s landing. It was only when the ramp descended and the cargo of the proud vessel was at last seen that they moved at all.

“Novator,” he said, the young voice carrying clear despite the roar of wind and engine. “You are most welcome here, but the master has many questions that require answers. Will you follow me?”

"Of course," a voice replies -- feminine and practiced, each word it speaks seems manicured; the tongue of a diplomat. To mortal eyes, she is momentarily hidden, but the speaker swiftly reveals herself as she makes her way down the Stormbird's unfurled ramp, hands folded neatly in front of her hips.

Her clothing (or dress, rather) is utterly unblemished, in spite of substantial turbulence, long and flowing drapes of emerald fabric wrapping her body in long, low-cut waves, her footwear invisible beneath the fabric.

Her eye, uncovered, twitches beneath its lid as she gestures for one of her servants to approach her, masked and clad in the jury-rigged power armour of the Gallogach. The tall, androgynous person reaches up to wrap a silken cloth over her forehead, before moving to follow, a second following close behind.

"You lead us to your... Master, I assume? They are a very, very mysterious person, if the rumours are to be believed..."

“Yes, but no. I would lead you to my master, but he is, alas, away. Your misfortune compounds, for the master speaks to no one without his word that they are worthy of His time. However, you would not be brought here for no reason,” he explained, bowing his head in apology. “Please, we should escape the cold,” the robed man said, turning on his heel towards a section of the mountain face still unmarred by the hand of man.

A vast door made of a black metal with a gold lightning bolt above it slowly opened at their approach, steam hissing out of the ground. A patina of frost coated the entryway as the superheated water vapor froze against the surface, guards in armor made of the same material following in its wake. They wielded cruel weapons made for terror rather than efficiency, festooned with jagged edged chainblades and bulky boltguns. Forming up into a pair of lines, they pounded their fists against their chest as the unassuming robed figure walked in between, turning to engulf the party as Luigsech followed in his wake.

The tunnel beyond was carved into the living stone, the rock still bare save for bundled coils carrying water, fuel, and raw power throughout the complex. “My apologies for this mean estate, but the complex has grown in size rather hastily. The mode in which you have approached us also demanded that we not dawdle. I’m sure you understand.”

"Certainly," Luigsech dryly commented, craning her neck to duly lay eyes upon practically everything she saw. She was evaluating, assessing, examining the structures around her for any sign of barbarism... But, all the same, she understood that her unique sensibilities could not fully be accounted for. No whiskeys and libations to be found here, it seemed.

"The haste with which your complex has grown in itself has been impressive. I see no bloated Pan-Pacific labor force, and yet... You manage to clear away the Himalazian Plateau in-" she blinks, abruptly shaking her head.

"Ah, I am terribly sorry. My manners seem to have fled me -- I don't believe I caught your name, did I?"

“You did not, but you have dealt no offense. My name is irrelevant at this juncture, the master bid me welcome you and so I have. If desired however, I am Prior Beck, head of the House of Doves within the Order of the Sigilites. I have the honor of the cataloging and storage of ancient communication devices, including that which you shall use to speak with him.” Pointedly, he did not respond or react to her curiosity on how they had worked so swiftly beginning to recreate the Himalazias.

Leading onward, there was a stark transition as the nearly barren rock suddenly gave way to a chamber made of what appeared to be polished bronze, the space bearing with it the weight of ages. The guards remained outside as Beck entered in, fanning out to watch the entry to the strange, baroque, room.

“I would request that you keep all psychic interference to a minimum.”

"Of course. That will be a simple matter," Luigsech replied, surreptitiously smoothing the creases out of her dress. "I am a Navigator, not a mere witch lacking control of my own mind." She explained, duly examining the chamber as she stepped inside.

The room itself seemed to be a single cast piece of the gleaming metal, with the only exceptions being the sturdy hatches that demarcated it from the rest of the complex. The interior of these too were shown to be of the same material when closed however, leaving the pair alone. In the center of the room was a small, squat table that held a flat pane of crystal and nothing more. Hoarfrost began to climb upon the walls as the Prior manipulated a strange console in front of the table, an otherworldly hum filling the air as a sound without sound.

Suspended above the crystal pane was a soft shimmering of light, that slowly resolved itself into the wizened face of Malcador. The man seemed distracted, only a fraction of his attention upon the room his image appeared in.

“Novator, welcome. I shall be brief, for both of our sakes,” the Sigilite said, brushing past any such niceties as introduction. Any woman who thought to ask after the Emperor would know of Malcador, and his own business was too pressing by far to waste time with idle chatter. “Why have you requested an audience?”

"Then I will grant you the same courtesy you are granting me," the Navigator replied, staring unflinchingly at the hologram.

"Word reached my ears of a warlord who is rapidly expanding across Terra, of one who has managed to transform the entire Himalazian Plateau into his grand palace... Such matters concern the immediate future of my people. I wish to understand his intentions."

“They should be known to you already,” Malcador replied curtly, his image flickering as an unearthly wail came over the connection. “My order is tasked with the preservation of human history, and we have ever spurned the petty warlords of this world, until the Master of the Lines arose. He, and he alone, we found worthy of our charge and to bring about the salvation of this benighted era. Does that suffice for you to understand, Novator?”

"No." Luigsech replied curtly, unperturbed, "my concern is chiefly the preservation of my people, Sigilite, and while I cannot doubt that your interests are noble... I cannot presume they align with the preservation of Eirné. I cannot afford assumptions, no matter how well-founded.”

“Preservation is a curious word, Novator. Let us speak plainly then, what are your terms? My time is regrettably short.”

"My House will faithfully serve your Master as Navigators, and my soldiers will aid him in his conquest of Terra and beyond. In exchange, governance of Eirné -- and Albyon -- will be left to us." Luigsech stated firmly, her brow furrowing. "We have been beaten, starved, imprisoned, enslaved, once and again and again... No more. Never again will I, or my people, allow such a fate to befall us. We are to be treated with respect."

“The Achaeminids sought much the same recognition and power, including dominion over a rival whom the Emperor’s armies shall conquer,” Malcador replied, a grim smile tugging at his lips at his last words. “Are you ready, then, to make the same sacrifices beneath the Raptor that they do?”

Luigsech quirked an eyebrow, a curious look spreading across her features. "I have already promised our armies and my bloodline, have I not?"

“The Emperor will ask yet more of you, for your land has been kept fenced and secured from the greatest depredations of this fallen era. Your mightiest exemplars he shall raise up as his own, and they will not remember the taste of summer in their own country. This is the price for what you seek.”

"Our best? My royal guard?" Luigsech asked, raising an eyebrow. "They have... Already been extensively modified by our geneticists. This will not interfere with your processes; or do you perhaps referred to the unaltered?"

“Those who already bear your arms and colors are, by and large, too old for the selections to come. The Emperor will collect the flower of your land’s youth,” Malcador explained further, pressing as far as he dared while the project was so secretive.

"I presume you will not take so many of our youth as to cripple our population growth?" Luigsech asked, steepling her fingers together. It was a difficult deal, to be sure, and she was reluctant to trade away her potential best... But the benefits, she hoped, would more than make up for the losses incurred. Freed from Albion's predations, her own eugenics programs could flourish -- an army of Fomorians, perhaps?

“Perhaps one in one hundred will pass the initial screening, fewer still taken permanently. Should your lands produce more, I would be pleasantly shocked,” the ancient man said, his focus more and more drifting towards off in the distance as it seemed their conversation came to an end. “We are in agreement, then?”

"We are in agreement," she confirmed. "...But perhaps you will be pleasantly surprised. My family has spent thousands of years cultivating an optimal population."

“Such is well then, I have no further tests then. The Emperor shall be your final judge.”
“You do yourself a disservice, old friend, as if I would ignore your judgment.” The unremarkable form of Prior Beck spoke, having returned in physical presence to the meeting between Luigsech and the hologram projection of the Sigillite. With a kind smile, that somehow seemed far older than the relative youth of the Prior’s features, he continued, “If other matters require your full attention, I believe I can handle matters from here.”

There was only a soft, and all too weary laugh, from Malcador in reply and with that, the great machine deactivated in a crackle of energy, motes of potential dissolving as they fell upon the floor of the brass chamber. The Prior’s attention then settled on Luigsech, and in a moment, some of the manipulation of reality fell away from the Prior.

The Emperor of Mankind did not reveal the full scope of who or what he was in a blaring moment, for such things might truly damage a being of psychic nature such as the Navigator before him. Instead the human shell that was the Prior shifted slightly, his skin darkening to resemble more the people of long-gone Anatolia, the kindly humble eyes replaced with blazing motes of light, as a fraction of the Emperor’s true being breached into reality.

“You have your audience, Novator.”

"Aha," Luigsech said, a small, knowing smirk cracking her features.

"You are no warlord, then, and the rumours are true of a man who seeks to become sovereign of all humanity..." She said, turning to respectfully bow in greeting to Beck once more.

“Humanity has faltered, but through my guidance it can reclaim its destiny. My reach is great, but for what we wish to achieve, the services of your household would be…expeditious.” The man accepted the bow with a nod of his head, the light that seemed to sear the air itself around him barely dimming with the action. “But what can be achieved, will be achieved, I believe The Sigillite has addressed to you the price of service in my Imperium.”

"...Yes. Yes, he has." Luigsech nodded, momentarily withering under the man's overbearing psychic aura, so hot it almost made her feel like she was developing a fever.

"My House... I have spent a great deal of time shaping them into the ideal Navigator, into the ideal weapon against the witch," she hissed, resisting the urge to spit. This man, if he could even be called that... Unquestionably, he was a psyker, but... Not like those she was used to. Their power was chaotic, wild, their mere presence a bomb waiting to go of, but this? This was... Order.

"...You will find us quite useful, I believe."



Greymane

The War Room, Southshore Citadel, Hillsbrad Foothills


"The Queen is willing," Calia interjected, smiling politely at Alexandros, before quickly turning to face Anvilmar, her expression just as soft and disarming as always. "I cannot speak for the King, but as I see it, Lordaeron has nothing to lose and everything to gain from granting Alterac to one of our most trusted allies. I would be honored to leave Alterac to your capable hands," she said, curtsying deeply, perhaps more than would be expected of a woman of her station, casting Garithos a pointed look as she rose, silently reminding him of his place.

"...And, of course, in the same capacity, I am happy to accede to the restoration of the Alliance." She nodded. "Capital City may be lost. My father may be gone, and my brother, far worse... But the peoples of the Alliance remain strong, and, as the High Tinker so wisely pointed out, we are stronger together than we are apart. None of us, surely, can defeat the Scourge alone, but together?" She continued, gesturing widely across the chamber, her voice rising in volume, though only after a brief glance in acknowledgement to Mekkatorque.

"Together, we have saved our world from annihilation once before. Now, we are called upon to do so again, against a threat perhaps greater than we have ever faced before; one that threatens not just our lives and our freedom, but life itself. though all of us may not be present -- Stormwind, Quel'thalas -- I am certain that we will all see the wisdom in joining forces, for the sake of life-"

Suddenly, there was a dull thud, a knocking at the door, and the brief sound of verbal commotion, before they were abruptly thrown open.

The man -- or beast -- who stepped inside was clad in the exact manner as King Greymane so often had been -- a heavy, blue-grey leather coat, lined in gold and a handful of small decorations; a pair of pins in the shape of a wolf’s head on either side of his collar, holding his cape in place, parted down the middle by fine white fabric and brass buttons. For a King, the outfit was altogether simple, though he carried himself with just as much arrogant confidence as one would expect of Genn Greymane...

Despite the fact that he looked nothing like the man anyone present knew.

In the place of that man was a massive, white-furred wolf-thing; a worgen that would tower above even some of the tallest of the Zandalari trolls, wicked grey claws the size of daggers extending from his furred paws. His fur was thick and bushy, clean and groomed but allowed to grow in a way that seemed altogether wild, a handful of small metal caps or rings over his wicked fangs. Other than his natural implements, however, he seemed unarmed -- and his clothing, unchanged by his lupine form.

Not far behind followed Lord Darius Crowley -- unlike Genn, still cast in the form of a man, his one good eye cautiously staring out at the gathered council, as though on alert for danger, though clad in a crisp Gilnean suit as he was.

Of course,” Greymane grunted, his voice a low rumble, though still recognizably the man he once was. “It would be sheer foolishness not to.
#1 alpine republic fan


Im haet u
I *do* love my special weapons and beeg guns...

Are we gonna be playing infantry?
Quel'Thalas is available again, as is Stromgarde.
@EzekielApproved!
Gilneas, Northern Headlands

It'd been ages since Genn heard the sound of tens of thousands of Gilnean soldiers on the march. Years, as far as he could recall -- even when Gilneas had abruptly rejoined the Alliance, its army had practically rushed out from the wall -- but now, with wounds healed and a new weapon in their arsenal, he felt they were truly ready for the war ahead.

Marching astride his army atop his ash-white steed, white fur bleeding into grey and black toward its extremities, he allowed himself a moment to survey the soldiers moving apace before him, past his steed's dark mane.

Toward the fore of the formation stood its most hardened, elite close combat troops, several handfuls' worth of worgen clad in light brigandine and flexible mail, clad in the navy-blue tabards of Gilneas replete with yellow-gold trim. Each one was a towering hulk in their own right, fur ranging from snow white akin to their gin to night-black coats, and everything in between. Unlike many of the other Gilnean soldiers, they carried no weapons -- only their wicked, dagger-like claws and crushing jaws were necessary. At their head stood none other than the towering form of Ivar bloodfang, each shoulder marked with the sword-and-shield icon of a Knight-Champion of the Alliance, so massive that he stood taller than every last person in his already physically outsized unit of shock troops. Every step the man took seemed to radiate cold, barely-contained fury, his rigid movements orchestrated as though his muscles were constantly at tension.

Next came the first units of standard close combat troops -- more worgen, like those who came ahead of them, though generally not nearly as large as the soldiers that followed the Knight-Champion. They all wore the royal livery of Gilneas, replete with sallet-style helms and extended visors, necks protected by reinforced, brassy-gold scale, the very same that covered their legs and arms in brigandine, those few pieces of solid steel visible on their helms, gauntlets, and shoulder a stark, bluish silver.

Perhaps the most archetypal feature of the Gilnean uniform, however, were the reinforced pieces of silvery steel over the nose, around the eyes, and all the way up to the rear of the helmet -- replete with sharp angles and a large spike toward the helmet's top, the design was made to both convey aggression and imitate the three-pronged Gilnean flaw, a band more of steel reach backward along the helmets toward the protruding spike.

"Your Majesty Greymane?"

The voice of his Grand Marshal -- Darius Crowley -- broke him from his reverie, and Genn shifted to face his once friend-turned enemy-turned friend, spending a quiet moment or two regarding the man's concerned expression, framed by his auburn hair and extended goatee.

"You aren't worried about the army, are you? They-"

Genn scoffed, cutting Darius off with an abrupt wave of his hand.

"Not in the least. Not the army." He said, gritting his teeth. "We have what damn well might be the strongest army of the living on Azeroth! Our artillery nearly rivals Khaz Modan in volume, we've enough hand-guns to equip ourselves for years ahead, we have the Worgen -- [i]ourselves[/i.] I'm not worried about the damned army, Crowley."

When he noticed that Darius, the very same man who was trying to depose him a handful of years ago, was still looking at him with that same expression of concern, he sighed in defeat. Whether for his King or for his people, Genn didn't know for certain -- but he had a few guesses.

"You were right. That's it. About the Alliance, about needing to intervene against the Scourge -- can you imagine what would have happened if we brought this to bear when it was asked for? When that disgusting traitor of a Prince left for Northrend, or when he murdered his father? If we'd never left the Alliance in the first place?"

"If you hadn't left the Alliance and dragged us with you, Your Majesty." Genn corrected him, his expression briefly shifting to one of sour hostility before flattening out again.

"But it is, as empty as this may sound, in the past. You're aware of your mistakes, no? That you won't make them again? Your people need you to lead them now, to make up for those mistakes. You know I won't forgive you for what you did. Plenty of people won't -- but all you can do now is do better. You have to."

The concern Darius'd shown was gone now, Genn noted. His features were mostly flat, expressionless -- except for a deep furrowing of his brow. Judging. Silent.

Genn found that reassuring, somehow, managing a sharp nod as he held out a hand, leaning toward Crowley as he pointed toward the looming silhouette of the Greymane Wall.

"We're nearing the gates," he said, clearing his throat.

"Make our presence known!" He shouted -- mere moments later, the sound of drums and brass joined the din of marching feet.

"Louder, louder -- and signal to have those damned gates opened!"

For Gilneas, he thought.

"For Gilneas! For the Alliance!"
There is nothing here.
© 2007-2024
BBCode Cheatsheet