So I left my post at a note where Brynn could find Berich. I'd like the two of them to have a talk, as I haven't collabed with anyone but Dervs here and Brynn wants to keep his herd of black sheep together.
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By the time the guards had come, Brynn had already left a trail of writhing wounded or stone-still unconscious. His knife was red, handle slick with other men's blood, and he sat breathing deep and slow in a corner, leaning against the wall near the hearth. Crossbows were trained on everyone around the room and he grinned, thinking how this could get any worse than it already was. The big green bastard had already killed more than a few men, and he'd already left a few to bleed out, himself. He shook his head, rolled his eyes and began clapping when the halfhead guard shot Maulakanth. He was promptly killed, and the people behind him too.
So this was how Brynn's luck was. He rose to fame on the backs of lies, he shed blood and sweat to earn his own names, he shook hands and slapped backs with men others sing songs of, and heard songs sung of himself. Then he made enemies. He buried friends because of his feuds with those enemies. Then he was stabbed by his own friend over words. Actually, come to think of it, he should have seen this shit streak of luck coming a mile away. He laughed something almost like a cough at first, then a chuckle, and he shook his head and slapped his knee and cringed because he was reminded by the searing pain that he'd cut himself when he smashed a bottle on a man's head.
“Maulakanth.” He raised his voice and then mused to himself when no one acknowledged him, “That fucker has our gold strapped to him and he's too caught up killing these half-wits.” He raised a brow when he heard the pounding of hooves and remembered their horse-man guests, “And these fucking centaurs.”
He walked forward and picked up a shortbow and the quiver beside it. It was no warbow, and definitely not his old warbow, but it would have to do. He walked outside to the sight of two dead centaurs splayed on the muddy ground in ugly death. He turned to a guard next to him, a lad of only seventeen summers, “If I kill these horse-men, me and my friends all walk away from this and you forget it all?”
“If that's what the Captain says.” The guards-lad muttered.
“Even the murders?” Even still, the crashing in the Gaptooth Grin with the merciless howling of Maulakanth sating his bloodlust could be heard mingling with the shouts from the battle outside. Alarm bells rang, the terrified wailing of mothers scrambling to safety with their children, the shouting of the Captain to rally his men, the pounding of hooves. And somewhere among it all, a man being killed by a giant orc.
“Even the what? You killed people in there?” He said.
“Me?” He remembered cutting open that man's gut, stabbing that other in the crotch and then stabbing the one in the neck, “Mara's mercy, no.”
“I can't let murder go unpunished! Captain!” Brynn's eyes went wide and it was far too late to stab this mouthy nance in the throat. He and the lad both looked at the Captain, but the lad hacked and Brynn looked back over to see the point of an arrow through his neck.
“Serves you right, you loose-lipped cunt.” Brynn muttered, turning around while he nocked an arrow and sighted on a centaur riding far too fast in his direction for his liking. The centaur had a bow with an arrow of his own nocked. Brynn swallowed and darted to the left, hearing the twang of a bow and the whistling arrow. He pulled back the string, sighted as best he could and let loose. The dull thump of an arrow burying itself in flesh graced his ears for the first time in a long time and a smile crossed his lips. The centaur faltered and tripped over its own legs, falling and skidding to a stop twenty or so strides from him. “Cunt.”
He took a few arrows out of his quiver and planted them head-first into the ground at his feet. This was his element, a decent bow and some enemies a ways away. He didn't feel himself don his calm smile until he let loose another arrow that caught a centaur in the neck at fifty paces. Another wheeled around and brandished a crude sword and screamed something in his dumb language, “Oh?” The centaur charged for him and he nocked another arrow, drew, and fired. His first arrow missed by inches when the centaur dodged to the side. He reached down, keeping his eyes on the bastard and nocked another shaft. He drew, exhaled and shot. It caught the centaur just below the chest and he watched him slow to a trot and then slump to his knees before falling over. “Ponce.”
He spared a thought at how he could only ever feel right in places like this. In the midst of battle, or a good scrap or skirmish. He had a good voice for song, maybe could've gone to the Bards College in Solitude, he'd spared a thought in his endless musings about leaving home behind but ultimately chose the blade. But introspection was best left for after the battle, if you were still alive. He sniffed and cast his eyes about the battle, counting out his comrades, hoping that they'd survived. He caught sight of most of them, but he still felt like one was missing. He released a held breath when he saw the mousy lad, “All accounted for.” He nodded, then paused, an arrow nocked. His face told of thought and he rolled his eyes. With that, he plucked his arrows out of the ground and placed them back in his quiver. He could count them out later, he knew that big bag of money was here somewhere and he'd seen it last around the tavern. Then he stopped for a beat, “And Berich.”
He set off to find that rich-looking bastard, an arrow nocked and ready for anyone trying to get in his way.
So this was how Brynn's luck was. He rose to fame on the backs of lies, he shed blood and sweat to earn his own names, he shook hands and slapped backs with men others sing songs of, and heard songs sung of himself. Then he made enemies. He buried friends because of his feuds with those enemies. Then he was stabbed by his own friend over words. Actually, come to think of it, he should have seen this shit streak of luck coming a mile away. He laughed something almost like a cough at first, then a chuckle, and he shook his head and slapped his knee and cringed because he was reminded by the searing pain that he'd cut himself when he smashed a bottle on a man's head.
“Maulakanth.” He raised his voice and then mused to himself when no one acknowledged him, “That fucker has our gold strapped to him and he's too caught up killing these half-wits.” He raised a brow when he heard the pounding of hooves and remembered their horse-man guests, “And these fucking centaurs.”
He walked forward and picked up a shortbow and the quiver beside it. It was no warbow, and definitely not his old warbow, but it would have to do. He walked outside to the sight of two dead centaurs splayed on the muddy ground in ugly death. He turned to a guard next to him, a lad of only seventeen summers, “If I kill these horse-men, me and my friends all walk away from this and you forget it all?”
“If that's what the Captain says.” The guards-lad muttered.
“Even the murders?” Even still, the crashing in the Gaptooth Grin with the merciless howling of Maulakanth sating his bloodlust could be heard mingling with the shouts from the battle outside. Alarm bells rang, the terrified wailing of mothers scrambling to safety with their children, the shouting of the Captain to rally his men, the pounding of hooves. And somewhere among it all, a man being killed by a giant orc.
“Even the what? You killed people in there?” He said.
“Me?” He remembered cutting open that man's gut, stabbing that other in the crotch and then stabbing the one in the neck, “Mara's mercy, no.”
“I can't let murder go unpunished! Captain!” Brynn's eyes went wide and it was far too late to stab this mouthy nance in the throat. He and the lad both looked at the Captain, but the lad hacked and Brynn looked back over to see the point of an arrow through his neck.
“Serves you right, you loose-lipped cunt.” Brynn muttered, turning around while he nocked an arrow and sighted on a centaur riding far too fast in his direction for his liking. The centaur had a bow with an arrow of his own nocked. Brynn swallowed and darted to the left, hearing the twang of a bow and the whistling arrow. He pulled back the string, sighted as best he could and let loose. The dull thump of an arrow burying itself in flesh graced his ears for the first time in a long time and a smile crossed his lips. The centaur faltered and tripped over its own legs, falling and skidding to a stop twenty or so strides from him. “Cunt.”
He took a few arrows out of his quiver and planted them head-first into the ground at his feet. This was his element, a decent bow and some enemies a ways away. He didn't feel himself don his calm smile until he let loose another arrow that caught a centaur in the neck at fifty paces. Another wheeled around and brandished a crude sword and screamed something in his dumb language, “Oh?” The centaur charged for him and he nocked another arrow, drew, and fired. His first arrow missed by inches when the centaur dodged to the side. He reached down, keeping his eyes on the bastard and nocked another shaft. He drew, exhaled and shot. It caught the centaur just below the chest and he watched him slow to a trot and then slump to his knees before falling over. “Ponce.”
He spared a thought at how he could only ever feel right in places like this. In the midst of battle, or a good scrap or skirmish. He had a good voice for song, maybe could've gone to the Bards College in Solitude, he'd spared a thought in his endless musings about leaving home behind but ultimately chose the blade. But introspection was best left for after the battle, if you were still alive. He sniffed and cast his eyes about the battle, counting out his comrades, hoping that they'd survived. He caught sight of most of them, but he still felt like one was missing. He released a held breath when he saw the mousy lad, “All accounted for.” He nodded, then paused, an arrow nocked. His face told of thought and he rolled his eyes. With that, he plucked his arrows out of the ground and placed them back in his quiver. He could count them out later, he knew that big bag of money was here somewhere and he'd seen it last around the tavern. Then he stopped for a beat, “And Berich.”
He set off to find that rich-looking bastard, an arrow nocked and ready for anyone trying to get in his way.
I'll have my post up today
@Spoopy Scary If your character dies, I have no issues with existing players making a new character. That's no problem!
However, I'm keeping it one active character at a time so we can contact the reserve players if a spot opens up.
I'll chat with my partner in crime and see about if we'll keep steady with the current number of slots or eventually adjust them.
We're trying not to have to keep together a shambling amalgamation of sixteen players just as much as we are not trying to keep together a shambling amalgamation of sixteen characters. We want to keep the cast relatively small and if each player got a chance to get a secondary character it'd get a bit messy, we think. Plus, we have the reserve slots for a reason. If we want to expand the cast by one or two characters, we could give them a chance. Or, if one person drops out, they can step into that player's slot.
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The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)
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10 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
I made post
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)
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10 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Solveig had taken to keeping to herself in a corner, eyes scanning the room for anyone that looked anything like a Reachman. She'd only seen one in Markarth, but he didn't look like a barbarian. He looked like an elf crossed with a man, long fingers, slightly pointed ears and angular features, subtle bulges in his bottom lip where his muddied blood had put tusks. The only touch of barbarism in him was the single feather braided into his hair. But to her, that was her mentor, the one that taught her to fight. He was no barbarian, no more than any fighter. She had to shake her head to put her mind back on the task at hand. It was a different Reachman she was looking for. She'd gotten further sidetracked by a wounded man reading passages from a holy book aloud to a few others. “And to the sinners there shall be no rest, not in sleep nor in death,” Solveig swallowed and frowned, “To the thieves, there shall be no riches; to the murderers, there shall be no sleep.”
The only thing that jerked her mind away from wanting to walk over to the holy man and punch his jaw loose was Sevine's voice. She asked for help carrying supplies to the library. She simply nodded and stood, rolling her shoulders in preparation. There was a young lad in the company that was struggling with a large crate. He couldn't have been ninety pounds without his armor and Solveig simply lay a hand on his shoulder. The lad looked up at the woman who stood two heads taller than himself and took a step back. Solveig gripped the crate, straight-backed. With a grunt, she heaved it up to rest in her hands and lean against her shoulder. “Follow along.” She said to the lad, pushing up his nasal helm that barely fit him.
“You're strong.” He said. “You're like my Pa. Was your Pa a plow-horse? Bet he was by the thickness of you.”
“Watch your fucking tongue.” She spat, and the lad recoiled at her outburst. She felt a little bad, it was obvious he was making at a joke. “My Pa's Jorwen Red-Bear. He fought as a Housecarl in Ulfric's army during the Civil War.”
“Oh.” The lad said, keeping alongside her. She didn't actually mean for him to follow along but it was how it was now, she guessed. “My Ma died during the war, when I was still a babe.”
“Who'd she fight for?” Solveig cocked a brow. She'd never heard of many fighting women recognized in the songs past those in Ysgramor's 500 or during the wars with the Dunmer.
“No one. She was a farmer.” The lad said, looking down at the ground, “Stead got burnt by Stormcloaks. Pa was a Legion man.”
“Oh.” Now it was her looking at the ground, “War...it's like that. Or so my Pa says. I'm sorry though.”
Suddenly, the lad had a fire lit in him, “Why? Your Pa done it?”
“My Pa doesn't burn farmsteads, little lad, he's too much repute for petty brigand shite like that!” The lad's fire died with the whirlwind of Solveig's temper, and that made her winds falter in turn. “My father's better than that, like yours. But I won't lie, there's some people capable of doing good for every man capable of some black deeds on either side of anything.”
“D'you reckon?” Solveig looked at Sevine and Do'Karth, her mind went back to her mentor. Her mentor had slurs thrown at his back his whole life in Markarth by both Nords for being a Reachman and Reachmen for living amongst Nords. Solveig reckoned he had enough skill to slay each man who threw the slur but didn't. He only had a heart big enough to let a girl follow him and learn. And her father. She'd wait at the door for him and give him mean looks for being away, but he still wrapped her in his big stone-hard, mammoth-strong arms and tell her he loved her. The Red-Bear, a monster in the fray, telling a little girl that he loved her.
And as she stepped up beside Do'Karth and Sevine and saw the welcoming looks on her companions' faces, she nodded, “Aye, I do reckon.” And with something of the first little smile she'd had in days, she hefted the crate in her arms and nodded to Sevine, “Pick something up and follow along.”
Once they'd gotten to the library, Solveig put the crate down as gently as she could, clapping her hands free of dust and putting them on her hips. As she inhaled the smell of dusty tomes and aged scrolls filled with obscure knowledge and old tales, she opened her eyes and looked upon it all. “I hope we're not carrying each of these fucking things out of here. We'll be here until sun-up next morning.”
The only thing that jerked her mind away from wanting to walk over to the holy man and punch his jaw loose was Sevine's voice. She asked for help carrying supplies to the library. She simply nodded and stood, rolling her shoulders in preparation. There was a young lad in the company that was struggling with a large crate. He couldn't have been ninety pounds without his armor and Solveig simply lay a hand on his shoulder. The lad looked up at the woman who stood two heads taller than himself and took a step back. Solveig gripped the crate, straight-backed. With a grunt, she heaved it up to rest in her hands and lean against her shoulder. “Follow along.” She said to the lad, pushing up his nasal helm that barely fit him.
“You're strong.” He said. “You're like my Pa. Was your Pa a plow-horse? Bet he was by the thickness of you.”
“Watch your fucking tongue.” She spat, and the lad recoiled at her outburst. She felt a little bad, it was obvious he was making at a joke. “My Pa's Jorwen Red-Bear. He fought as a Housecarl in Ulfric's army during the Civil War.”
“Oh.” The lad said, keeping alongside her. She didn't actually mean for him to follow along but it was how it was now, she guessed. “My Ma died during the war, when I was still a babe.”
“Who'd she fight for?” Solveig cocked a brow. She'd never heard of many fighting women recognized in the songs past those in Ysgramor's 500 or during the wars with the Dunmer.
“No one. She was a farmer.” The lad said, looking down at the ground, “Stead got burnt by Stormcloaks. Pa was a Legion man.”
“Oh.” Now it was her looking at the ground, “War...it's like that. Or so my Pa says. I'm sorry though.”
Suddenly, the lad had a fire lit in him, “Why? Your Pa done it?”
“My Pa doesn't burn farmsteads, little lad, he's too much repute for petty brigand shite like that!” The lad's fire died with the whirlwind of Solveig's temper, and that made her winds falter in turn. “My father's better than that, like yours. But I won't lie, there's some people capable of doing good for every man capable of some black deeds on either side of anything.”
“D'you reckon?” Solveig looked at Sevine and Do'Karth, her mind went back to her mentor. Her mentor had slurs thrown at his back his whole life in Markarth by both Nords for being a Reachman and Reachmen for living amongst Nords. Solveig reckoned he had enough skill to slay each man who threw the slur but didn't. He only had a heart big enough to let a girl follow him and learn. And her father. She'd wait at the door for him and give him mean looks for being away, but he still wrapped her in his big stone-hard, mammoth-strong arms and tell her he loved her. The Red-Bear, a monster in the fray, telling a little girl that he loved her.
And as she stepped up beside Do'Karth and Sevine and saw the welcoming looks on her companions' faces, she nodded, “Aye, I do reckon.” And with something of the first little smile she'd had in days, she hefted the crate in her arms and nodded to Sevine, “Pick something up and follow along.”
Once they'd gotten to the library, Solveig put the crate down as gently as she could, clapping her hands free of dust and putting them on her hips. As she inhaled the smell of dusty tomes and aged scrolls filled with obscure knowledge and old tales, she opened her eyes and looked upon it all. “I hope we're not carrying each of these fucking things out of here. We'll be here until sun-up next morning.”
Left alone, finally, when Faruq's story was cut off and he stalked off to make conversation with Cyrendil. Brynn cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked around the room, at Fiona sitting not far from where she'd beaten that man's face in, at Berich's back just before the doors swallowed any sight of him. He took a drink, then another, and then figured fuck it and quaffed half the big tankard. It would still take some time before this folk warmed up to him, but it would just be a matter of simple gestures and campfire politics. It was the same with any band whose faces were all new to the other. The tavern maid came around and picked up a few of the unattended tankards left behind before speaking to him while she busied herself, “I've seen it before. Folk only stay around while the drink flows. Once it dries up, they move on.”
Brynn snorted, “It's not like that.” Brynn paused, his tankard half-way to his lips before the creeping realization that more than half the folk that followed him over the mountains hated what he was, or what they heard he was, “Mostly. What's it to you, Tavern-Wench?”
“Nothing at all,” She cast a glance at him before returning to her work of wiping the table down, “Road-Scum.”
“Road-Scum?” He felt his face get hot and he almost made to stand, but then found out he was drunk and this was his third tankard, “Road-Scum?” He worked his mouth, his lips forming into mute breaths, recognizing there was a lack of wit.
“Aye, I thought we were calling each other by slurs.” She smiled. “I've seen plenty like you.”
“Plenty, eh?”
“Aye.” She finished. There was no more conversation left in her for him, Brynn could tell.
“Would you get a glass of whiskey for each of those that came in with me.” He took another gulp of ale, “Or those that are still here, anyhow. Two fingers.” Won't cross the mountains in a day, just small steps at a time, he thought. “In the meantime, this Road-Scum is getting himself a whore.”
“There's a red-haired one you'd like!” Someone raised his voice from across the room. He noticed a certain slurred lisp to it that he reckoned he knew who it belonged to. Sure enough, it was the man whose face was beaten in moments ago. He stood and the tavern was quiet almost at once. The men dressed in green all stopped playing their games and drinking their ale to turn and look at Brynn. He suddenly felt unwelcome here. “You could take her and that floppy fucking hat out of this town.”
Brynn gave his wolf's grin, though every nerve in him was begging him to run. He felt pushed. He didn't like being pushed. “You, who got their face smashed in, what's your name?”
“It's fuck off.” He pointed, and all the men dressed in green stood, “All of you road-scum grow fat on the strife of the lands punished by war. You pick at the scab like maggots, hanging around the edges. You, that other hill-scum, and that green shit over there. You can come with us to the Lord's fort to be judged fairly, or not.”
“All this just because my friend wouldn't fuck you?” Brynn cocked a brow. “Sit back down, have a drink and then, uh,” and he shook his fist in a jerking motion, “have yourself some fun later, no shame in it.”
The big Breton's face had a creeping shade of red come over his face and he pulled a knife from behind his back, “Kill them!”
The first man that came close to him, he punched out with his tankard in hand and it cracked into the man's teeth. He stood as fast as he could and cursed himself for getting too drunk in a place like this. He felt like he was hit by a bull and the man standing over him looked like one. “You big ugly,” he heaved in a wheezing breath, “great,” the man lifted his boot to stomp Brynn's skull in, “fuck!” and Brynn rolled to his left, grasping up a stool as he stood.
He smashed it across the bull-man's head so hard that he could hear the wood crack. The bull-man paused and Brynn booted him in the stomach and doubled him over. He turned around on an instinct and the entire tavern had erupted into one giant brawl, “Ah, fuck.” He sighed, “We were supposed to lay low!” He said, as he punched a green-clothed bastard in the throat.
Brynn snorted, “It's not like that.” Brynn paused, his tankard half-way to his lips before the creeping realization that more than half the folk that followed him over the mountains hated what he was, or what they heard he was, “Mostly. What's it to you, Tavern-Wench?”
“Nothing at all,” She cast a glance at him before returning to her work of wiping the table down, “Road-Scum.”
“Road-Scum?” He felt his face get hot and he almost made to stand, but then found out he was drunk and this was his third tankard, “Road-Scum?” He worked his mouth, his lips forming into mute breaths, recognizing there was a lack of wit.
“Aye, I thought we were calling each other by slurs.” She smiled. “I've seen plenty like you.”
“Plenty, eh?”
“Aye.” She finished. There was no more conversation left in her for him, Brynn could tell.
“Would you get a glass of whiskey for each of those that came in with me.” He took another gulp of ale, “Or those that are still here, anyhow. Two fingers.” Won't cross the mountains in a day, just small steps at a time, he thought. “In the meantime, this Road-Scum is getting himself a whore.”
“There's a red-haired one you'd like!” Someone raised his voice from across the room. He noticed a certain slurred lisp to it that he reckoned he knew who it belonged to. Sure enough, it was the man whose face was beaten in moments ago. He stood and the tavern was quiet almost at once. The men dressed in green all stopped playing their games and drinking their ale to turn and look at Brynn. He suddenly felt unwelcome here. “You could take her and that floppy fucking hat out of this town.”
Brynn gave his wolf's grin, though every nerve in him was begging him to run. He felt pushed. He didn't like being pushed. “You, who got their face smashed in, what's your name?”
“It's fuck off.” He pointed, and all the men dressed in green stood, “All of you road-scum grow fat on the strife of the lands punished by war. You pick at the scab like maggots, hanging around the edges. You, that other hill-scum, and that green shit over there. You can come with us to the Lord's fort to be judged fairly, or not.”
“All this just because my friend wouldn't fuck you?” Brynn cocked a brow. “Sit back down, have a drink and then, uh,” and he shook his fist in a jerking motion, “have yourself some fun later, no shame in it.”
The big Breton's face had a creeping shade of red come over his face and he pulled a knife from behind his back, “Kill them!”
The first man that came close to him, he punched out with his tankard in hand and it cracked into the man's teeth. He stood as fast as he could and cursed himself for getting too drunk in a place like this. He felt like he was hit by a bull and the man standing over him looked like one. “You big ugly,” he heaved in a wheezing breath, “great,” the man lifted his boot to stomp Brynn's skull in, “fuck!” and Brynn rolled to his left, grasping up a stool as he stood.
He smashed it across the bull-man's head so hard that he could hear the wood crack. The bull-man paused and Brynn booted him in the stomach and doubled him over. He turned around on an instinct and the entire tavern had erupted into one giant brawl, “Ah, fuck.” He sighed, “We were supposed to lay low!” He said, as he punched a green-clothed bastard in the throat.
Mr. @Spoopy Scary did not tell me he replied to my collab haha I just checked titanpad and he has in fact added on. So I will try and move that along.
Cool, I wanted to let everyone get a post in to socialize before things got heated up.
Alright, @Macro, how's the post coming?
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)
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10 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
I'm too lazy to use color.
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