Penny

Men vs. Women Race to 1000: Version 2.0

@Callousqueen-63

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

Also we now have two Johans. Johan Verbek the syphilitic cheese-monger and Johan Cartman. I don't imagine the cheesemonger will come up again, just maximizing confusion

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

Thank you and thanks to @Dusty for collaborating with me

Men vs. Women Race to 1000: Version 2.0

@LogantheCat@Callousqueen
-62

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

“If you will kindly get out of my way Herr Verbek?” Marguerite asked politely, slender fingers tapping the butt of her pistol in emphasis. The portly merchant glanced down at the messenger and then shot glare filled with hate and frustration at the healer.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered before climbing down the ladder and stomping away into the rain.

“I’ll be right down,” Marguerite called to the messenger, one of the barflies who frequented the Maw unless she missed her guess. She hoisted her leather satchel over her shoulder, the stoppered phials of herbs and unguents tinkling musically as they shifted inside. Most of what she had was stored in the satchel, though a few half-finished infusions steeped in buckets and flagons scattered around the hay loft. As an apothecary's workshop went it was a poor one, but Davor’s rent was reasonable and it kept the rain off. It might have been helpful to know what kind of illness she was being called to treat, but the quickest way to determine that was simply to go and see for herself. Reaching into her tunic she wrapped her hand around the small silver pendant she wore, a simple stylized dove, and whispered a quick prayer to Shyalla before sliding down the ladder and striding purposefully out into the rain.

The interior of the Ogre’s Maw was dark and earthy. A miasma of pipesmoke coiled and whirled across the ceiling, flowing along the channels defined by the dark wooden beams of ancient oak. A fire blazed in the stone hearth, flames licking the bottom of an iron cauldron filled with a bubbling stew of salt pork, barely and whatever vegetables Rosine had been able to barter. Cheap tallow candles flickered and guttered in the wind of the open door before Marguerite stepped through and pulled it shut. The rushes that covered the floor had been changed recently, but the smell of stale beer lingered in the grubby plaster walls.

A few of the regulars, mostly idlers and loafers grunted greetings to her as she entered. The interminable dice games with which they passed the time before dinner was ready temporarily forgotten in the excitement of the evening. There were several new faces, a handsome young man in armor with an enormous sword slung across his back, another in the robes of an itinerant priest, a Sigmarite by the hammer he carried, a halfling, who it appeared she had interrupted mid boast, and finally a third man with the harsh angular face of a Bretonnian who, although dressed as a knight, seemed a good deal more disheveled than other examples Marguerite had seen. The youthful chevalier sat close to a boy he had laid before the fireplace, and was rubbing hopelessly at his mud stained doublet in a vain attempt to cleanse it. Filth he no doubt collected by carrying the emaciated child indoors. Defeated by the persistent muck the Breton leaned his back against the tavern wall, looking up at and speaking warily to a cloaked Bretonnian mercenary who stood nearby, his distaste clear as his gaze flickered from the mercenary’s face to his belt which held an assortment of weaponry including a brace of pistols. He was addressing something he’d been asked before Marguerite’s entrance, all in the flowery tongue of his homeland.

”No, we were not attacked, at least none dared challenge me. The child…” Breton trailed off, glancing down at the boy lying unconscious close at hand. He almost seemed conflicted, and his bright blue eyes, ringed from lack of sleep ill-disguised a deepfelt confusion hidden in their depths. “I-I am uncertain.”

When Marguerite approached the Breton urged her towards the prone form of his charge, his heavily accented voice rising with more familiar wordage. “You are a healer?” He struggled to his feet, swaying ever so slightly before catching himself, his eyelids drooping. “I must warn you; I have no intention of compensating your services. Perhaps he might work for whatever treatment you provide once he is whole again?”

"Shallya's gift is it own reward," Marguerite said, a trifle ironically. In truth she regularly solicited donations for her efforts, Shallaya's gift did incur certain expenses after-all, but she couldn't imagine a circumstance in which having a child follow her around would be an aid to her activities.

Marguerite knelt beside the boy, the fire dried rushes crackling under her knees. She felt a little self-conscious doing so in front of the priest. Like all Reiklanders she had been raised to revere Sigmar and it wasn’t as though she were doing anything wrong, but there were priests and then there were priests. The boy’s pulse was erratic as she touched her fingertips to his neck, the flesh itself hot and clammy, though the moisture probably came from the rain rather than sweat. It was unlikely someone in his condition would be able to sweat naturally. Deftly, her fingers moved over his body, touching each of his visible wounds for a moment. Remarkably none of them seemed too serious, leaving his main problems as fever and malnutrition. Opening her bag, she rifled around for a moment before retrieving a small glass phial filled with a greyish white powder, an iron spoon and a jar of dark honey. She dipped the spoon into the honey and then shook a generous amount of powder over it, coating the sticky golden liquid. She began to whisper a prayer to Shyalla, laying a small hand on the boys swollen belly, calling upon the Goddess to aid the boy. Carefully she touched the spoon to his lips, the sweetness of the honey stimulated the child’s lips to part, and she thrust the spoon into his mouth, watching the muscles in his throat work as he unconsciously swallowed the mixture. As she finished the prayer, he drew a deep wracking breath and then settled, his skin beginning to cool and his pulse slowing to a more natural pace.

“Shyalla be thanked,” she breathed, stroking the boy’s forehead with her fingers.

“Might you wake him so that I may begin questioning?” The Breton interrupted suddenly from where he’d been standing, observing the entire procedure.

“Well of course I could wake him,” Maguerite replied sourly. “But he is still half out of his mind with fever and he is as likely to declare himself Emperor as tell us anything useful. He needs rest, and nourishment, but slowly lest he eat himself to death. Whatever he has to tell us will have to wait.” She dipped the spoon into the honey again, this time omitting the powder and pressing it to the boy’s lips.

“Shyalla bless you my child,” she whispered in pious afterthought.

Synopsis

Marguerite walks in and provides basic medical care with both herbs and prayers for the child.

Men vs. Women Race to 1000: Version 2.0

@Callousqueen
-61

Damned to the Depths

Calliope awoke in darkness coughing wetly as she sucked in a lungful of dry air. The cell reeked of blood and her hands recoiled from slick ropes of entrails as she groped about trying to get her bearings. She was aware that she was naked before she was aware that she no longer wore the manacles which had separated her from her magic.

“Ilvin’ya’va,” she whispered and a globe of pale light appeared, bathing the room in silvery radiance. The body of a Blood Axe mage lay on the ground and there was blood everywhere. A great bite had been torn from where the neck joined the shoulder, ripping out the network of veins and arteries that sank down to the heart. His chest had been ripped open also, perhaps by claws that all but bisected him from sternum to crotch. Her former clothing lay strewn about, ripped and torn, as did the manacles burst open as though they had tried to contain tree trunks. She wiped blood from her face and tried to remember what had happened. She had some dim memory of the mage chasing her down here, but what happened after that was vague and fuzzy, as though she had been struck in the head. Instinctively she reached up to touch her face and her hand came away tacky with half congealed blood. It took an effort not to wretch, she must have lain face down in the spreading blood while she was out. Grabbing for the remains of her sarong, she wiped feverishly at her face, clearing away as much of the blood as she could.

The sounds of battle echoed from down the tunnel. She couldn’t have been out too long then. As carefully as she could she stripped the cloak from the slaughtered mage, casting a wary eye left and right for whatever creature might have done it. The robe hadn’t been too clean before it had been splashed with gore, but it was the best she could do. She pulled it on and raced up the tunnel towards the light.

When Calliopie reached the mouth of the tunnel she paused to peer out into the sunlight. The Witch’s crew were still fighting, though the odds must be very long indeed. Drawing a deep breath she began to focus her magic, intent on evening the odds in any way possible.

“Previ…” before she could complete the spell, there was a sudden silence and then a panicked scream from one of the Blood Axes. Whatever had unerved them, within moments the pirates were fleeing, stampeding for the rubble ramps that served as exits. Calliope lashed the backs of the fleeing pirates with darts of arcane energy, pitching the victims onto the rocks in piles of tangled limbs. It probably wasn’t necessary, but in politics and in war, it rarely hurt to put the boot in while the other fellow as down. Within moments the amphiptere was clear save for the crew of the Weather Witch and some dozen dying Blood Axes.

Calliope stepped from the mouth of the tunnel, gingerly avoided the corpse of a Blood Axe who had been brained with a flag stone. Jim, the young somewhat naive sailor, came running towards her his face filled with concern.

“Lady Call…” he chocked off as he took in her blood spattered mostly naked form, his face going ashen as he stammered to silence. Calliope rolled her eyes.

“Don’t just stand there,” she snapped, “find me some clothes, and have Sketti send some make sure none of those runners like our ship better than theirs, or decide to burn it just to be safe.”

“Uhhh… yes ma’am,” Jim squeaked turning on his heel and running off towards the Dwarf. Calliope rolled her eyes and headed off to find Markus, along with a change of clothes.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Emmaline let out a squeak of panic as the bolt of concentrated dark magic flew at Amal. She didn’t even have a moment to call a warning before it struck the thief. To her shock and delight the bolt seemed to fly wide somehow, desiccating a patch of rushes rather than sucking the life from the thief as it ought to have done. She didn’t understand the shouted exchange between the creature and Amal and she crouched down behind the dyke racking her brain for something to do. The only method of escape she could see was the carpet, but the thing had been too sluggish to give her much hope it could carry them any distance.

Magic seemed the only answer, but she didn’t know any spell that might turn the tables. Grimly she resolved to try anyway, casing aside her staff and squatting down on the moist earth to gather her energy. To her surprise the staff shimmered into the form of the cobra that had bitten the bandit back in the cave after the caravan attack. It raised its head slightly and hissed worriedly before ducking back down out of sight. It glanced left and right and then struck at a patch of earth perhaps five feet from Emmaline. It looked at her critically and then struck again, batting it wedge shaped head against the dirt. Emmaline arched an eyebrow, risking a quick glance over the dyke to see Amal racing full tilt around the edge of the oasis pursued by the chariot rider and his skeletal horsemen. She looked back at the snake that was worrying the dirt with its face.

“You want me to dig?” she asked in Reikspiel. The snake nodded emphatically, bobbing its hooded head up and down. Emmaline sunk her fingers into the dirt, scooping up a handful of the mud. To her surprise there was something solid in it. Quickly she scraped away the muck to reveal a rusted piece of iron, perhaps a wheelwrights nail the top of which still glimmered with gilding.

“How is this supposed…” Emmaline began but even as she did so she understood. Amal was shouting obscenities at his pursuers as he fled around the wadi. On a straight course the skeletal horseman would have caught him in moments, but the curve and the boggy soil kept him ahead of his pursuers for a few more moments. Emmaline sketched an arcane design into the soil with a muddy fingertip and set the nail in the center of it before beginning to incant.

Amal’s lungs burned as he raced, pondering his chances of leaping into the oasis to escape his pursuers. The thunder of skeletal hooves reverberated off the half ruined walls turning the dozen or so pursuers into a brigade about to ride him into the dirt. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see the chariot only twenty paces behind him. It would have been an easy spear cast for the rider, but the mummified creature clearly intended to finish the business in a more personal fashion. Suddenly, the chariot itself was limbed in golden light and it seemed to fall away behind Amal. He watched in amazement as it flew backwards along its path, dragging the skeletal horses attached to it like boat anchors, its wheels a foot above the ground. The remaining horsemen flowed around it like a tide, intent on ending the impudent thief. Amal drew in a shuddering breath and ran onwards. To his utter amazement the chariot continued to fly backward around the oval of the oasis, though by now it had turned broadside due to the steeds continued attempts to paw for purchase on the ground. It rocketed around the shore in opposition to he racing riders pursing Amal. He heard Emmaline yell something as the chariot raced towards him but Amal’s reflexes were already throwing him to the ground. The chariot flew over him, missing him by mere inches, the windrush obscuring the ancient obscenities being shouted by the mummy thing.

The noise was tremendous.

The metal body of the carriage and horses smashed into the onrushing cavalry, none of whom had been able to maneuver to avoid it. The sound of splintering bone was deafening as the chariot scythed the horseman down like new mown hay before a scythe blade. Pieces of ossuary rained down into the oasis with a pattering splash before, with a final violent convulsions, the chariot itself seemed to pitch into the center of the pool raising a vast geyser as the chariot, its horses shattered and gone but its rider still pinned in the mangled metal framework plunged beneath the water. The was silence broken only by the ripples washing ashore like waves. Behind him Amal could see a ruin of shattered jagged bone. Here and there a skeleton was trying to drag itself forward but for the most part the ruin was too complete to be believed.

Emmaline stood up from behind the dyke where she had been concealed, her hands muddy and with blood running from her right nostril. She leaned heavily on her staff, her golden eyes clearing to their usual blue.

“Tada…” she breathed and then her knees buckled and she sank to the ground.

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

It was early in the morning when (s)he rode into town....

Men vs. Women Race to 1000: Version 2.0

@Callousqueen
-59