Penny

Black Serpents: Warhammer RP

The riot broke up after that, the miners unwilling to assault the building to retrieve their putative paymaster and the rest of the mob, always more interested in the excitement than the cause, began to break up to follow their own inclinations. The situation was much simplified when several local ale houses declared that the drinks would be free, each of them having been visited by a nondescript man who paid up front for their largess. At this news any steel that might have been left in the mob melted completely.

“I’m glad it is only rented,” Calliope said as she looked out over the ruin of the lower level of the house. Jagged holes had been hacked in the walls, and the gardens had been completely churned to mud by the booted feet of their attackers. Trash of various sorts, mostly empty bottles and the occasional discarded tool littered the ruin.

“As it is I will have the Daemons own time getting my deposit back,” Calliope grumbled. Ernst Ruttiger stared at her hatefully.

“What are you going to do with me?” he demanded, his anger partially tinged with fear.

“Do with you?” Calliope asked, arching a dark eyebrow. “Why master Ruttiger, I merely intend to turn you over to the baliffs when they arrive. At that point, given you are guilty of attempted murder, I imagine they will toss you in prison. Not, I trust, before they strip you over your mining interests in order to cover the money you owe me, and the damage to this charming townhouse.” As though the house could hear them, a section of the kitchen wall chose that moment to collapse in a shower of dust and masonry.

“I can pay you, I am an important man,” Ruttiger blustered. Calliope smiled, a cold and savage expression with more in common with an avalanche than an expression of human emotion.

“You WERE an important man,” she replied, “I suspect once those miners sober up, they will be just as happy to work for me, probably happier.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” Ruttiger demanded, his lips trembling as though on the verge of tears.

“Do you recall the name Albrect Whittenwald?” Calliope asked, the unexpected venom in her voice making everyone wince.

“I… I can’t say that I do,” Ruttiger stammered. Calliope took a seat across from him, folding her arms on the table top.

“Strange, he came to you a few years ago, offering you his offices at the Imperial court to secure mining rights in exchange for a rather large loan,” Calliope said. Ruttiger looked confused and not a little scared; it was clear that he did remember the man but could not think of how it related to his current predicament.

“I make many such deals of course, politics and influence mean a great deal in my line of work,” Ruttiger admitted.

“Mine too,” Calliope replied coldly. “Do you know what Herr Wittenwald did with the money you provided him?”
“Of course not! It was simply business, what he spent it on is of no concern of mine!” Ruttiger protested.

“Ah.. but it is a concern of mine Herr Ruttiger,” Calliope replied, her voice uncharacteristically intense, all but caressing the words as they passed her lips. “It is of paramount concern to me.”

___________________

The sky was dark with a gathering storm as the column wound its way over the pass. The tramp of feet echoing off the cliff side and the cadences of Kayden’s marching troops filling the air. Calliope had forgone her carriage this morning and was riding her black stallion. The other horses didn’t seem to like the beast, sensing something fey and unnatural about the gleaming black steed.

“This is Bonnerhaven?” Kayden asked, as his horse drew level to Calliope’s. Mesmer and Otto rode behind her though the rest of the knights were at the rear of the column where the dust from their passage wouldn’t choke the foot troops.

“It isn’t much to look at,” he commented. Calliope looked out over the spreading vale ahead of them. It was a month since Ruttiger had been turned over to the Baron’s justice and Calliope had leased his mining concerns to one of his former rivals, her interest in them not extending beyond paying Kayden’s men. Let others grub in the dirt she thought. The high summer was beginning to slide towards autumn and there was a blush of color that spread across the forests ahead of them. Bonnerhaven itself was a walled town on the far side of the valley, distinguishable from this distance by the spires of its church, its dilapidated stone walls and the pall of smoke rising from its cook fires. The landscape around it was golden with grain fields, ripe and ready for the harvest which would begin in a few days judging by the various offerings to bundled wild flowers which hung from the intermittent oak trees which grew in the spaces between fields. According to peasant legend Taal despised that forests should be cut down to create fields and that each year he swore to destroy them with rain and ice. The flowers were offerings to his wife Rhya who, the legend went, interceded with her husband each year, just long enough for the growing season to pass. These were richer lands than those they had left, Solland was a marginal region but this far westward was usually safe from the depredations of the green skins. Large orc attacks would sweep through here but the kind of constant, low intensity raiding which kept the eastern most part of the province hard scrabble and poor didn’t extend this far.

“It is the cycle of life to death, death to life. There is a beauty in it,” Calliope responded, thinking of the crops rather than whatever tactical vista the mercenary saw.

“I prefer life while it can be had,” Kayden responded.

“Yet you follow a profession of death?” Calliope observed wryly.
“The idea is that the enemy does the dying,” Kayden countered.

“And yet a dead man is no one’s enemy, not this far from Sylvania anyway,” Calliope replied. Otto made the sign of the hammer and Mesmer growled in an uncharacteristic display of anger.

Further discussion was interrupted as one of Kayden’s scout cantered up the line to speak with his commander. The boy was young and looked like the hay hadn’t yet been knocked from his hair but Kayden swore he was one of the best he had seen at his trade. The scout pulled on his reins the wiry horse curveting in a tight circle.

“We have scouted around the lake sir,” the scout reported, “all clear and an adequate camp.”

“Very good Waldstein,” Kayden replied, “have the troops leave the road wherever makes sense.” The scout touched his brow in respect then headed back along the column at a trot.

“A town the size of Bonnerhaven would have no trouble supporting this many men,” Otto remarked in a neutral tone that trumped what he thought of Calliope’s direction to encamp the men several miles from the city.

“No doubt, but it does not serve my purposes to arrive with an army,” Calliope responded, a touch acidly at having her decision questioned even implicitly.

“Captain Caradwalden can bring supplies here by wagon and no one will be alarmed,” she continued. Kayden performed what Calliope thought of as his ‘your paying’ shrug, though she privately suspected he also would rather billet his men in town. Otto nodded his head though Calliope suspected that if she turned around he would be rolling his eyes.

“Twenty mercenaries and five knights should be a sufficient escort for a noblewoman,” Calliope continued, “you may rotate each day to give your troops a chance to drink and rut in Bonnerhaven.”

“Can you explain what exactly you will be doing while we are… drinking and rutting?” Kayden asked pleasantly.

“I need to look up an old acquaintance, he has something I need and I want it back,” Calliope responded.

“And is he likely to give up this mysterious item if you ask politely?” Kayden asked. Calliope grinned in a malevolent fashion. Above them thunder rumbled in the sky.

“There is always a first time…”

Have At You!!! A Game of Swashbuckling Adventure

“No one has ever properly surveyed the Aeternian ruins,” Sir Edmund said, his voice sliding smoothly between them like silk, though his words were sharp, edged with the kind of intensity that made the tavern feel chill despite the tropical heat.. He gestured vaguely to the room as if the very walls themselves might be complicit in his tale.

“Not truly. The Castillians have ransacked a few, superstitious twits, the Dons. They have no real understanding of what they’re dealing with. It’s all smoke and mirrors to them.”

Camilla’s gaze flickered to the fire, where shadows seemed to creep up the stones like forgotten memories. The warmth of the day seemed to retreat as Edmund’s words sank in, seeping into the room, thickening the air. She took a slow sip of her own wine, letting the rough burn settle in her throat.

“What wonders might be uncovered,” Sir Edmund continued, leaning forward, his eyes wide and fevered. “If we could only pierce their mysteries…” His voice trailed off, and for a moment, Camilla could almost see the images of strange, forgotten cities flickering in his mind.

“The common folk speak of it as though the Aeternians were gods themselves capable of miracles that would make even the Vaticine priests tremble. Strange stories, yes, but we both know the truth behind them. The King of Castile’s brazen head, which speaks portents of the future so dire they drove poor Queen Johanna mad. The Duc de Belchite’s cup, which never empties no matter how much you drink from it.” Edmund’s voice dropped lower, as though sharing a secret too terrible for daylight. “And yet... no one truly knows where these things are. Only rumors.”

Camilla’s fingers tightened around her glass. She had heard the stories, of course. Every sailor, every drunkard, every fool in the tavern had whispered about those treasures. But there was a weight to Edmund’s word,s a darkness that made them more than idle tavern talk.

"And how did you come to know of these ruins?" Camilla asked, though the question felt almost foolish, as though she already knew the answer, and yet her curiosity would not be silenced.

Edmund smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Ah. You must’ve heard of Sir Roger Popham, surely? Gunsmoke Popham, the pirate?” He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a near whisper, as if speaking the name aloud might conjure something from the deep shadows of the room.

Camilla stiffened. Of course she had heard of him. The name was spoken in hushed tones, as though even the wind feared to carry the legend too far. A pirate, a legend, and a madman Popham had raided the Castilian colonies decades ago, bringing back treasure and stories so fantastic they had become impossible to believe. It was said that Popham had made a deal with Abbadon himself, so furious he was in battle. There were stories of him putting entire colonies to the sword, of setting captured ships afire with their crews lashed in the rigging. Despite these black rumors he had returned to Albion covered in glory, laying an empire ransom at the feet of his Queen and rumored lover.

Edmund took a long draw from his glass, letting the silence hang in the air. He stared into the fireplace, his mind clearly far away and his face troubled.

“After the flux claimed him,” Edmund continued, his voice now a rasp, “his papers were handed to my father. I spent many an hour poring over them as a boy. And there, among the dust and old ink, I found something curious. A scrap of his logbook. Torn. Nearly unreadable. But it spoke of a great hurricane…” His voice dropped low, almost reverential,as if the storm were something more akin to the biblical flood than simple weather.
“They were caught, you see. After raiding Aratheusa, a hurricane hit them, tossed their ships about like toys. Rain so hard you would drown for looking to the heavens. Mizzen and topsail yards ripped away by the winds, and six out of seven hours at the pumps to keep from founderin’. For nearly a week they fought it, until the seventh day dawned bright and calm as the pool of Cadiz. The ship was near shattered. The crew was near mad with fear and exhaustion. But when the storm cleared…” Edmund’s eyes glinted, wild now, “they found themselves surrounded by islands, the purest blue water you’ve ever seen. Three islands. He called them the Azul Islands.”
The tavern felt suddenly colder. The fire seemed dimmer, the shadows in the corners of the room stretching longer, as if something unseen was creeping just out of sight.

“They had to go ashore, you see, needed to cut a new mizzen mast and replenish the stores that had been lost overboard in the storm. Took six able hands and bosun Higgs to cut fresh timber and provision, discovered ruins of a great city. Coriablis. ” Edmund’s tone made clear he was quoting from the papers he had found.

Coriablis. The name tasted strange on Camilla’s tongue. There was no record of such a place. No map, no mention. It felt wrong, like the name had been forgotten by time itself and only now was it being forced into the light.

“What happened?” she asked, intrigued and fascinated by the odd tale.

“He doesn't say, not one more word about it appeared in any of the papers I could find, I even tried to track down surviving crew, but even the cabin boy was an old man by the time I found him, and him half mad and blind besides. The only record I could find was the muster book. It was curious. It listed Bosun Bartholemew Higgs and six able seaman as discharged dead that very day. Pophman was the only one who came back alive… the only one.
The fire crackled, the wind outside howled, and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to pulse, as though listening.

Camilla’s pulse quickened. She could almost feel the weight of the dark sea pressing in on her, the pull of something ancient and unknowable. She swallowed, her throat dry. “And after that?”

Edmund’s smile was wide, almost mad. “After that? Well, he stumbled upon the treasure fleet at San Jose, didn’t he? Found it by pure accident, no doubt. A man with such luck, never a fellow so damned lucky in all of Albion’s history.” This part of the story she had heard. Dark his reputation might be but everyone agreed that Gunsmoke Popham never fell down a hole but it had silver in the bottom. Popham’s Luck was a well known saying on Albion to express inexplicable good fortune.

“And you have bearings for these islands?” Camilla asked, her spirit fired by this strange and mysterious story despite her best efforts.

“Aye,” Edmund said, his eyes burning with feverish certainty. “I’ve pieced it all together from Popham’s records. It won’t be easy, but we will find those islands. And when we do, we’ll uncover the treasures that have been buried there for centuries. And glory will be ours, Camilla. The glory of the ages.”

Camilla felt the weight of his words settle into the pit of her stomach. Edmund drew on his pipe, his eyes hooded as smoke trailed from his nostrils. Something about the tale certainty unsettled her, as though he had already crossed some unseen threshold.

“Just a few more souls for the crew and we will be ready to sail,” Edmund breathed.

No Good Deed

In a strange way even the splitting headache was a relief. Of all the terrors and discomforts of her ill fated few weeks in the army, this one was so familiar as to be a comfort. Hannah cracked her eyes open and groaned. The ashes of a small fire, kindled from broken crates, cast a faint red light over the old mining station. Carefully, Hannah lifted Malcador’s arm off herself and half crawled to one of the open barrels of ale. There was no water so she slaked her thirst with a careful sip of ale. It wasn’t perfect but it was the best she could do. Hannah leaned back against the cut rock of the chamber and groaned softly, picking up a piece of waybread that appeared to have had a whole shot through the middle of it and chewed on a corner thoughtfully.

Malcador groaned and sat up looking considerably better than Hannah felt, though a slight tremble of his hands showed that even wizards were not immune to the effects of dwarven ale. Truthfully they were less under the weather than they might be after human drink which tended to be weaker but still somehow produce a worse hangover.

“What is for breakfast?” the wizard asked, for all the world as if they were in a tavern in Altdorf.

“Well let me see,” Hannah replied, making a show of looking around.
“We have dwarven waybread and… oh look MORE dwarven waybread,” she replied and scudded a half loaf across the floor to his feet. The wizard scooped it up and lifted it to his lips but before he could take a bite his eyes cut sideways towards one of the open tunnels. He shot her a look, then twitched his fingers and the coals went out, plunging them into darkness. Hannah froze in place, feeling her bowels clench in fear. She felt a tingle around her eyes and suddenly she could see, as though the world were illuminated by soft starlight. She opened her mouth to say something but the pinched expression on Malcador’s face warned her against it. There was a soft skittering sound and then three small rat like beastmen entered from deeper within the mine. They carried odd lanterns which gave off a soft greenish glow and Hannah gently edged back into cover, her fingers wrapping around the hilt of her sword. The repulsive rat things paused, lifting their noses to sniff the air. They were moments away from being seen, when the rearmost of the rat things chittered at his companions and prodded one of them with the tip of a spear. The target of this crude encouragement whimpered and skipped forward out of range, vanishing down one of the tunnels. The remaining rats made to leave when the leader suddenly froze. It reached down and plucked something from the ground, lifting it to its snout. Hannah realized to her horror that it was a lump of waybread discarded at some point during the revelry the night before. For a moment it seemed likely they must be discovered, but the rat shoved the food into its mouth and followed its companions out of the chamber.

“Ranald’s balls,” Hannah breathed, wrinkling her nose at the unpleasant stink they left in the air. It reminded her of an old house she had once explored where rodents had infested the place and defiled it with years of droppings.

“We have to get out of here…” she breathed, and cast a look at the collapsed ruin of the entry shaft. There was no help there.

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy RP

Are you all still with me?

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

I was hungry when I woke up, the physician and psychic strain of the past few hours wearing on me at the cellular level. Hadrian was somewhere off to my right, too far away to order room service. I froze at the realization. He was there, not in the next room but blocks away. How was it possible that I could know that? Oh I don’t know, maybe because I had drawn him into my mind and given him a guided tour. My lips grew dry. Every psyker worries that at some point touching the warp, no matter how carefully, will leave a mark. Most psykers develop stigmata even mutations if they over reach repeatedly, and the physical type of corruption was, in some ways, the least distressing. I told myself that whatever had happened would fade and that there was nothing to worry about. I was too careful, too skilled to allow any kind of corruption to take root in my mind.

Hadrian had cleaned me up and tucked me in bed before he had gone out on whatever errand he was about and I scrabbled around until I found the ornate brass vox set by the side of the bed. I called room service and ordered an unreasonable amount of food then hung up slumping into the comfortable covers in exhaustion. I must have dozed off because I was awakened by the door bell and a cry of: “Room Service.” I was about to call them in when I saw the folded note Hadrian had left by the bedside. I picked it up and opened it, calling for them to bring the food in. My stomach dropped as I read the content of the note.

“STOP!!!” I screamed, all but leaping out of bed. I laced the words with my will and the door knob to the room froze in mid turn. I scrambled, trailing the sheet, out across the destroyed sitting room to find Hadrian’s explosive charge clamped to the door. Letting out a slow breath I unhooked the trigger plate and peeked through the doorway. A young waiter, sweating profusely, stood frozen his hand on the door plate. I unclenched my mind and pulled open the door. The waiter sagged and gave me a look. Then another look as he realized I was naked but for a sheet that I had clasped rather inadequately to my chest.

“Madmioselle?” he stammered, his eyes huge and shocked. His nose wrinkled as he caught the scent of the psyburned carpet. I gave him a languid smile and a wink, then grabbed the silver and brass cart of food he was pushing and pulled it into the room, slamming the door behind me. I sat for a minute leaning my backside against the door, then re-engaged the manual lock and carefully reconnected the explosive. Certain death averted, I read the rest of the note while shoving a hot grox bun into my mouth and washing it down with a half a bottle of champagne that I didn’t bother to decant into a glass. Reaching out with my mind I touched the ward Hadrian had created. It was always interesting to examine the work of another psyker. Hadrian was very workman like, everything done just so and by the book. He lacked the artistic flair I employed but then our powers were vastly different. I would not have been made an Inquisitor if I had been found by the Black Ships as a child. The best I could have hoped for was the rather miserable existence of a sanctioned psyker, or perhaps to have been condemned to go to the Throne itself. I lacked the inherent discipline of someone like Hadrian, not matter how much power I had at my disposal. Time and study had gone a long way to increasing my power but ‘workman like’ would never be applied to my psy-craft.

Wearily I pushed the cart to the bedside and then climbed back under the covers, shoveling pastries and sauteed tuberites into my mouth. I felt I should be doing something, but there was no way I was up to an auto seance or a reading of tarot just yet. I thought about what I had learned from Demik. It was irritating that his mind had collapsed. I could have kept him ‘alive’ for as long as I wanted if we had not pressed him so hard. That had been difficult at the time as the temptation for just a little more information had been too much. Well it was done now and he had managed to outlive his body by at least a half hour. Well if psychic means were out, there were always the physical ones. I picked up the phone and patched myself through one of the hopefully still secure call forwarding services Hadrian had set up, and began making some calls.

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

By the time they returned to the mansion Sel’s teeth were chattering. Guard cold weather gear suffered from the unique curse of all guard issue equipment in that it never quite did what it claimed. The cold weather gear didn’t quite keep you warm, the hot weather gear didn’t quite keep you cool, the insect repellant didn't quite repel all mosquitos, and the infantryman’s primer didn’t quite tell you the truth. The one exception, by mutual agreement, was the las gun which would probably still be laying waste to the Emperor’s enemies a thousand years from now, assuming a sergeant materialized to shout at its custodians to properly oil the base plate hinge spring, and scrub the groves of the receiver housing with their toothbrush. Sel clutched her own las gun, flexing her fingers to keep the blood moving. She still had her carbine, despite vague assurances to sergeant Crispin that any day now she would turn it in and draw one of the standard Mars patterns from stores.

With the shield down, the vast manor house was much worse for wear. The inrushing blizzard had already killed most of the ornamental gardens, coating everything with a layer of clear and glistening ice. Fountains had been frozen in mid spew and cracks could be seen in the anthracite where the expansion of the fluid had broken it open.

“Bravo five this is scout element,” she voxed, reminding herself that she really should get some kind of callsign. In theory a driver shouldn’t need one but given people kept dreaming up things for her to do she might as well bow to the inevitable. Idly she wondered if Kayden was keeping warm with the baroness. Probably not, he might be a top lofty aristo but he seemed to take his soldiering seriously and the situation was still uncertain.

“Driver, this is Bravo five,” Crispin's voice came back, “you boys and girls ready to come in.”

“Roger, we are approaching over the east lawn, please don’t shoot at us. Driver out,” Sel replied, obscurely satisfied with the designation.

“Alright kids lets move it out, nice and slow,” she encouraged and stood up and walked across the frozen lawn, blades of icy grass crunching beneath her boots. Her keen eyes picked out the barrel of a heavy bolter protruding from between two marble planter boxes. She altered her course to take a look at the picket, impressed at how still the troopers there had remained.

They were still because they were dead. Two troopers, Klane and Merkaba lay in shiny pools of frozen blood. Both had been hacked open with some heavy weapon, perhaps an axe of some kind. The had been taken from behind if Sel was any judge, a blow to the head for Merkaba while she lay at the gun. It looked like Klane had tried to roll over and gotten his hands up judging by missing fingers on his left, but a second blow had split him from throat to sternum before he could so much as scream.

“Emperor's bloody balls,” Spade breathed.

“Bravo stand too!” Sel yelled into her comm bead, the cold forgotten in the sudden flood of adrenaline.

“We have troopers down and possibly enemy infiltrators,” she snapped as her squad fanned out and took cover.

Gold & Glory: AU thread

Emmaline shivered as she watched the ghouls clash and surge around each other. There was something profoundly wrong about them. They were like sharks, filled with instincts and reactions that had long departed from humanity. According to what little she knew ghouls arose from the practice of eating human flesh, something she could all too easily imagine in an out of they way colony on the far side of the world. Weather, crop failure, trouble back home, all could lead to a settlement like this going under and landing the inhabitants in desperate straits. Sss'Tomek had suggested that some dark stranger had arrived but she suspected that the arrival of some greater undead horror had only occurred after the transformations had begun.

“Are there leeches in the river?” Emmaline asked suddenly, recalling going swimming in some of the tributaries of the Riek as a girl, and emerging with several blood sucking black slugs on her body.

“Leeeeessshe?” Sss’Tomek asked and Emmaline waved him away, attempting to explain what a leech was far more effort than she was willing to undertake. Markus would find out in a few minutes she supposed. Sketti was stomping off into the jungle presumably to lay a charge or whatever he had in mind for a distraction and Emmaline settled into wait.

After a subjective eternity Sss’Tomek stiffened and extended a finger. Far below, at the old docks, I saw Markus and his men emerging to shelter beneath the rotted old timbers. Still nothing from Sketti. Time wore on. Still nothing. A mirror flashed to us from the docks as Markus began to grow impatient.

“Steiner go and find what is keeping Sketti,” she told him.

“I’m in command here and I don’t take orders from a woman,” he snapped, clearly under stress from the unexpected delay. Emmaline rolled her eyes and waited till he turned around, then headed off in the direction in which she had seen Sketti go. Sss’Tomek looked at her in alarm but refused to follow, unwilling or unable to break the taboo he had mentioned. Emmaline followed the ridge line for perhaps five minutes until a strange sound reached her ears. It sound like someone was trying to strangle a smithy bellows, a ragged hissing sound like someone squeezing the air out of a bladder. Following this strange sound, she stepped into a small clearing and found herself confronted with a horrifying sight. A huge serpent, easily thirty feet long and as thick as her bottom was coiled around a very red and desperately gasping Sketti. It’s coils were wrapped around the dwarf and squeezing. Hard. A human would have been crushed to death by now but the Elder Race was made of sterner stuff. His face was red as a tomato and the muscles that were visible, just his shoulders, were bunched in the incredible effort of resisting the constriction. Even so it could only be minutes before he was crushed to death, his eyes were already protruding alarmingly.

Emmaline let out a shriek of fear and the wheel barrow sized head of the serpent whipped around, red and black scales glistening, to stare at her with its cold serpentine eyes. Emmaline pulled a pistol from her sash and aimed it at the serpent before remembering that a whole army of ghouls were only a few miles off and would very likely hear the shot. She threw the pistol at it instead, the weapon bouncing off one scaly eyebrow and earning her an irritated hiss. The snake strained towards her but could come no closer without letting go of the struggling dwarf.
“Shoo! Shoo!” she yelled at the snake instead, waving her hands at it as though trying to chase away a fly or a mouth. Predictably it had absolutely no effect. Gritting her teeth she began to mutter to herself, gathering golden energy around her hands. The spell was not an easy one, and using it was dangerous but she couldn’t just leave Sketti to be eaten. She extended her arms and… abruptly the snake tattoo on her arm seemed to wake up, lifted its head out of her skin like a cobra, and made a series of sharp hisses. Emmaline had no idea what the little snake said but whatever it was, its giant kinsman was not amused. It opened its mouth and hissed like a boiler, its great coils rippling and loosening, tossing the gasping Sketti aside and launching itself at Emmaline with the force of an oncoming steam tank. Emmaline let out a panicked yip and abortively cast the spell she had been preparing. Unfortunately her hands were now out of position and rather than a beam of golden energy, a bolt of glowing force smashed into the ground flinging her into the air. The serpent struck the earth she had just vacated, plowing the undergrowth aside and body checking her legs, sending her into an undignified tumble. She fell down and landed on the snake's neck instinctively gripping its surprisingly dry scaly body and hanging on for dear life. The already irate serpent went berserk, thrashing and twisting, trying to dislodge it’s unwanted passenger. It hammered through the jungle sending up shrieks of cawing birds and eliciting howls of rage and derision from nearby monkeys.

Down in Crotonburg the ghouls ceased their internecine struggles to look up at the ridge, from which an ungodly noise had erupted. Their hungry eyes watched as the trees and shrubs thrashed, as though a great army were rushing through them. After a moment an enormous snake, apparently being ridden by a woman, burst from the trees, thrashing spastically as it half slithered half tumbled down the hill, the whole display punctuated by flashes of gold light. Even the living dead took a moment to wonder what in the name of all the hells this could mean, then as a group, they howled and rushed to meet the oncoming serpent.

At The Edge of The World

I had to admit that the scribe did good work. Oh it wouldn't have passed back in Andred, but only because people there knew too many of the folk involved. Fortunately I had spent several years in the rather more disreputable courts and knew enough gossip to fill the patent in with just enough juicy detail to make it feel authentic. The ink work and the seals themselves were tremendous and I even purchased the stamp from Ludwic in case I needed it in the future.

“Are you sure they will leave me alone?” he asked, for the upteenth time. I nodded agreeably, though I wasn't nearly as sure as I pretended.
“They won’t bother trying anything with you until they have dealt with us,” I replied confidently, “and they will find that harder than they think.” I was fairly confident Beren wouldn’t let local rif raf cut my throat and it served my purposes to add a little lustre to my name having just arrived in town. Such things tended to smooth the way with aristocrats, it paid to be a little eccentric and a little more daring than a commoner would.

“Where to now?” Beren asked as we exited and I tucked my patent of nobility into my pouch. I was already composing several extremely spurious rumors to spread about Lady D’Albon. You need rather less than you think to do so, good rumors take off on their own. You don’t need to specify which servant she was seen cavorting with, or whose baby she was carrying to explain those few extra pounds. Just give people a few pointers and they filled in the details with whatever was most believable themselves. If you don't believe me you should try it sometime. It is very fun.

“I suppose we should go and see our Brasielan friends,” I admitted. It was expected and I really didn’t have any solid plans until sundown and Enrik von Nieman’s ball. I was certainly ready for a dose of civilization but my adventuress persona was rather demanding in some ways.

Black Serpents: Warhammer RP

“BLACKWOOD!” Ruttiger roared a few moments after a servant hurried across to whisper in his ear. His voice reverberated across the shopfronts and townhouses, so filled with rage that it quieted even the mob. Calliope stood up and nodded to Kayden then crossed to the window without actually standing in front of it.

“No need to shout Ernst dear,” she called back insouciantly. Several of Kayden’s men made strangling sounds at the insulting tone she chose to employ.

“Are you trying to get us killed,” one of Otto’s knights demanded. Otto clouted the man across the back of the head to remind him of his place, though his own thoughts probably ran along similar lines.

“You think you are clever don't you, where is the gold you gave me!?”

“My my, can’t pay your debts AND can’t find your own money. I’m glad I’m not depending on you for my pay,” she called back, for the benefit of the mob and the miners stiffening it.

“I’ve been more than reasonable, but now I’m done talking, I’m…”

“But you persist,” Calliope called back in a disapproving tone she punctuated with a tut tut sound.

“ENOUGH!” Drag the witch out of there boys!” he snarled to his miners, a moment before a shower of stones and bottles struck the windows. Calliope closed her eyes and opened them again, the irises suddenly black and unseeing. Far above she wheeled with the crows, her wings spread wide as she observed the humans far below. It wasn’t easy to focus on them, her eyes continually tried to flick towards rodents in the thatch or carcasses of dead animals in the alley. She watched as dozens of them rushed at one of the large nests, and began to batter at the doors and walls. Calliope opened her true eyes and pursed her lips. Already she could hear the blows of miners pounding on the door, a few enterprising sorts were even beginning to batter on the walls with their pick axes.

“What should we do my lady?” Otto asked for neutrality. He wasn’t scared but he wanted to make the right decision in the next few moments.

“Go down stairs and defend the house, try not to kill anyone if you don’t have to, but if it is them or you…”

“Yes My Lady,” Otto replied, unbuckling his sword and lashing the scabbard to the cross guard so it could be used as a club.

“Hold the first floor for as long as you can, then fall back to the stairwell and we will defend the second floor a little more…actively,” she directed. Otto nodded and hurried down stairs fitting his helmet onto his head. Calliope wondered if that was wise, an armored man was a threat, sword or no, and if this went from business dispute to battle it could get bloody.

“Is there anything you can do?” Kayden asked her.

“I can give orders,” Calliope replied, a slight tension in her voice betraying she wasn’t as cool and collected as she might want other to believe.

“No… I mean…” he wiggled his fingers. Calliope arched an eyebrow.

“Would you like me to kill everyone in a hundred yards of the house?” she asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.

“I see your point,” he replied.

“I tell you what, if things get bad enough and you have to kill someone, bring me the body, that might be helpful.”

No Good Deed

Such were Hannah’s reserves of childish petulance that for a moment she was tempted to answer no. A few moments of reflection, made infinitely more difficult by the fact she felt like the had been beaten with a sack of hammers, informed her that maybe she shouldn’t piss of the wizard anymore than was necessary. Sigmar save her the situation must be dire.

“Owww,” she said instead. A simple response that artfully understated her feelings on the whole afternoon's events. She sneezed violently, expelling about a hundred tons of dust and dirt from her nose and then sat up. It was pitch dark, not just dark, but literally black nothingness.

“We aren’t in hell are we?” she asked, figuring that she hurt too much and not enough to be dead.
“Hell, Ostermark, who can tell,” Malcador responded. Hannah really wished he hadn’t because laughing made her entire body hurt, and made her sneeze again. She heard a weird sound that might have been a word, then a pale blue flame appeared, casting a soft radiance that spread out into the dark. They were against the wall of a chamber, behind them was a shaft that must have led up to the fallen tree. Judging by the stonework it must have once been a mine head or perhaps an air shaft for the deeper workings. Tunnels, propped up with large timber braces and large enough for a wagon to pass through, branched off in both directions.
Hannah pushed herself to her feet and half walked, half crawled out of the rubble that sank her to the waist. Perversely she still gripped the remains of the stick she had used to stab the wolf in the eye. With an irritated hiss she dropped it. The opposite wall of the cavern had been hollowed out into what might have once been a barrack area. Ancient bunks, too short and broad for men lay in splintered disarray and crates and barrels were scattered against a wall. She rooted through the trash for a moment and found an old cracked lamp. For a wonder there was still oil in the reservoir and she sparked it alight with the flint of her pistol, adding the warm fire glow to Malcador’s pale illumination.

“We must be careful,” Malcador cautioned, cocking an ear, but they could hear neither the howl of wolves nor the scrabbling of claws as the goblins tried to dig them out. Most likely, and with a little bloody well overdue luck, the greenskins assumed they were dead.

“Why?” Hannah asked, as she began rifling through the ruins of what must have once been a dwarven mining cache.

“There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the earth,” he said cryptically.

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Hannah asked as she pried open a crate with what might have once been the blade of a pickaxe.

“Damned if I know, just something people say,” Malcador admitted as he forced himself to his feet. “What have you got there?” By way of answer, Hannah threw a parchment wrapped bundle at Malcador. The wizard caught it with his free hand and let the spell flame go out, He peeled open the paper to reveal a hard clay like tablet inside.

“A bar of mud? You shouldn’t have,” Malcador replied snarkily. Hannah had opened her own package, there were several crates full of them, and began gnawing on one corner. It took some effort but she managed to break off a chunk and began to masticate it with obvious effort.

“ dwarven way bread,” she managed before taking another bite. It was dense and hard but it tasted of wheat and something vaguely beefy.

“Must have been rations for the miners,” she explained. Malcador watched her for a minute, presumably to make sure she wasn't about to drop dead, then began gnawing at his own bar.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“I had dwarf friends in Altdorf, gunsmiths mostly,” she explained, continuing to rifle through the debris.

“What are you looking for?” Malcador asked, noticing how furiously the woman was searching. Hannah blew a lock of dusty hair out of her face.

“Where there is waybread…” she began, then let out a whoop of triumph and hoisted up a keg which she dropped onto one of the mostly surviving bunks. It blew a puff of dust out of the ancient mattress but Hannah had no care for anything but the keg.

“... there is dwarven ale,” she moaned.