Penny

Silver & Gold: A Warhammer Roleplay

Do not use magic to cheat at cards. Albrecht had drilled this lesson into Emmaline early on. Nothing was as likely to rile up the peasantry as cheating them at the gaming table. Sure you might be able to reanimate a corpse and make it do your bidding, but cheating at whist? That was just evil.

“And Capons, the lady wins,” the croupier declared as he turned over the last card and whisked away the house's stake. Emmaline gathered in her coins to the cheers and moans of her fellow players. Of course just because you didn’t cheat didn’t mean you had to lose. Emmaline took another drink of the excellent wine which the bartender assured her was from Brettonia but might just as easily have been from Foregate for all Emmaline could tell. She probably wouldn’t have been able to tell even before her second glass, and that was several glasses back by now.

“Just as well your master doesn’t let you out much, you’d bankrupt the place,” Malcador observed. He knew she wasn’t cheating but he looked a little suspicious none the less.

“It is about all he is good for,” Emmaline grumped, waving down the offer to be dealt in for another hand. This gained her several hard looks from people wishing for a chance to win their money back but she ignored them with the lofty dignity of the moderately inebriated.

“Not a pleasant master?” Malcador asked. Apprentices, by and large, didn’t speak much of their masters so it was a point of familiarity that Malcador broached the topic. It was all too easy for an irritated master to make life impossible for his apprentice, though rarely were apprentices simply turned out. Half trained wizardlings were not something that generally ended well for anyone involved.

“He has his moments, he can do this thing with… well never mind,” Emmaline replied, then made an expansive gesture. Malcador put a hand on her shoulder and turned her away from the portrait on the wall she had been addressing.

“...said I was…” she paused and hiccuped, “...lazy and undisciplined..me!” She flopped down onto a divan with a jingle, running her hands through the gold coins with obvious pleasure.

“Didnt tell me anything about this project I am supposed to do… not even when it is supposed to be done by…” In her pleasant state Emmaline didn’t immediately notice Malcador start.

“What…” she asked after few long seconds of silence.

“You… havent done your apprentice task for the year… like… not even started?” he asked, sounding aghast.

No Good Deed

“Well you don’t see that coming down the street from Blaisbury Market,” Hannah replied. She didn’t know what a skaven was or what the significance of the name might be. Like most citizens of the Emprie she had never seen a beastman, but they loomed large enough in the imagination through travellers tales and works of fiction that she had some idea. These rat things were… well more similar than she would have imagined beastmen to be. With morbid curiosity she prodded one gently with the tip of her sword. The corpse rolled slowly over, the things long tongue lolling out of its mouth. The smell was abominable, made no better by the way lice seemed to crawl in the mangy fur that covered its body in patches.

“Do you know what we need to do?” she asked. Malcador didn’t respond, apparently not yet over the shock of discovering whatever a skaven was.

“We need to get the fuck out of here, that is what we need to do,” Hannah concluded.
Fortunately they had the presence of mind not to simply flee, no matter how tempting that might be. Unfortunately neither of them had a pack. They solved the problem by tying lengths of old dwarven rope to into improvised nets with shoulder loops, into which they piled waybread. They each took a keg of the dwarven ale as well, Hannah taking a second despite the weight.

“How long can you keep my seeing like this?” she asked, waving her hand infront of her face to emphasize the spell Malcador had cast. The tunnel still seemed to be lit by bright starlight, despite the fact they were clearly underground.

“It isn’t a very complicated spell,” he admitted, as though it were no more impressive than lighting a lantern. Hannah shrugged her shoulders, trying to settle her burden. It might not seem impressive to Malcador but it was infinitely preferable to carrying a torch that would mark them out for every denizen of these forgotten tunnels.

“Which way should we go?” Malcador asked as soon as they were ready to depart. Hannah pointed in the direction the rat men had been heading.

“This way, I think it is south and that is where most of the surviving dwarf holds are,” she explained.

“Sounds as good a plan as any, unless of course these skaven were heading back to their … nest? Warren? What do you call it where a bunch of rats live?” he wondered.

“An Imperial Tax Office?” Hannah suggested, earning a snort from the wizard.

They headed into the tunnels. To Hannah’s unease there seemed to be a slight downward angle as they went. Sometimes the tunnel was wide enough that two coaches could have passed, in other places the ancient structure was partially collapsed and they were obliged to move in single file, or clamber over large piles of fallen rock and earth. Occasionally the tunnels split. Sometimes this was the design of the original creators, other times there were side tunnels which had clearly been dug, or burrowed, by later hands. By mutual consent they avoided these, judging by the runes and glyphs they saw daubed on the walls, goblins as well as these skaven had been in the tunnels at some point and they had no desire to meet either.

After several hours of walking Hannah felt her spirits start to flag. She wasn’t sure what she had expected but the monotonous sameness as well as the idea of uncounted billions of tons of rock above her began to weigh on her. At least she was dry now and it was warm enough that her teeth weren’t audibly chattering. She was about to suggest they stop and rest when the stuffy closeness of the air seemed to change. Hannah paused for a moment, then realized she had no idea what she was waiting for. Shuffling forward they came upon tumbled blocks of masonry. To Hannah’s surprise rootlets were visible in the gaps, as though there were trees just above them. That wasn’t possible, they had been getting deeper into the earth for the last few hours surely? She exchanged looks with Malcador, though neither seemed willing to speak. They pushed on, the air seeming to grow less arid as they climbed over the fallen rocks until abruptly the tunnel opened into a vast cavern.

“Shyalla’s shapley ass,” Hannah marveled. The interior of the cavern was a city. Elegant curving structures had been carved out of the living rock in ages past. Terraces ringed a central declivity with larger grander structures seeming to ring the top level and humbler ones deeper into the bowl shape. The structures had an odd organic look, as though right angles had been considered too crude by whatever hands had shaped them. The buildings reminded Hannah of mushrooms, as though they were growing out of the rock rather than shaped from it. Nor was the city the only wonder. The roof of the cavern was a hundred yards above them, and made entirely of what seemed to be the roots of a massive tree. Rootlets the size of cathedral buttresses snaked down the walls of cavern like structural pillars. Less organized and younger roots twisted almost randomly downwards, as though the whole city was in a space which had been washed out from beneath some vast oak. Here and there walls of rootlets no thicker than a finger fell like hair follicles to touch and interpenetrate buildings. The overall effect was dizzying, as though the eye couldn’t find what field it was supposed to focus on.

“What in the god’s name?” Hannah breathed, taking a few steps out into the cavern. Something crunched beneath her feet and she bent down to brush the dust and dirt away. The floor was covered with tiny fragments of some kind of glass. Hannah picked up a piece and turned it over in her hand, showing it to Malcador. The wizard twitched slightly at the sight of it.

“Old magic,” he said, completely unhelpfully to Hannah’s lights.

“What is this place?” she demanded, suddenly wishing she had picked the opposite direction when they had set out on this trek.

Silver & Gold: A Warhammer Roleplay

“Well you know, paperwork is fascinating and all but it can hardly compare with Pie Week.” Emmaline laughed, “it is a shame we only get to do it once a year.”

“We get one Pie Week yes, but what about Second Pie Week?” Malcador asked as though asking a question of his master.

“Pie Fortnight?” Emmaline suggested with a grin. Malcador laughed.

“That might lead to a shortening shortage,” he quipped. Emmaline giggled.

“The economy might crumble,” Emmaline suggested, “leading to a collapse of the public crust?” It was Malcador’s turn to chuckle.

“So how come I haven’t seen you around before now?” he asked, as they paused to listen to an Araybian looking apprentice play an odd tune on a flute. As he did so a length of rope rose from a basket and swayed back and forth as though it had a life of it’s own.

“My Master doesn’t let me out much,” Emmaline admitted. That wasn’t strictly true, Albrecht probably let her out into the city more than most apprentices but usually because he had something for her to do. He preferred that she didn’t wander the college unsupervised, and only occasionally took her to visit other wizards, usually when he wanted them distracted.

“Well who can blame him,” Malcador flirted as they ambled along. The pair of them parted briefly as a celestial wizard with an aristocratic sneer marched between them, on the way to something far more elevated than a rabble of apprentices amusing themselves. Emmaline bowed slightly as he passed, then bounced the heavy coin purse she had lifted from him on her palm.

“Did you just…”

“Well he obviously didn’t see that coming,” Emmaline said smugly, dropping the purse into her satchel with a satisfying clink. Malcador, with vastly more experience with the prognosticating celestial college snickered in amusement. Doubtless the theft would be blamed on one of the Shadow College apprentices.

“I can blame him,” Emmaline said, “but not today. What do you say we get out of here and safely dispose of this purse? If he knows any Golds he might be able to track the coins, best make sure they are widely dispersed.”

Silver & Gold: A Warhammer Roleplay

Emmaline had visited the Master of Scribes only once before. She had been brought to his parchment filled hall on the day of her induction, her head still spinning from the speed at which she had been plucked from her life and thrust into this unfamiliar world. The place appeared unchanged a long room filled with floor to ceiling shelves. Thousands of rolled scrolls were thrust into niches, organized in no manner she could determine. Large codex lay on wooden plinths, chained to the walls with rusting chains to prevent their removal. Every now and then brown robed scribes entered the hall from side doors, scooped up a niche worth of scrolls and vanished back to whence they had come. The whole place smelled of ink, old parchment, and the faint salty odor of the sand which was used to dry the ink. Enough of that sand was scattered underfoot that it rose to knee level in an agitated cloud. Emmaline passed the ten foot tall statue of an idealised scribe taking the scroll of writing from Myrmidia’s hand. This scribe had rather less pimples and ink splotches than any she had encountered but she supposed none of the flesh and blood type were as tall as a small building either. The Master of Scribes sat at the end of the room behind a massive oak desk atop a plinth. Two huge braziers burned with bright clear whale oil behind glass, giving the place an odd stink which made Emmaline wrinkle her nose as she climbed the short steps to stand before the desk. The Master of Scribes was a cadaverous looking man with large wire frame spectacles. Rumor had it that he had been one of the Light Wizards whose power had been drawn away into the celestial choirs. He had thin watery eyes and a slightly palsied hand that, none the less, lifted and drove down a stamp on a series of documents with all the assurance of a blacksmith pounding hot iron.

“Approach,” the Master of Scribes bade her in a dusty voice. Emmaline had been waiting for nearly an hour and she eagerly stepped forward, laying the scrolls Albrecht had written and she had improved, down on the desk. The old man plucked each of them up and broke the seals, quickly glanced over them and then stamped them before sliding them into a series of wooden cubbys beneath his desk.

“All in order, you are Emmaline Von Morganstern, apprentice to Albrech Theobald Wallenstein of the Golden Order?” he asked disinterestedly.

“Uh.. that is yes, I am Emmaline,” Emmaline admitted, her mind already heading back to the crowd of apprentices and the free food and drink. Albrecht didn’t let her socialize with the other students much and the Gold apprentices she did know were a rather stodgy lot.

“Very well, your master has written highly of you and suggests you may be considered a second year apprentice, yet there is no project on file for you. I assume you will be presenting it at the usual time?” the old scribe asked in a bored voice.

“I uhh.. Yeah of course, the usual time,” Emmaline replied, having no idea what the project was supposed to be or when it was supposed to be presented. She was caught by her own lie in forging Albrecht’s papers and couldn’t very well admit she didn’t have the vaguest idea what he was talking about.

“Very good, you may go,” the Master of Scribes declared. Emmaline nodded and headed back out of the room, wending her way back towards the Magesterium. She was sure whatever this project was it probably wasn’t a big deal she thought as she entered the chamber and helped herself to a flagon of Moot cider. Maybe she could pry the information out of Albrect, tell him she had been talking to the other apprentices… her eye fell upon a group of young wizard enthusiastically discussing something that, judging from their raucous laughter, wasn’t Gorhman’s Seventh Cantrip. Malcador, the apprentice she had seen earlier was there, enthusiastically chattering away. Perhaps he might be able to give her the information he needed. Smiling, she picked up a piece of cherry pie and headed over to the circle.

“You have never seen a girl with…” one of the other apprentices was saying as Emmaline approached, he fell silent and blushed slightly as it became clear she was heading for their group.

“Well don’t stop on my account,” Emmaline encouraged, giving Malcador a companionable smile, “a girl with what?”

Silver & Gold: A Warhammer Roleplay

“Emmaline!!!”

There were wizards and then there were wizards, Emmaline Von Morgenstern thought with a sigh. Albrect Wallenstein, or Albrect the Magnificent as he preferred to style himself, was in the second category.

“Get up here girl!” he roared again. Emmaline carefully added a sprinkling of iron filings to the potion she had bubbling on the alembic, then read the spidery looking words from the open spellbook, all but dislocating her jaw in the process. The golden shimmer of Charmon rushed up around her and the glassware rattled alarmingly, the greenish fluid in the glass vessel turned distinctly blue and the glass frosted over. Emmaline finished the incantation in something closer to a yelp and slammed the book shut. The glassware settled down and the fluid gained something like the color the book suggested it would. Emmaline gave it a skeptical glance, unused to such apparent success.

“Emmaline, get that plump ass of yours up here!” Albrecht yelled. Sighing, Emmaline headed up the stairs, deliberately taking her time just to spite the old fool. Like many senior magisters of the Gold Order, Albrect lived in one of the many interconnected towers which overlooked the Reik. Such towers were reserved for the most senior of the Gold Wizards and how Albrecht had inveigled himself one did not bear thinking about. Probably won it at cards, Emmaline thought sourly as she climbed the spiraling stairs. She passed the library with its floor to ceiling book shelves and comfortable chairs, then passed Albrecht's dusty and unused laboratory, much larger and better stocked than the small laboratory she was permitted to use. Finally she reached the top level where Albrect made his lair. It was a single open chamber dominated by a massive fireplace flanked by more book shelves. A large four poster bed stood opposite the fireplace, alongside a large copper tub with intricately carved claw feet. Albect was in an overstuffed chair by the window, a book in his lap and a peevish look on his face.

“What took you so long,” Albrecht grumped. He was an old man, although as with many wizards this was at least partially an affectation. Bald and liver spotted he made up for his lack of hair with a rather magnificent beard of a white so snowy Emmaline doubted it was natural. He was a big man, probably muscular in his youth though long since gone to seed, and his face had a wisdom and nobility it certainly didnt deserve. Emmaline had seen him rouster all night with high priced courtesans, and outdrink the most veteran blades of Altdorf’s Street of a Thousand taverns. He was a born deceiver and the most dissolute man Emmaline had ever met. Those shared attributes probably went a way towards explaining why Albrecht had selected the then eighteen year old Emmaline Von Morganstern to be his apprentice. Well her name hadn’t been Von Morganstern then. Albrecht had entered it that way in the College records to make her sound more noble than her lowly background would suggest. Like the Tower, the fact that he had secured her as an apprentice was something of a wonder. Emmaline was possessed of great beauty, with a heart shaped face and plump full lips. Her blue eyes, blond hair, and almost overly generous curves, she might have served as the picture of Reikish beauty. It had been the despair of her parents when her considerable magical abilities had manifested and their hopes for a rich marriage had been comprehensively scotched. It was the looks rather than magical talent which had attracted Albrecht who had immediately began a comprehensive education in the arts of debauchery and petty swindles which separated many a noble from his coin. Of magical education there was little, save for the occasional drunken lecture on the nature of Charmon and access to an extensive collection of spellbooks.

“I was in the basement working on potions,” Emmaline responded defensively. Albrecht grunted and made a dismissive gesture.

“Make sure you don’t set anything on fire,” the elder wizard said with evident disinterest.

“Take this to the Magisterium, it needs to be filled with the Master of Scribes,” Albrecht instructed, gesturing to a series of scrolls on a marble side table. Emmaline’s face lit up and Albrect rolled his eyes.

“I suppose you may enjoy the festivities after you are done,” he grumped.

...Apprentice Emmaline Von MOrganstern has made only modest progress owing to her youth and inexperience. While she possesses considerable strength my attempts to help her improve her control have not yet borne fruit. Her frequent breaches of curfew are part of her rebellious nature which has not yet been corrected by my strenuous attempts to impose discipline…

It went on in that vein. Emmaline pouted as she read Albrecht’s rather unflattering report on her progress. Once she had returned to her room off the library, it had been the work of a second to unseal her master’s scroll with a hot knife. She muttered a spell and waved her hand, dissolving the ink with ease. Ironically it was one of the few spells Albrecht had bothered to teach her, a useful trick for the various frauds he committed. Emmaline took a quill and ink from her desk and penned herself a rather more glowing testimonial in an exact duplicate of her master’s hand. Once that was done she resealed the scroll and headed out, winding her way through the series of laboratories, foundries, and alchemical halls which formed the grounds of the Gold College.

The Magesterium was a riot of activity. It was rare to see apprentices, even of a single college, gathered in any numbers but Pie Week was an exception. Acolytes, apprentices, even master wizards were eating and drinking. In theory spells were discouraged, but here and there apprentices couldn’t help showing off. Emmaline watched enraptured as a young pyromancer set his drink on fire with the tip of his finger, another young woman with wild hair, snapped her fingers and convinced a rat to dance. Nor was her own arrival unremarked, two apprentices of the College of Light collided with each other in their enthusiasm not to take their eyes from the young Gold Apprentice, prompting laughter from an older sorceress in the purple robes of the Amethyst College. Emmaline snatched up a goblet of white wine from one of the tables and tossed it off in a single swallow. She tucked her forged papers into her pouch and took up a plate which she promptly piled with ham, pickles, cheese, and fruit. Turning she bumped into another apprentice, the collision knocked the plate from her hand and food flew into the air. With a desperate swipe she managed to catch everything except an apple in a precarious tower on her plate. The newcomer neatly snatched the apple out of the air and rather insouciantly took a bite of it, the ripe fruit crunching.

“Hello.”

Have At You!!! A Game of Swashbuckling Adventure

Camilla wondered what the ruckus was as she passed by the tavern, glancing down the roadway to see the port watch leading someone away. She wondered what could have possessed them to risk the ire of the Black Fleet, a dangerous group to antagonize. Putting it out of her mind she continued down the worn cobbles to the harbor. As always the vista took her breath away, dozens of ships lay at anchor in the bay, some snugged up to jetties, others with deeper draughts, anchored out in the bay. Small boats rowed too and fro from the shore to the ships. These carried enterprising locals, loudly proclaiming the quality of the local fruits, liquor, and companionship they carried. Camilla could see one such vessel, just setting off from the shore, almost away from the weight of pineapples and lychees piled into it. Two more contained brightly dressed prostitutes who were screeching at each other about who had the right to go to which ship, emphasizing their points with gestures and curses which almost peeled the faded white paint from their respective vessels. Camilla walked out onto the docks, weaving her way between the sweating steevedores and local fisherman, until she found a likely looking sailor leaning against one of the bollards a cigaro clenched between his teeth.

“Can you direct me to the Pendragon sir?” she asked, trying to make her voice flat and boring the way people from Albion spoke. Judging from the man’s raised eyebrow she was at best partially successful.

“Aye miss,” he replied, lifting his chin to indicate a ship on the far side of the harbor, tied up to a long rickety looking jetty. “Yon handsome brig over thar.” Camilla followed his gesture to the ship in question, a mid sized brig with the rampant lion of Albion flying from her mizen topmast. She was a handsome ship, timbers turned gold from oils and with a handsome red stripe painted below her bulwark, the same color picking out gunports along her side. The figurehead was plain wood rather than gilt but clearly rough to resemble a snarling dragon.

“Kind of plump looking isn’t she?” Camilla asked idly, comparing the Pendragon to Castillian barque across the jetty.

“Aye, Balandar construction I reckon, they like em beamy as a butter tub, for which I can't say’s I blame ‘em,” the old sailor chuckled.

“A good ship for heavy seas they say. See more of ‘em down round Aracao and the Weatherlies, running chocolate or sugar back to Frizia, shallow draughted too for as beamy as they are, good for going up rivers or in close where there is no proper port,” the sailor went on expansively. Camilla nodded along, her own nautical knowledge having begun only a few weeks ago and mostly consisting of where to relieve herself and which side to vomit over in heavy weather.

“You taking passage in her yer ladyship?” the sailor asked, drawing deep on his cigaro and then tapping the ash into the bay.

“Something like that,” Camilla replied, giving the old salt a smile. She wished she could pass him a coin, but her finances were skint enough as it was. Bidding him a fair wind she headed down the waterfront towards the Pendragon eager to get aboard ship.

“Thought you might show up here,” a familiar voice called, as Antonio Domenquez stepped from an alleyway, a cutlass in his hand. Port had not agreed with the man, his face looked haggard as though from heavy drinking but his hand was steady on his sword.

“I told you I would be seeing you again, found myself someone at the exchange willing to pay me top dollar for some dukes sprat,” he sneered. Camilla drew back her cloak with her elbow to reveal the hilt of her own blade.

“My maid used to say I had a face to die for,” Camilla retorted, “but I doubt she meant it literally.” Domenquez laughed and lunged forward as though to grab her before she could unsheath her sword. Camilla twisted and slapped Domenquez, throwing him off balance. Steel rasped as her side sword came free of its scabbard in time to catch the round house slash of Domenquez’ cutlass with a musical ring of steel on steel. The denizens of the docks opened around them as they struggled to get clear of the potential reach of blades. Camilla controlled the measure, using the longer reach of her blade to make Domenquez come towards her, stamping his feet and cutting with the slightly curved edge. She parried him away low, feet moving in the graceful steps her swordmaster had proscribed. Domenquez came on like a bull, using his speed and power to drive her back, keeping his blade angled to defend his body. She parried again, then riposted, slashing the cuff of his buff coat open with the razored edge. Domenquez laughed.

“I hope you didn’t pay your prissy dancing instructor too much,” he sneered.

“Who knows, I had servants for that,” she retorted, launching her own attack with a series of patinandos that forced Domequez to draw his heavy blade in close to his body. The sailor was sweating with effort and hissing curses at her. In frustration he caught her blade in a vertical parry and sprang forward, swinging his fist at her head. Camilla ducked, turning the momentum into a roll which carried her clear of a frustrated backswing, her blade rising into a guard.

“Stop skipping around,” he growled.

“Stop fighting like a fairy,” she retorted, and they sprang together, exchanging half a dozen blows in the course of a few seconds. Their sword caught in a coule and Domenquez leaned into it shoving her backwards so that she backed into a warehouse wall. He snarled in triumph as the impact robbed her of footwork and cut in with his blade. Camilla dropped, catching her weight on one arm and kicking off the wall to roll under his attack. Domenquez, not to be caught a second time, kicked out at her, the blow impacting her hip and turning her roll into a sprawl. He drove a second kick down at her, then leaped backwards as her sword point came very close to robbing him of any chance of progeny. Flexing her body, Camilla arched to her feet and backed away.

“This has been entertaining, but I do have places to be,” Camilla said, striving to make her tone sound board. Domenquez was sweating hard and his face was a black fury. However he had expected this confrontation to go, it so far wasn’t following the script.

“Foolish of you to think I came alone,” Domenquez said as two men appeared behind her, both armed with cudgels.

“Who could have predicted you could make friends?” Camilla retorted as all three men rushed in at her. She took a quick step to the side, then leaped up onto one of the bollards and out over the water to the gasps of the onlookers. Her hand caught a line dangling from one of the yards used to sway in heavy cargos which swung her in a wide arc towards the next jetty. She landed in a crouch, teetering on the edge of the jetty with both arms windmilling, her sword arm a distinct danger to those who had, until a moment ago, thought themselves safe. She smirked triumphantly at Domenquez and his goons, now separated by twenty feet of water. The smirk vanished as one of them produced a pistol and leveled it at her. Squeaking in most unlady like fashion she ducked behind a crate a moment before the crack of the pistol sounded. A sack of grain five feet away sprung a leak, unleashing a flow of golden grains as the pistol ball split it.

“Don’t kill her you slack jawed son of a whore, she is worth a fortune alive!” Domenquez screamed. Enough encouraged, Camilla leaped to her feet and sprinted down the jetty towards the docks, turning right at the base as her pursuers rounded the corner. She dodged the startled steevadores as she bolted for the Pendragon, ducking to slide under a yard being muscled into place by a half dozen sailors. A watermelon seller cursed her as one of his fruit exploded as one of Domenquez’ henchmen ignored his instructions and fired a second pistol at her. A sailor in a dirty canvas smock, perhaps having heard Domenquez shouting about how much she was worth grabbed at her, and she twisted aside, leaping up onto a pile of crates lining the jetty. Ignoring threats and curses she ran across the uneven surface at full speed, her feet drumbing loudly as she ran. Domenquez and his men raced after her, red faced and howling with fury. One of them collided with a woman carrying a wicker basket of fish, sending seafood flying in all directions. Another pistol cracked though where the ball went she had no idea. The improvised walkway of crates was coming to an end and she thrust her blade into her belt and leaped, performing a neat summersault to land on the jetty. Another few steps and she had reached the Pendragon, dashing past the surprised sentry and up the gangplank onto the deck. They sentry dropped his bottle of rum and grabbed for his own cutlass yelling abuse and questions in equal measure. Camilla turned to see Domenquez and his thugs standing on the dock, red faced and furious. Several sailors, including Hasting were on deck, some gripping belaying pins and other improvised weapons.

“Problem?” Hasting asked, wiping tar from his hand onto his jerkin.

“Just you wait you bitch!” Domenquez screamed, pumping his fist in a rude gesture. Camilla leaned against the bulwark and blew a lock of hair out of her face.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” she observed philosophically.

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy RP

@POOHEAD189
“Did you intend to leave me standing out here all night?” a woman asked in a thick indian accent. Her face was round and her large almond shaped eyes were dark and lined with kohl. She wore a sarai and skirt and several gold bangles glittered at her wrist. A flash of lightning lit the night sky, painting her rich brown skin an odd shade of blue gray. Without waiting for a response she pushed past the knight and into the safehouse.

“Powerful scrying magics are being used to find this one,” the newcomer said with an off handed gesture to the unconscious Winter Knight. Kelly moaned in her sleep as though the gesture were a gentle slap.

“Your fates are intertwined, a great calamity will come upon the city if the real perpetrators are not brought to justice. Worse, your ancient adversary will take advantage,” the newcomer continued, opening the fridge and beginning to pick through the contents.

“Do you not have any milk?”

____________________________________
@Fetzen

Two officers emerged from the police cruiser, both wearing sunglasses despite the late hour. The enameled Precinct pins were displayed on their breast pockets but no badges or other identification. Neither man had yet drawn a weapon but their hands were close to their holsters.

“Put your hands up,” the nearest officer responded, a sneer on his face at the request for identification. He reached out and grabbed Balthazar, wrenching him around and shoving him against the wall. Rough hands began to pat him down, pausing as they found the orb.

“What have we here…” the cop crooned as he pulled the metallic sphere out of the pocket.

“It is the Contract!” the second officer called, pulling his weapon free of its holster and shouting for his partner to step clear of Balthazar.

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

It was a weary group that gathered in the library, knocking snow off combat boots onto the expensive rugs. A large fireplace dominated one of the walls and Spades and another trooper got it going by the simple expedient of piling up a few logs and hitting them with a gout of prometheum from a flamer. The troops were doing damage to the mansion in a hundred ways but the lady of the house seemed wealthy enough that it was doubtful she would raise too many complaints. Sel found the side board and began pouring amasec into metal cups the troops used for cooking and shaving. Some roasted salt grox was procured from somewhere and heated over the fire, combined with some soft bread and a few baskets of fruit it made a welcome change from solyens viridians.

“Don’t be so stingy with the drinks Corporal!” Ruskins complained as he knocked back half of his in a single gulp. “There is enough here to float the regiment!”

“Yes there is, and wont it be funny if someone chills the lot of us while we sleep it off?” Sel remarked pointedly, recalling them to the murders of the two troopers on the way in. Predictably the comment dampened the mood. Ruskins shifted uncomfortably.

“You think there is a rebel here somewhere?” Ruskins asked at last. Sel shrugged her shoulders.

“Maybe more than one, someone blew up the shield generator, maybe someone killed Klane and Merkaba to get back in,” Sel speculated, sipping her own amasec. It was excellent stuff, far superior to the cheap joyliq the troops normally made do with.

“Naw…” Tandor interjected as he put his feet up on a firestone inlaid coffee table.

“ ‘s big place, couldsa come in without been seen, no ticks,” he continued. Tandor’s accent had a ganger cant to it, less effectively repressed than Sel’s own.

“Maybe,” Sel disagreed. Sometimes as a scout, knowing where the enemy was and punching your way through was safer than trying to avoid detection and not knowing for sure you had been unobserved.

“You think…” a door banged open and the whole squad were on their feet in a clatter of food plates and utensils. Lasguns swung up and clicked off safe in less time than it took them to consciously think about it.

“Hold fire!” Sel yelled as she realised that the newcomers were in the livery of Lady Arsenault’s house guard, their ridiculous breastplates gleaming in the firelight. There were three of them, two flunkies and the poncing officer Sel had met when she had arrived. They looked terrified to suddenly find themselves staring down so many guns, but that melted in an instant to be replaced by anger.

“What in the Emperor’s name do you think you are doing here!” the officer blustered, glaring in horror at the casual ruin the Guard were making of the fine library.

“T’sour billet spirehead,” Tandor snarled, his las gun leveled at the officers chest, “s’frak off while ya legs s’carry ya,” he advised.

“Now see here, I will not be spoken to by a common serf who…”

“Shut your mouths!” Sel snapped, safing her weapon and lowering it. None of the household troops had drawn their weapons, and might not be able to draw them in fairness, given the elaborate knot work on their holsters. Maybe the officer could have drawn his sword, but all three of them would have been cut down in a heartbeat.

“If you have billeting problems I suggest you take it up with Lieutenant Caradwalden,” Sel replied, casually dumping the problem onto her superiors lap. The officers face whitened with fury but rather than reply he merely spun on his heels and stalked off. For a long moment there was silence, then Sel crossed to the door and closed it after the departing house guards.

“You think it might have been one of them what scragged Klane and Merkeba?” Mills asked, pouring himself a second amasec in spite of Sel’s caution to stay sober.

“Maybe, some aristo power play? Some disaffected goon letting his rebel buddies in?” Sel speculated. She picked up the decanter of amasec and drank from the neck of the bottle. Frak it, what were they going to do? Demote her to driver and attach her to an infantry squad in the middle of no where?

“I’m going to find the Lieutenant, maybe he has a plan.”

Scum and Villainy - Plentiful Bounty

@ctrlsaltdel That is too bad but thank you, I really enjoyed creating and playing Molly

Have At You!!! A Game of Swashbuckling Adventure

Inez Domenique de Galva hated Free Sail. She hated most of the Antillies in fairness, the choking jungle, the dilapidated buildings, the general disorder. The Castilian islands were not much better, lorded over by degenerate aristocrats and pseudo-aristocrats who couldn’t make it back in Castille, half of them were idiots, the other half cretins. It irritated her to see her national stock so degraded. Free Sail itself had once been Castilian but it had been a minor settlement, abandoned in favor of more prosperous islands when war with the jackals of Albion had forced Castile to consolidate.

“Are you sure this is the place?” the watch commander, a one eyed man named Rodriguez asked, his eyes wide as he beheld her. It wasn’t that Inez was any great beauty. She was closer to thirty than to twenty and her face was sharp and hard. Nor was she possessed of the kind of figure which attracted artists and poets. She was hard and muscular, wiry strength wrapped over a slender frame. Her hair was gathered into the loose bun typically adopted by the women of the Castilian army. It was her family name rather than her looks which impressed Rodriguez for the Galva name was a famous one in her distant homeland. The Dukes of Parma, as the Galvas had been for ten generations, were neither the richest nor the most politically influential but they had piled up honors as soldiers and generals in the unending wars in Medicia and up into the Central Kingdoms. Inez herself had tramped the Golden Road many times, from Videyo to Buucsh and everywhere in between.

“Si, this is where you will find the pirate capitan, an Albionese as I have told you,” she repeated. The watch captain nodded and turned to his men snapping an order. Like a single organism they lifted their weapons and stormed inside. For a moment there was nothing, like a slow match touched to a cannon. Three heartbeats passed then she heard a shout and the crack of a musket. The sudden eruption of noise was enormous. Howls of rage and pain merged with the gunfire, the thwack of musket butts striking flesh. Half a dozen pistols went off and several windows shattered spraying glass out into the streets in glittering arcs. The doors flew open and one of the patrons tumbled out, grappling and biting at one of the town watch. Inez drew her hanger, a broad bladed infantry sword, once ornate but battered and work worn with use, and clouted the pirate over the back of the head with the pommel, dropping him bonelessly to the street. She seized the stunned watchman by the collar and dragged him to his feet, then shoved him back through the door and into the fray.

“Al diablo con eso,” she muttered, and followed the watchman through the door. She had intended the watch to handle this business but it seemed she might have underestimated the clientles willingness to progress to violence. The interior of the tavern was utter chaos. Watchmen were locked in combat with patrons, lashing at them with their heavy cudgels. The Black Fleet pirates were fighting back with bottles, barstools, and other improvised weapons. Swords flashed and pistols cracked, blasting chunks of crumbling plaster from the ceiling. Perversely, an organ player, safely shielded by the bulk of his instrument, was continuing to play a spritely reel as the tavern tore itself apart. Inez ducked a flying bottle and then was caught around the waist by a charging pirate who tackled her into the wall, driving the breath from her lungs, she wrapped her arms around her attackers shoulders as she bounced off the plaster wall, then drove her knee into his crotch sending him staggering back. Spinning, she thrust out her hands against the wall and kicked out with both feet, catching the pirate in the chest and sending him flying into the path of one of his comrades. Both of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs that emitted quite the most sulfurous curses Inez had ever heard. Inez glanced around wildly, seeking the man she had come for. It was impossible to focus on the swirling melee. Here a pirate headbutted a watchmen sending teeth and blood flying, there a watchman smashed a chair to kindling over the back of a roaring Black Fleet man, then picked him up and pitched him over the bar at one of his compatriots. A blond prostitute stood on a low balcony naked to the waist, Inez watched as she took a swig of rum from a bottle before pitching it into the crowd, laughing delightedly and completely indifferent to which side it struck.

Inez struck out towards the most intense knot of action, she snatched up a fallen musket and battered left and right, clearing her way towards the ruck with all the subtlety of cutting through jungle with a machete. With shocking rudeness the ruck exploded as a tall man erupted up from under the table in a shower of peanuts. He snatched up the table like a pavisse shield and charged through the combatants like a siege ram, screaming at the top of his lungs. She had just enough time to curse before he crashed into her, sending her sprawling backwards. Inez crashed onto her back just in time for him to stomp on her chest. Fortunately the half plate she wore beneath her black and buff coat saved her ribs. She seized his leg and yanked hard, sending him spinning to the ground with a stream of anatomically improbable profanity. She leaped onto his back, her hand moving rapidly. The Albionese easily threw her aside and tried to make another dash for the door, but the delay in tangling with her had given the portwatch time to catch up. Half a dozen musket butts and cudgel blows rained down on him in the space of a few seconds and he tumbled to the ground. The watch, hard pressed by the rioting pirates, many of which were now brawling with each other, seized Neil by the arms and dragged him from the tavern, forming a rearguard that bristled with muskets, broken bottles and cudgels. The embattled posse burst out onto the street, dragging their captive as well as their wounded with them. Everyone sprawled in the street gasping for air. A few seconds later several unconscious port watchmen were tossed unceremoniously through the shattered windows.

“You had better be right about this guy,” the port watch leader snapped at Inez, wiping blood from a split lip with the sleeve of his tunic. Inez reached into Neil’s pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. She appeared to withdraw it anyway, in truth it had been up her sleeve in exactly the same fashion on might use to palm a card in a game of whist. She unfolded it and handed it to the watch commander.

“Just as I told you, a plan to hand control of Free Sail to the Black Fleet,” she declared, nudging Neil with the toe of her boot.