POOHEAD189

Men vs. Women Race to 1000: Version 2.0

-15

Midian [Dystopian futuristic fantasy RP]

Remember to follow guild rules and keep all sexual encounters in DM's!

Men vs. Women Race to 1000: Version 2.0

-18

Into the Shadow

He closed his hand around the hilt of the sword, and as he did so a small light gleamed from it. It was soft, but definitely there. He felt something warm, and within moments his eyes widened in astonishment when he realized his stamina had been replenished. It was as if the very evil in the place caused the sword to cry out in defiance, and it intended to use Roland as its vessel in order to wreak havoc on the abominations of the underdark.

Roland was not keen on letting anything control him, but as long as his and the sword's intentions were aligned, he'd allow the weapon's help in slaying these foes. And more importantly...

Saving Iseldis.

The door opened to reveal three shambling corpses approaching, and the one up front gave a lumbering swing as Roland strode to meet it. The blade in his hand was lighter than it seemed, and with his vigor returned he blocked it relatively easily, turning the blow and countering with a sideswipe that beheaded the Draugr. Despite his wounds, along with the crusted dirt and blood along his arms and neck, he dispatched the others in a similar fashion, and decided to cut his way out of where he was. The barred door looked a bit less imposing with his strengthened body and new sword, and he began hacking at the timber, somehow knowing the blade wouldn't dull.

Iseldis' mad dash to where she had last seen Roland would be interrupted by a faintly glowing blade sticking out of the wood and stone they couldn't pass earlier, and a cry to Baelyr and Eruvar echoed across the stones before Roland shoulder rushed the blockade and knocked most of it aside roughly, the squire's hair matted and he was getting tired yet again but, he was here and he brightened considerably when he saw his companion in the dark.

"Iseldis! I..." he began, stepping forward, before he realized he might have said something he shouldn't, or at least would be embarrassing. He shook his head and pushed forward. "Are you ok? What happened?" His voice was breathless, but his eyes were alert and his shoulders squared and steady. Somehow, he looked as if he had grown even since they had met mere days before.
@Luminosity

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

Let's start another

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

1 hour later...

The bedroom was huge. In fact, it was nearly as large as the closet.

A cozy bed covered in the fur of great cats sat beneath an attached canopy of silks that cascaded around it like a soft evening rain. The bed itself was located at the center back of the room on a small island that one reached by stepping up four regal stairs. The rest of the chamber had sofas one could lounge on and a fireplace to provide light at night. The room was also connected to the small outside gardens, where toucans and parrots flitteted about, with a large three stories fountain at the center.

As soon as Amal had seen this jackpot of a location, he said "Oh this will end badly," because nothing so comfortable had ever worked out for him in the past. Of course, they were only staying a night, and Emmaline had successfuly beglamoured the steward of the house, which led the rest of the servants to treat them as honored guests. He supposed nothing could go wrong, and honestly he didn't mind things going wrong sometimes. It gave some spice to life.

Emmaline was currently perusing the closet to see what fine garments she could steal, whilst Amal decided to check on the many wines and fermented drinks they had in concavely shaped bottles at the edges of the curtains that led to the gardens. The only downside of being in such a lavish spot was the fragility of everything. He truly wished he could throw knives into the wall to curb a bit of boredom, but he wanted to leave the room the way it was. If nothing else because the servants would likely have to pay for their insolence, rather than him fearing the fury of the master when he returned.

Suddenly the large red doors leading to the halls opened up, and seven men brought in a stuffed pig, three chickens and seven cuts of beef, along with a large collection of grapes and dates, along with a dessert of Lukaimat dumplings and a jug of water to top it all off. The man at the head had a weathered face and a dutiful way about him, and he bowed low. "Your excellency, the food as you requested." He said, abasing before Amal.

The thief had taken a new cap and a more impressive cloak, but he didn't think he looked very regal. Still, he didn't waste the opportunity to measure the food and the man as if he would possibly be displeased with either. "Very good, now leave us. And do not come into the room unless we bring ourselves to calling you."

The servants backed into the hall, still facing him and bowing repeatedly before they were gone. Amal grinned when the door closed. "Suckers." He reached down and cut off a piece of the pig with his large fork and butcher knife, savoring the succulent taste of the meat. He would truly enjoy this night. It would be a good surprise for his companion too, and when Emmaline poked her head out to see what the voices had indicated, he could tell she was giddy over the food. She had the same look on her face then that she did when she was looking at gold or sizing someone up to steal from. Her Cobra staff leaned against the wall next to her doorway, ruby eyes of mindbending glittering in the firelight.

"Almost done changing," She said and slipped back away.

He gave her a three finger salute, an old Arabyan gesture that indicated the three fingers one used for work. As merchants or workmen that stole and got a lighter sentence than losing a hand or their life would lose the pointer, middle, and forefinger so they could still survive, albeit with great difficulty. It was used to show you were someone's fellow and they would all find the same fate in the end.

Amal turned from the food and made his way to the wines, uncasking a purple bottle and take a whiff of the contents. A light breeze to his side betrayed the entrance of a heavily plumed parrot who landed on one of the stands beside him. Amal smirked. "Are you here to help me pick a wine?" He said, and put a red bottled spirit near the bird's beak. The creature sneezed, causing Amal to snicker. "Not your type, eh?"

The parrot squawked. "Pretty lady! Pretty lady!"

Amal glanced toward the Cobra staff and the closet, then back to the bird. "What of her? Yes she is my type, but I find that makes little difference my friend." The thief's left eye closed as he looked inside of an empty bottle, wondering if there was some manner of magic or treasure hidden inside.

"Go for it! Go for it!"

He turned to the Parrot. "Think I should?"

"Pretty lady! Pretty lady!"

He stroked his chin. "You're making quite a bit of sense my feathered friend."

Emmaline stepped out with her new garb, picking up her cobra staff and making her way over to them. "Who are you talking to?" she asked, but before she could finish the thought the Parrot saw the Cobra Staff and the woman, and the Parrot squawked in utter terror as if it had seen a real serpent and bolted out of the chamber loudly screeching. Amal raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. He'd still follow the advice at least.
@Penny

Out on the Rim

Cleomenes did not drop his pistol. In fact, he raised it up and pointed it at her, making it clear he wasn't going to brook for half measures and promises when it came to the security of his ship. No matter how little he liked the Empire, Stormtroopers never stowed away on his ship. "I said" He remarked slowly. "Drop your weapons, and slide them to me.. The barrel was merely 3 meters from her face, and her eyes were looking down the barrel. "Now."

There was a silence, and he knew she was debating on whether or not to foolishly try and kill him while he had an aimed blaster at her. He'd known the type before. Relentless survivors, looking for anywhere and anything that helped them escape their past. He could emphasize, but that didn't mean he would open all doors in life for them. That sort of life easily bred traitors and brigands, and he would have known on his freighter.

"Fine," he said, and even to Leyla, it was clear his pointer finger was in the middle of pulling the trigger when an alarm began to flash over them. He relaxed his hand for a moment, and realized there wasn't time for this. "Very well, keep them. But you stay here." He told her, and backed up into the main access corridor, gun still on her. Once he was free of the main bay, he spoke aloud. "Lockdown 12B," and suddenly his door slipped shut.

All of them did.

Leyla found herself in the room with no exits save perhaps a vent that likely had unstable chemicals that would, if nothing else, make her particularly light headed during the landing process if she chose to use them. Meanwhile, Cleo headed to the cockpit and hopped into his seat, slowing the starship down and bringing up the planetary piloting system on the display. Flying in an atmosphere was vastly different than flying in the void. You had to make adjustments for gravity, gases, and even wind temperature.

The ship began to shake, but even then he checked the cam to make sure Leyla was still in the hanger bay. Satisfied she was, he looked back at the display and transitioned the ship to slowly and more gracefully descend until they were a thousand feet above Mos Elrey, floating onto the landing pad that had been assigned to them. Outside of the ship, the Zabrak cursed. He didn't know if it was fortunate he had let her keep her blasters, or if he should have killed her there to gain the favor of the local forces.

But there were eight storm troopers moving in formation towards his ship, with an Imperial officer watching cooly imperious just at the exit. "Fuck," he said, and moved as fast as he could out of his chair toward the locked door to the central chamber. He tapped the steel with his blaster. "You, can you hear me? I'm going to come in now. But we need to help each other. Stormtroopers are wanting in, and I can't be caught with my cargo just as you can't be caught by the law. If you help me and we both survive, I'll give you a small cut of my earnings from my shipment. Deal?"
@Penny

Damned to the Depths

His bare chest rose and fell, sweat beading off of his suntanned skin as he worked. Markus' eyes were closed, better to keep himself focused solely on the task at hand. Twisting his left wrist as fare as he dared, he dug the small tool of shrapnel he had procured with his feet into the right manacle, but after countless minutes of attempting to unlock the manacles, he realized the tool was too wide and burly. Instead he began to poke and prod at the old stone that had the steel locks in them, hoping to the Gods the stone had been eroded from constant use and erosion of the constant moisture over the years.

He'd lost feeling in his hands and arms hours ago, and it was difficult to tell if he was damaging his bones or muscles by the strength he put into chipping away the stone and yanking, but luckily they weren't privvy to his spellcasting ability and it gave him some aid in his efforts, shielding his skin from the worst parts of the exertion to save his sword hand for later, but it had been so long before he had seen any progress that he believed he wasn't making any.

A crank and a latch being open betrayed someone's entrance into his small room, and he dropped the piece of shrapnel to the floor and cleared his throat loudly to hide the cling-a-ding of the steel. A guard in casual corsair garb with a smell that surpassed Markus' expectations entered and closed the door behind him. Inside his sweaty palms was a meal of what Markus could only describe as lard with a hint of gruel. Truth be told, he had a small feeling of nostalgia for the rancid slop. He remembered when he lived on it for years as a penniless orphan on the streets of Kaerdwyn.

The pirate placed the tray at Markus' feet, and the Swordmage looked between the guard and the slop. "How am I supposed to eat that?" He asked, wiggling his hands for emphasis. As he did, he briefly felt a small bit of give on his right manacle, and it took all of his willpower to keep himself from showing his dawning surprise. The man chuckled wickedly. He opened his mouth to reveal three teeth made of ivory, with his two canines carved of sharpened brass. Evilly he leaned forward to lower his face with the Captain, and he said. "Prisoners who are truly starving find ways to get it."

Markus hadn't even listened, his eyes suddenly opening wide and his bare chest heaving as he mustered all of his strength in one sudden lurch forward. In an instant, his right manacle was free and dangling along the chain of his left, still stuck locked into the stone. Just as the seriousness of what was happening began to dawn on the corsair, Markus kicked out and sent the man onto the floor, his groin now covered in slop. Markus pulled again, standing to his feet and using all of his weight to pull. A loud snap echoed across the stone when his manacles tore out of the ruined stone, and he stumbled ungracefully over the fallen Corsair.

Both pirates did their best to get to their feet, looking drunk and dazed but moving swifter by the second. Unfortunately Markus' was a bit slower having fallen second, and the man stepped above him and stabbed downward with a wicked knife. The spellsword used his chains to redirect the thrust, and he curled his left leg behind the Corsair's and kicked with his right, causing the terrifying pirate to stumble and hit the back of the wall. Shifting his weight, Markus lifted his legs in the air and used the momentum to shoot to his feet with what little acrobatic ability he had, and lunged at the man before he could recover. Wrapping his rusted chains around the Corsair's neck, he twisted his wrists and pulled so hard he began to bleed, the blood from his arms slicking the inside of his freed manacles.

When the thrashing ended, Markus leaned down to catch his breath and strategize, rubbing his arms and hands to get the pins and needles back into his realm of feeling. "Think, think damn you," he whispered to himself. He knew they were going to execute him anyway in a big show. Why else would they keep a Captain alive? Killing one of their guards likely wouldn't phase them overmuch. But he also knew he needed to get out of these chains, and his eyes followed the sunlight from the barred window onto the floor where the small steel tool was...

He scrambled for it with a renewed energy and began to attempt to pick the lock on his cuffs, but realized it was still too wide. He cursed himself for a fool, before looking at the deadman laying on the floor. He realigned the tool in his hand from holding it like a tool to a small knife, and growling he crawled over to the dead man who notably had no keys save the one leading into the cell, and he pulled the corpse to the dark edge of the room, yanking over a left over, piss covered cloak on the body. He pulled the arm out from under the blanket and began his bloody work.

He stabbed between the bones in the radius and ulna, parting them with three shoves until he could fit his fingers inside. He pushed into the muscle tendons and began to pull with all of his strength, splitting the arm and two and leaving the wrist ruined. He cut the rest of the wrist off with a few more cuts and slices, bones pulling apart from ligaments and cracking like a chicken breast. The blood covered the ground as he worked his way up to the fingers, tearing the skin off of each until he found a bone that could fit in the lock on his manacles. Three fingers in, he found a winner.

He furiously placed the forefinger bone in the locks, hearing footsteps outside that made his heart thunder in his chest. Another clink, and suddenly he felt a small latch unwinding and the manacle opened. The footseps within the hall mercifully kept going, and he breathed easier. Quickly, he wiped the blood off of his extremities as best he could on the piss covered cloak, and then crawled back to where he had been, placing everything seemingly in place again, awaiting whoever would take him next.

A few hours passed, and he nearly fell asleep when the door opened again. Alert, he looked up and saw three guards this time, all luckily looking at him and the spilled food, figuring he had tried to maneuver it to his mouth and failing. The middle one grinned, and stepped forward to unlatch his cuffs from the wall, pulling him up awkwardly rough. "Come on, Prince of Pirates." He mocked, the Blood Axe men using that term as a jest at Markus' expanse. He might use it himself if he made it out alive.

Through the dripping stone corridors of the mountain fortress, the men shoved Markus along, edging him forward by the tips of their Scimitars until he made it to the vast central chamber, or more precisely, the throneroom that overlooked the chamber. A hundred roaring sea brigands were below, and at their front was the chained crew of the Weathered Witch, on their knees and prostrated, swords at their necks.

"Took you louts long enough. Bring him here," the Chief said, eyes filled with dreadful glee. Markus was shoved forward toward the center of the chamber, now flanked by two of the largest pirates as Mahal-Sabim looked at him with a terrible grin. "So, Prince of Pirates eh?" He asked, and without warning he punched Markus in the stomach. The Captain fell to a knee, not expecting such strength, but not unused to it either. Slowly, he got to his feet without being pulled up.

"Is this who you lot follow!?" He called into the cavern, arms wide. It was clear he was speaking to his crew though the words were meant for those of the Weathered Witch. Cries of "No!" rose like the tide. Mahal called again. "Who do you follow!?" He roared, and they raised their weaponry in fierce devotion. "Mahal Sabim!"

The uproarious display continued, but Markus with his head down began to hum. Among the jeers and cheers, no one could hear him at first. Calliope, chained to the side of Mahal, though only one not shouting began to hear the tune, and soon the words of a song. It was a shanty Markus had not sung in years.

A song to sing for beggars, a song to sing for saints,
A song to sing for wealthy men all wrapped and bound in chains.
Our treasure's not in gold, or in our piety.
Our wealth is in an answered call, the longing of the sea.

Markus lifted his head until he stood like a proud stallion, dark hair matted and long. His whispers became louder, until he could be heard by Mahal and his closest guards. A few looked between each other, and Mahal punched him again for interrupting, but Markus merely stood tall again and continued, eyes with the promise of death in them.

Stormy oceans carry us to lands we've never known,
To mysteries and buried secrets from the tales of old.
So hoist the sail and raise the flag, we do not stop for night.
We'll ride the wild winds and waves until the morning's light!

In smuggler's caves and tavern halls, we live by no man's rules.
We fly the colors of the living, free and proud and true!
We set out on the ocean blue to escape tyranny.
We'll keep our merry hearts alive so long we roam the sea!

As soon as his song ended, the others realized he'd undone his manacles. He reached down and yanked the left guard's basilard out of his belt, stabbing downward as if to sheathe it again, only the blade went into the man's upper leg. He howled as Markus cut open the throat of his fellow in a visceral spray of blood. He didn't give any warning or word, and tossed the basilard to Calliope as he reached for the Corsair's cutlass, barely able to meet the blade of Mahal in time to save his life. The sparks flew between the two Captains as they grimaced, locked in combat.
@Penny

Men vs. Women Race to 1000: Version 2.0

-10

Men vs. Women Race to 1000: Version 2.0

-12