POOHEAD189

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

The thief patted the rolled up carpet. "I cannot take all of the credit." He said. Standing up he smiled a smile that showed his teeth, and reaching to the small of his back, he produced one of the more expensive wines from the Emir's stash. "But thank you all the same." He said, considering tossing her the clay bottle but thinking better of it. This was no time to continue their drinking, and so he shoved it into his small sack. Finding yourself in the middle of the desert, even with a quick means of escape really killed the mood. He sighed, exasperated. Every time he was about to be a with a woman these days, something ruined it for him. He suspected the old gods had truly cursed him.

It truly had been something else, flying swifter than a bird through the night sky, even if he didn't have Emmaline clinging to him. He could get used to flying like that, but the magic carpet seemed content to leave them be at the moment. As Emmaline gazed into the gloom, Amal turned and his demeanor turned more serious as he recalled something he saw in the distance. It was as if the carpet had known which direction to fly them in, as there was something south of them he could have sworn he had spotted by the light of the moon.

"So, where do you suppose we are?" the northerner asked, shaking the airborne sand out of her fair hair.

"We are east, in the lands of the dead." He said. "That was where you saw your vision, right? I know we are east because there was a landmark to the south I saw. Something no one ever goes to." He checked to make sure he had everything in order on his person. His ring, such as it was, along with his knife and the scimitar he had procured, along with the rope. Emmaline would see him stand very differently than any way she had known him. Not hunched in a crouch or ready to spring, but tall and almost powerfully. Despite the small change, it was as loud as a pistol shot to someone who had spent the better part of the last few weeks with him.

"No one ever goes here, either." Amal turned in her direction, his dark eyes, shining like agates in the starlight, meeting hers. He was as honest and serious as he had ever been. "There is evil here that does not sleep. Things...things that make the Asaph guardian we encountered look like the bumbling bandits it slaughtered." The young bandit took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers as his face drew closer. There was nothing playful or sexual as before. He was speaking to a companion he trusted, and he wanted to make sure she was paying attention. "You are smarter than me in many things, but surviving the sands of this land is what I do. If you say jump, you jump. If I say duck, you do so. Follow my lead until things turn sorcerous. I turn it to you then, got it?"

He finally gave his usual grin once he felt she understood. "Good. Now that we have that out of the way, let us see if we can go make our fortunes, yeah?"

Amal looked about, and found the tallest sand dune amongst the waves around them to go and ascend, walking to the top as if it had perfectly carved stairs and stepping his foot upon a relatively large rock that as he gazed eastward. The moon and stars would fade within a matter of hours, but he still wished to try and see if they could view anything on the horizon. He saw a few jagged bits of masonry far away, like shipwrecked sticking out of the sea, but nothing substantial.

"Asaph..." a whispered called, carried by a sudden wind that had materialized a few yards before Amal and Emmaline's position. There was a chill to it that was uncharacteristically cold even for the night time of the Southland deserts. As Amal took out his scimitar and gazed about, Emmaline would suddenly regain the visions of power and riches in her head as she had when she first picked up the staff, but only for a fleeting moment as her eyes fell upon the rock Amal had been standing on. It was no rock at all.

It was a large skull.
@Penny

Post a random fact about yourself.

strawberry is my favorite flavor

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

@Jb Tell you what, if you win the total war match this weekend against Rex and me Ill be co-gm :P

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

As long as we have a clear and concise plot, there should be no problems and Ill be willing to collaborate with anyone and everyone.

The Witcher: Under the Shadow

@Bazmund You can be an ex-blue stripe!

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

Burundi Malgrimsson

Buruni draped the hides he had just purified in the water over the drying rack, droplets slapping the floor. Three hides were laid upon it, and he turned around to continue his work for the second batch, folding them neatly and placing them in another clay bowl to remove all of the salt left over from the curing. Wiping his large paw-like hands, he pulled the rope dangling next to his bearded head and a section of the makeshift workspace opened up so the sun could pour upon the drying skins.

Every item in the shack, indeed the shack itself, the Dwarf had meticuliously fashioned by his lonesome. All save the fire-forged poleaxe, armor, and the small set of supplies he had in a knapsack. Even if his father had not ordered him to go and make a name for himself, he likely would have done it seeing how these manlings made things. He had heard of their shoddy work, but this was ridiculous. He wagered he could forge better armor than the town smith, and he had only used the hammer five times in his seventy years!

Strange for a Dwarf to work on textiles rather than steel, at least when someone only expected the stereotype. Did they think there were no Dawi farmers or bankers? Did they spring up from holes in the ground, beard and all? He shook his shaggy head and continued his task, working milk of lime along the drying leather with a precision unmatched in the empire. If only his father had thought the same in Barak Varr. Well when he came back rich, he'd tell the old longbeard off! With respect of course.

At the back of his mind, he registered he heard a small noise from out front. Another click in the air, and suddenly the tanning rack he was working on snapped and fell over, along with half of the shack he had made! The wood falling upon his head heavily. If he had been anything but a Dwarf, it would have laid him low. Instead he grumbled and shoved the kindling out of the way, grabbing his poleaxe more to move the small beams than out of anger. But as soon as he stepped out of the pile, he knew it had been foul play.

"Step off Dwarf." The tall lollard sneered, taking a deep drink from his small bottle of whiskey. It was Kert Varnan, the leather tanner from across the small hamlet Burundi lived in. The man's ten year old lad stood there as well, laughing like a goblin from the deeps. He could have guessed the cause of this one collapsing his shop. The fool had probably lost his business when Burundi entered town. Unfortunately, rather than leave with dignity or shave his head and honor his Gods, manlings instead liked to express their grievances in the most petty way possible. "We've had enough of you stunties around here." Kert continued.

Even with the splintered in his beard, Burundi cut a noble figure for one of his tough race. Blue and gold colors adorned his workman's robes, and bronze ringlets curled about his dark beard, framing it. The Dwarf stomped the butt of his poleaxe on the ground, not in any threatening way. But he did see Kert go for his broadsword. His son cheered. "Get him pop! Show him what you're gonna do if he stays!"

Burundi ignored the boy. "You're about as brazen as you are nonthreatening, and you're about as nonthreatening as a whipped mongrel pup." He growled. He would rather not do violence here in the village, but his anger was also mounting. "Take this chance and leave with what little honor you have left, if you ever had any. Do it before I end your life suffering. More than I can say about your suffering business."

As Burundi son of Malgrim turned to go and salvage his materials, it was Kert's curse of "Hells with you, filth!" that warned him an attack was coming. The Dwarf turned, Poleaxe leading to intercept the slash with a clang. The boy stepped back, and the Dwarf hoped it would stop there, but the man, clearly wanting to end the competition and impress his son, drew back for a stab. Burundi chopped down at the sword thrust, redirecting it as he simultaneously stepped forward, running the man through with the spike of his weapon.

The 'dag' as it was called in Brettonia punched through the man's lower back, bloodied. The whirl and cheers from the lad fell silent as Kert let out a noise in surprise and pain, and he soon began to shake as blood dropped to the dirt so much like the water had on his soaked skins. A gasp to the side drew Burundi's attention. The cobbler had been watching, with a hand on his mouth and his eyes wide. The boy whimpered, and he ran over to his father as Kert collapsed onto the ground, clearly losing his life as they watched.

Burundi Malgrimsson cleaned his weapon, squaring his jaw to keep his guilt from rising up. He had been attacked and he had defended himself. Grungni, nor even the mannish Sigmar would hold him accountable. Still, with his shack gone and a known man about town dead, it was best if he left with dignity, as Kert should have.

The boy ran up to Burundi and began to hit him, barely reaching his chin, though it did little to the sturdy Dwarf. After a few moments of letting the kid get his anger out, Burundi struck him on the head lightly with the haft of his weapon, sending him to the ground, dazed. As the boy's world turned to black, he saw Burundi Malgrimsson turning away, saying. "When you grow older boy, don't be like your father. Trust me."

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

Burundi Malgrimsson

Buruni draped the hides he had just purified in the water over the drying rack, droplets slapping the floor. Three hides were laid upon it, and he turned around to continue his work for the second batch, folding them neatly and placing them in another clay bowl to remove all of the salt left over from the curing. Wiping his large paw-like hands, he pulled the rope dangling next to his bearded head and a section of the makeshift workspace opened up so the sun could pour upon the drying skins.

Every item in the shack, indeed the shack itself, the Dwarf had meticuliously fashioned by his lonesome. All save the fire-forged poleaxe, armor, and the small set of supplies he had in a knapsack. Even if his father had not ordered him to go and make a name for himself, he likely would have done it seeing how these manlings made things. He had heard of their shoddy work, but this was ridiculous. He wagered he could forge better armor than the town smith, and he had only used the hammer five times in his seventy years!

Strange for a Dwarf to work on textiles rather than steel, at least when someone only expected the stereotype. Did they think there were no Dawi farmers or bankers? Did they spring up from holes in the ground, beard and all? He shook his shaggy head and continued his task, working milk of lime along the drying leather with a precision unmatched in the empire. If only his father had thought the same in Barak Varr. Well when he came back rich, he'd tell the old longbeard off! With respect of course.

At the back of his mind, he registered he heard a small noise from out front. Another click in the air, and suddenly the tanning rack he was working on snapped and fell over, along with half of the shack he had made! The wood falling upon his head heavily. If he had been anything but a Dwarf, it would have laid him low. Instead he grumbled and shoved the kindling out of the way, grabbing his poleaxe more to move the small beams than out of anger. But as soon as he stepped out of the pile, he knew it had been foul play.

"Step off Dwarf." The tall lollard sneered, taking a deep drink from his small bottle of whiskey. It was Kert Varnan, the leather tanner from across the small hamlet Burundi lived in. The man's ten year old lad stood there as well, laughing like a goblin from the deeps. He could have guessed the cause of this one collapsing his shop. The fool had probably lost his business when Burundi entered town. Unfortunately, rather than leave with dignity or shave his head and honor his Gods, manlings instead liked to express their grievances in the most petty way possible. "We've had enough of you stunties around here." Kert continued.

Even with the splintered in his beard, Burundi cut a noble figure for one of his tough race. Blue and gold colors adorned his workman's robes, and bronze ringlets curled about his dark beard, framing it. The Dwarf stomped the butt of his poleaxe on the ground, not in any threatening way. But he did see Kert go for his broadsword. His son cheered. "Get him pop! Show him what you're gonna do if he stays!"

Burundi ignored the boy. "You're about as brazen as you are nonthreatening, and you're about as nonthreatening as a whipped mongrel pup." He growled. He would rather not do violence here in the village, but his anger was also mounting. "Take this chance and leave with what little honor you have left, if you ever had any. Do it before I end your life suffering. More than I can say about your suffering business."

As Burundi son of Malgrim turned to go and salvage his materials, it was Kert's curse of "Hells with you, filth!" that warned him an attack was coming. The Dwarf turned, Poleaxe leading to intercept the slash with a clang. The boy stepped back, and the Dwarf hoped it would stop there, but the man, clearly wanting to end the competition and impress his son, drew back for a stab. Burundi chopped down at the sword thrust, redirecting it as he simultaneously stepped forward, running the man through with the spike of his weapon.

The 'dag' as it was called in Brettonia punched through the man's lower back, bloodied. The whirl and cheers from the lad fell silent as Kert let out a noise in surprise and pain, and he soon began to shake as blood dropped to the dirt so much like the water had on his soaked skins. A gasp to the side drew Burundi's attention. The cobbler had been watching, with a hand on his mouth and his eyes wide. The boy whimpered, and he ran over to his father as Kert collapsed onto the ground, clearly losing his life as they watched.

Burundi Malgrimsson cleaned his weapon, squaring his jaw to keep his guilt from rising up. He had been attacked and he had defended himself. Grungni, nor even the mannish Sigmar would hold him accountable. Still, with his shack gone and a known man about town dead, it was best if he left with dignity, as Kert should have.

The boy ran up to Burundi and began to hit him, barely reaching his chin, though it did little to the sturdy Dwarf. After a few moments of letting the kid get his anger out, Burundi struck him on the head lightly with the haft of his weapon, sending him to the ground, dazed. As the boy's world turned to black, he saw Burundi Malgrimsson turning away, saying. "When you grow older boy, don't be like your father. Trust me."

Hope you enjoy it.

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

Neil stayed mercifully still as he peered into the perimeter. The guard seemed alone, though he knew patrol as much as most soldiers himself. There would be another one in a few scant minutes likely. He needed to make a split second decision. He either eschewed from killing the guard here, and left them thinking everything was alright for awhile longer. He he took him down and made it so they had to deal with one less guard. Truth be told, he wanted to take him out, but the other two hadn't shown up to his position yet.

That is until he heard the vast roar that he swore shook the leaves of the exotic foliage, widening Neil's eyes. "What in the goddamn fuck was that?" he whispered, and saw the guard's strange reaction. There was no way this island was big enough to have a large native beast that could roar like that. It either had to be mostly aquatic, or needed to be here on purpose within the bunker. Judging by the lack of concern from the guard, it wasn't an aquatic wildcard.

He decided to wait again, just a few moments more. He still didn't know if he should fire, but-

Another bellow erupted from within, and Neil took the shot on instinct. Three rounds entered the soldier's subclavien artery and right upper lobe, dropping him with a stagger. He fell noiselessly, and Neil realized he needed to go and move the body before someone else came around. A second later, he willed himself to move. He shouldered the carbine and took out his knife just in case he ran into something or someone, and crept through the brush toward the body, eyes on the moist, leaf colored forest floor to keep himself from stepping on any well laid traps.

If he tripped any sensors, they were silent ones. He felt intensely exposed stepping out onto the clear path. The right led to a curve that fed into a walkway. To the left went into a small jungle path. At his feet, the man groaned, clearly bleeding out and nearly out of consciousness. Neil knelt down. "Sorry, bud." He said, and stuck his knife into the man's throat. The soldier's eyes widened, and he slumped, his life fading into oblivion as Neil dragged him off the path before he bled too much to cover up.

He got what an insurgent deserved, but still. The bestial roar and his reaction to it still gave Neil pause. The pilot checked the man's pockets, wondering what he could find in there. A short range radio, some flares, a strange beacon, and a shock stick along with his primary weapon. The Plasma XE Assault Rifle.

"They really decked you guys out with these weapons didn't they?" He whispered to himself.
@Penny

Post a random fact about yourself.

I have a photographic memory but I never mention it bc I think people will consider me creepy for remembering every detail about something that happened years ago.

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

Character should be done tonight.