POOHEAD189

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Amal pressed the goblin's nose to the chakram, threatening to cut its face on the honed blade. It squirmed, but was powerless to be loosed from Amal's grip. Had it been any other greenskin, Amal would have listened to it and then slit its throat, but he had decided to save on time and go back to gather the one he had knocked out. He wasn't exactly growing fond of it, but he did find it funny in hindsight.

"Yes, this one! Yes!" It cried, and Amal dropped it. Behind him the carpet trudged around as if it were perusing the weaponry itself, but when Amal snapped, the carpet sprang to action and floated upwards. The thief leaped atop it with the disk in his hand, and the two zipped away, the goblin hyperventilating and cursing its luck. If Amal died, Zar Tan Zhou would skin the goblin alive and keep it breathing through magical means even as he cut out his beating heart!

Luckily, Amal didn't intend to lose.

As the procession went underway, Amal watched from the darkness of one of the dozen corridors, and he had mixed feelings on the whole affair. On the one hand, he was glad he had thought ahead when he saw the armor, and he had seen Emmaline in some nice outfits before, but she was all but bursting out of this one (and the hair suited her too). But of course, the dark sigaldry of the tapestries and unnamed, eldritch signs, not to mention someone trying to marry his woman...that didn't sit well with Amal.

"Don't I get an invitation?" Amal asked in his smoothest riekspeil. He liked to think he cut quite the figure when he cleared his throat, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, cloaked but unhooded. Zar Tan Zhou spun in bemused bewilderment, blinking at the sight of the Arabyan thief. Chilling hatred entered his eyes for so brief a moment, it was almost as if it had never been there at all. But then the chill turned into cold curiosity.

"So, you're the one." The sorcerer calmly stated, the barest flicker of recognition in his eyes. Amal wasn't certain what he meant, but he supposed dead, cut up goblins drew attention at some point. "I should have come looking for you myself, but I incorrectly thought my minions would solve the problem for me." As Amal yawned, Emmaline was suddenly scooped up by the carpet and ferried to the other side of the room. It was far more gentle, but it felt as sudden as a hawk plucking an unsuspecting rabbit off the ground.

Amal indicated the sorcerer look behind him with his head. Curiously, Zar Tan Zhou did, and to say he was angered when he saw Emmaline gone was an understatement. If he was enraged there, however, he would be even more pissed once he realized Amal's plan. A discus chakram was flung through the air with a deft flick of Amal's wrist, landing to horseshoe spin atop the chaos chosen's helm, which caused the item to begin to glow a vicious red and white as the armor began to shift and change before their very eyes. It looked like the goblin's tale had been truthful. The armor of Hanra was a sacred metal suit for a chosen of tzeentch, unbreakable and unassailable in all ways, and Zar Tan Zhou had taken precautions to gather up all the items in the Old World that could possibly dispell the armor. Unfortunately, he didn't plan on someone fighting him with it within his sanctum, so the key to the dispellment was very close for any would-be attackers like Amal.

The armor melted, Zar Tan Zhou cursing Amal in his native tongue in frustration. To everyone'e surprise, the armor's disappearance left the sorcerer utterly naked at the alter, and Amal burst out laughing when he saw the man in his birthday suit.

"Tzeentch did not bless you in all ways, did he?" Amal chortled.

With a word of power, the robes he tended to don reappeared upon the Cathayan's form, his staff materializing into existence. He had a noticeable lack of mutations on his torso and legs, but as he spoke, Amal could see his tongue was forked and slithering as if it had a mind of its own.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Amal wanted to attack then and there, but he knew he needed to be patient. The Arabyan had a very good sense of memory and direction, and as Emmaline was escorted out by spearpoint, he could guess at least somewhat accurately where she might be taken, though he couldn't guess if there was any eldritch locations or pocket dimensions. He doubted it, however. He knew little of spellcraft, but even powerful sorcerers only did it when necessary or showing off. From what he could tell, it took energy to make things, and why make a pocket dimension in a mountain when you could just use rooms?

Luckily for him, he was right. It took Amal sneaking past a few patrols, servants, and sleeping guards. He waded through overpacked storage rooms at chilling temperatures and rudimentary sleeping chambers for the goblins. He passed through an armory with the weapons the goblins used, though he found blades that glimmered in shadow and dulled in light, with edges that could cut hairs in two, and swords that had the green tinge of warpstone. Thankfully, he merely had to slink through one kitchen past a plump goblin in a strange hat that prepared a meal and sang to itself, and he made it to a corridor connected to an antechamber where he heard a familiar voice.

"I'm so good at this," he whispered to himself, and appeared in the doorway before Emmaline's eyes, behind the dwarf woman but right in front of Emmaline's face. Her eyes lighting up and the beaming smile she gave him was worth all of the gold in Araby, but he pressed a stern finger to his lips. She buttoned her lip.

Amal pointed at the dwarf, and gave a quizzical look as he slid a finger across his throat. Emmaline shook her head. Amal shrugged and pointed past her, indicating with his chin for good measure, before giving the same gesture. It was easy enough for her to tell he meant the sorcerer, and she nodded. Looked like there was no reason to keep him alive, at least. Amal gave a thieving cant gesture to be patient, placing his left hand flat and vertical with his right hand mirroring it just above. Amal then gestured past her once more, and mouthed the words' play along.' With her nod, he gave a wink and a grin, and then playfully looked her naked form up and down before fading into the shadows again.

Now all she needed do was distract the sorcerer, and Amal would take his shot.

Helloooooooooo there!

Welcome!

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

The cavern's entrance was devoid of life, the bleating, chill wind ramming into an invisible force. An intangible wall of magic kept the heat in. It reminded Amal of the expensive ice containers an emir or satrap might keep to stave off the heat to store their drinks, only opposite on the temperature spectrum. He only felt the initial buffeting of wind at the entrance, peering in from above the entrance. The carpet peered with him, and when they ascertained the coast was clear, Amal noiselessly dropped from his perch to land on the magical item, soaring into the relative warmth and cavernous corridors of the sorcerer's cavern.

Amal knew it a sorcerer lived here like he knew the sun rose in the east. He had delved too many tombs and labyrinths in his time to not recognize a lair. It would definitely explain the wyvern not eating Emmaline, the well carved platform, and the increase in heat. Amal crouched low on the carpet, gripping its rim and steering it through varying twists and turns, only the barest hint of a breeze betraying anything was floating around at the top of the ceiling.

In the distance, a snickering drew Amal's attention. The two turned left, floating into a tunnel dimly lit by light from seemingly nowhere. Below was a goblin that muttered to itself, frustrated, holding incense sticks as it complained to itself. Amal didn't know it was the goblin Emmaline had turned into stone not an hour ago, but he could smell just the smallest whiff of lavender, one of the oils she liked to put on her golden hair whenever they had the opportunity to stop and rest.

It was surprising to the goblin how silently a man weighing eighty four kilograms could simultaneously land atop him and beside him, and before the diminutive creature could even think to piss itself in fright, it was kicked right into the waiting coils of an animated carpet that wrapped about it like a constrictor, snapping the incense sticks and covering its entire body save its long, hooked nose. It struggled briefly until the glint of a dagger caused it to freeze. Even to a normal man, Amal with a fearsome gleam in his eyes was intimidating wreathed in shadow, but to a goblin, he looked like a massive daemon about to devour him.

"Quiet," Amal said before the thing could try and screech again, muffled though it would have been. Amal placed the dagger under its nose, ever so lightly digging into the green skin of the monster. He chose to speak in reikspeil. "I'm here searching for my girlfriend. Blonde, blue eyes, big tits? Tell me where she is, and I will not hurt you. Scream, run, or not answer my question, and you will hurt more than you have ever been hurt. Do we have a deal or must I speak slower?"

The thing nodded dumbly, and ever so slowly the carpet slackened its hold until the goblin tumbled onto the floor.

"Zog!" It exclaimed in woe, abruptly halting what it was going to say when Amal slapped it hard across the face.

"Silently," he warned, and the goblin nodded.

"Yes, 'umie. Yes, just don't tell the boss."

"Deal." Amal said.

The goblin still looked reluctant, glancing over its shoulder as if to ascertain how far away the nearest exit was. But it wisely stayed put. "The lady git is with the boss. Two tunnels down that way," it said, pointing what Amal imagined to be west. "He wantz the humie to entertain him to see if she good wife. Now, I go?"

"Any secret traps?" Amal pressed.

"No, no. Only when boss expecting someone, but if you here, he not expect you, see?" The goblin asked, and Amal had to give the pathetic thing credit. He was not one to be caught by traps anyway, but he doubted if the sorcerer knew he was here, he couldn't have gotten through the door or would have been attacked by the wyvern outside.

"Nice, this idiot's given me everything," Amal said in Arabyan, and then nodded amicably, switching languages. "Good job, little one. Now normally I would just kill you, but we had a deal. You might want to stay far away from your masters for a second. In fact..."

Amal slammed the butt of his dagger onto the goblin's head. It's eyes crossed and it fell to the floor, alive but unconscious. When the thing awoke, if he was still even here, he would lie to it. Turning to the carpet, Amal motioned for it to come closer so he could whisper.

"Follow behind me twenty paces. Don't show yourself unless we need to make a getaway." He told it, and the carpet waved its ruffles and floated back as Amal pushed the slumbering goblin behind a stalagmite. This way, even if other goblins found it, they would think it just lazy. Amal and his companion delved deeper into the cavern system, following the greenskin's instructions and creeping past a patrol of food bearing goblins flanked by two armed with short swords. He didn't expect there to be any more obstacles between he and the throne room, but at the center of a well-lit tunnel, two goblins armed with spears stood guard. Amal didn't dislike his chances, but he didn't want to announce himself either. At that moment, he heard a strange accent echo down the hall.

"Better but still not quite there...," it said, following by a yelp he had heard dozens of times before.

Amal's black heart had never had a soft spot before. But somehow this woman had made a home in it and lit it up. Just hearing her voice sped his heartbeat up, and he grew angry. Peering past a grove of stalagmites, he saw the two goblins standing relatively still, though there was the occasional bickering and pushing as they each thought the other was making him less alert. He vaguely thought of calling for the carpet to help him do the same ambush as before, but the tunnel was too well lit. They would see him even if he climbed up the wall and crawled along the ceiling, so he had to improvise.

"Oi ye bleedin' gits, Lunchin' time! Last one's a 'umie!" A high pitched voice rang out from within the caverns. "Oi you two! Ye, guarding the boss! Lunchin' time!"

"Lunchin' time? It's early innit?" One asked the other.

"Ye, it's chuesday innit?" The other responded, equally confused.

"Lunchin's early, ye gits. Never 'ave I seen worse gits soddin' off for the boss."

"Wot did ye say?" One of them asked, brandishing his spear. "Is that Filkim bak there? Show yeself!"

"Aye its Filkim, and you can suck on me bleedin' squirtz, ay?"

For all his urgency, Amal had to keep himself from snickering. He'd done voices before, but never had he had so much fun with them. Small footfalls announced one of the goblins was approaching, and mutterings for Filkim to 'sod off' sounded closer. Amal flipped his knife to a backhanded grip, his arm poised like a spring as the first goblin poked its head, expecting to find a small green troublemaker rather than a tall, brown one. The line of blood that spurted on the wall was a mirror to the clean cut of the goblin's falling corpse. Immediately, Amal dropped the knife and rolled, grabbing the spear as the other goblin down the end of the entrance opened its mouth to scream. Amal threw his spear five meters to pierced the back of the greenskin's mouth, causing its scream to get lost in the fountaining blood gurgles it began to make before it fell, lifeless.

At some point, Amal had begun to sweat. He took a deep breath and wiped the perspiration from his brow before gathering his knife and the second spear, and sneaking down one more, more ornate corridor until he reached the door to the throne room. Taking a peek, he saw Emmaline approaching the throne just as her hair was finished being tied into an elaborate bun by an unseen force. Amal waited and watched, taking his time like a panther in a tree.

Wh40k: One Step Beyond - A Rogue Trader Adventure (Closed)

Grimri 'Ironclad' Haldengard, formerly 3rd Platoon Boar Squadron, Mercenary.

In the cold void of space, the squats mined nameless asteroids and barren worlds devoid of life or happiness with stoic resolve. Upon one very large asteroid in the Segmentum Obscurus, a hardy squat was born, named after his great grandfather to uphold his honor and name. Grimri was birthed amidst the grinding of steel on rock and combustible engines roaring mere meters away. He grew up quickly, helping his father in the smelting refinery before he was even a beardling. He had a good head on his shoulders and a strong back to carry large loads of minerals, until he decided to forge his own path and aid his cousins and peers by delving deeper into the rock.

He spent five long years hammering away at the asteroid stone and deposits, his world perpetual darkness with flashes of light. More than a few of his friends perished in the dark from collapsing tunnels or the occasional xenos horror they would stumble upon. But Grimri made it back, with a newly grown beard and fresh wealth of gold and zinc and asteroid metal. He started work back at a second refinery, and now that he was old enough, he and the lads would have to deal with raiders falling to the planet just like all the bearded folk. He found he enjoyed the mechanisms inherent in auto-guns, particularly shotguns and revolver pistols. Big barrels, hard firepower, and stopping power.

His first real conflict other than traitorous imperials came in the form of a system spanning Ork WAAAGH, a tendril of the army splitting off and landing on the squat's home. The greenskins dug deep tried to root the squats out, fighting and dying hard. Grimri's father fell in the fighting, and the refiner was destroyed by some blasted primitive explosive, but Grimri sent over two dozen greenskins to their screaming gods, and through his grief and hatred, fell in love with the idea of combat. Such a longing, coupled with his curiosity for the rest of the galaxy, led for him to take the road off-asteroid and sell his services for various groups and traders. Hive Worlds, Forge Worlds, Agri-worlds, for seven decades Grimri lived, pissed, and shat on whatever planet one could think of in Obscurus, plying his trade and keeping himself alive.

Whatever cultists, traitors, or xenos threw at him, he kept surviving and made a few good hits back. Some of the younger mercs began to call him Ironclad, like one of the Knight mechas or Adeptus Astartes, and though Grimri thought it silly, the name stuck and he grew to appreciate it. Unfortunately, his love of alcohol and constant need for supplies in repairing his gear keeps him moving, looking for more cash. A part of himself wonders if he shouldn't go back to the asteroid, or if his great grandfather would want him to continue the path he takes to like a fish to water. He doesn't know. All he knows is, there's a rogue trader in need of a gun and he needs the money.

Fate/Grand Order - Advent of the World Shattering Star

The GM has ordered the thread closed.

SANDSTRIDERS: A Lost Land

The music and arid breeze made Amal nostalgic, feeling very much like he could find a temporary home here. He had already sidestepped a few beggars and some scam artists who thought they were being clever. Amal kept his face hidden, save for his abyssal brown eyes. Eyes that always looked for an edge or an advantage. He waded through the crowds, looking for a bazaar or some other place he could get something to eat. He was even in such a good mood, he might pay for it!

That was, until a very strange man caught his attention, though why he chose Amal out of the masses he could not guess. The thief did not exactly stick out, other than being noticeably fit. Amal shrugged and approached, curious on what the man was selling or at least offering. Nothing free, of course, but still. Amal lowered the scarf around his lower face, peering at the baubles and trinkets and alchemical potions.

"Well, I have enough endurance where it counts, already." Amal said. He wasn't even making a joke, just stating a fact. "But I appreciate the offer. Then again..."

Amal rubbed his chin, looking at the man and then glancing momentarily at the muscle he had arrayed. Amal could nab the bottle lightning-quick, but he did not wish to make enemies. Not yet, anyway. As usual, his boredom got the better of him. This was only a small pause before he grabbed something to eat.

"What is a fair price, in your opinion, my friend?"
@Shu

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

Alrik sat apart from her, staring at the wall opposite of the massive map. He heard every word of what Inez was saying, though he made no sign of it apart from occasionally pinching the bridge of his nose or rubbing his temples, processing all that happened on his first night onboard. No one made it to the age of ten without seeing some sort of death, be it public hangings, dead bodies on the streets from disease or past-night criminalities, or even the killing of chickens in the market place. But this was the first time someone had tried to kill him, and then had bled out in front of him. He supposed he didn't put any value on the would-be assassin's life, but he had said hello to the man, attempting to remember his face so he could make friends later.

He glanced at Inez, the woman casually now picking her nails clean with a knife, her sword polished and sharpened to accommodate for the recent use. He should feel thankful for her saving his life, even if she would just give a platitude like it was what she was paid for. Oddly, he was more annoyed at her callous manner whilst he was still a bit put off by the whole affair. The crew didn't seem to have lost any respect for him, having watched him recover himself in record time. But Inez was another matter. Finally, Alrik got up, his normally smooth, debonair manner broken for a moment.

"Why would I know his fucking plan!? I didn't think the League would hire anyone who meant to kill me! Maybe he was going to steal the longboat and rendezvous to one of the islands, I don't know!" He vociferated bemusedly. "And I don't know why he would want to kill me beyond my mission. I haven't done anything! I haven't tupped anyone! I-" He stopped, realizing just what he had said, but then he brushed past it, not elaborating. "I'm just here to..." He started again, and then sat back down on his chair, deflating. "-to do business." Well, Alrik was pretty confident that wasn't going to happen again. At least on the ship.

The door opened, and Alrik idly looked over at who it was, thinking the Gods had a sense of humor and were about to disprove his theory. Luckily, it was only one of the deckhands, stepping in and setting down a tray of food by Inez's propped feet. It was a large potato, with cheese and butter, along with pulled pork and various spices and small buns of bread. It was a lot of food, but it was clearly meant just for him and not his bodyguard. The man, sporting a large nose and a bandana tied around his balding head, gave Alrik a nod.

"Compliments from the captain, sir."

"Tell him I said thank you." Alrik replied mechanically. He thought it strange he had vomited in front of the captain so the man decided to feed him, but he supposed he felt he should replace his lunch with something nice. He didn't know whether to take it as a token of goodwill or a cynical slight. The deckhand gave him a small bow, and then left the room. After taking a moment to pause, Alrik took a breath and picked himself up, pulling his chair over to the table.

"Put your feet down and get a knife. I'll split it with you." He said, taking his tabard off and setting it behind his chair back, the merchant wearing simple linen as a shirt. He looked at the blade she was using to clean her nails. Some of his humor was returning, it seemed, and he gave her a small smile. "Not that one."

Maverick Malediction

Dying had not been fun.

Neil was still fuzzy over his recollection of events, even though he knew exactly what had transpired via dictation, as he was alive now because he had played his role perfectly. Even with such precision, his resurrection had been an extremely dodgy affair. Had he died in any other way, there would have been absolutely no way to cheat death without some unholy ritual, and call him superstitious but he wasn't comfortable going that route, provided he could even get a necromancer to do him a favor. No, it had to be this way, and somehow it had worked, though he still felt pangs of what he called 'death's hangover' days later. The headache made him try and recall what exactly had happened that night...

The tyroxanide had been lethal, or it would have been in any normal circumstance. Normally the poison was ingested unknowingly by the target, and within minutes it began its terrible work, seizing the heart and central nervous system, clotting the blood and sending the victim's vital organs into a slumber where there was normally no return. However, tyroxanide also halted global cerebral ischemia, preventing brain death for a period of twenty two hours, which, coupled with the blood clots that kept Neil from truly bleeding out once he had cut his wrists, had given him the opportunity, however unlikely, to be resuscitated. Had his friends not acted quickly, he would have stayed dead. Luckily, all of his previous information and the catalyst of what revived him was Hargond and his alchemist friend, Elmhir, who was absolutely ecstatic at being given the opportunity to conduct this experiment.

Hargond had quickly followed to the place they had been preparing to dump Neil's body, knocking out the two gravediggers and taking his limp, technically dead form to Elmhir's sanctum within the Aedis Alchemica that night. Obviously, Neil was only privvy to what he had been told, but he had awoken with a needle in his arm connected to a tube that fed into Hargond's arm, the half-giant's blood bright, ice-y blue as it flowed into him. Neil hadn't thought much of it at the time, having forgotten who he was, much less where he was, for a good ten minutes. His wrists having been bandaged and his body strapped to a table, he had only been allowed to move and get up once he had correctly and calmly told Elmhir his name, age, and why he was there.

Calliope had been right, he supposed. Dying was not fun. Some might say he cheated death, but really he felt like death kicked his ass and he was mercifully let off the mat after a soul crushing day of regret. Maybe living forever was the way to go, he pondered. Though in his briefest of thoughts in the deepest part of his heart, he had fleeting memories of something. Something bright and warm, and infinitely beyond this world in scope and beauty. He even glimpsed the smiling face of his grandfather, and it had brought him some inner peace he hadn't realized he had needed. Maybe the death part wasn't the problem, but the dying and the revival themselves. He didn't know, and either way, he was glad to be up and about, even if he still felt a bit weird.

Now he found himself watching the procession of Magister Therman, one of the more loathsome individuals in the vast metropolis of Kalx'Molaris. Neil wasn't the killing type, but he wouldn't really mind if this one got thrown off the parapets of the outer walls. The ne'er-do-well slipped through the crowd like a fox leaping through and over thick brush, trying to follow one of the traders who was making his way past a few of the closed businesses to try and haggle with a city grocer. Neil merely followed quietly, brushing up against the occasional onlooker and snagging a coin purse when he was able. A few times he didn't do it as delicately as he liked, but with how packed the streets were, he need only duck and keep moving to disappear. Unfortunately, one of the times he ducked, he popped back up and turned back to his quarry, only to find the old man having disappeared. Incredulously, he glanced around and realized he couldn't spot him anywhere.

"Great," he complained, and decided to make the executive decision to step up the closest stairway, leading to one of the patios that had a fine vantage point over the crowd. Knights with gleaming swords passed, breastplates polished to shine the sun across the faces of the masses. Just one of their horses was worth a house on the countryside. Too bad Neil wasn't very learned in riding except the basics. He gave a low whistle at all the money that was tramping by, having momentarily forgotten his mark as he just stood, leaning against the iron railings of the patio and watching the small army display its strength to the city. It was hard to imagine the Magister was only one of half a dozen men of such power in the grand sovereignty of Kalx'Molaris.

His eyes swept to his right, seeing if his mark had maybe stepped up onto the patio with him. Instead, he met the gaze of one dark sorceress Calliope, who's eyes were now on his as well. He couldn't recall a more awkward few seconds in his life, even if this could be called his second life. For a moment, he was glad to see her. He wanted that second date, and she had been on his mind more than once since his revival. But as it were, he felt a large sense of self preservation overriding his reckless self, so he merely smiled guiltily to her, and then ostentatiously vaulted over the railing the full dozen feet onto the street below, ducking and dodging through surprised men and women before leaping out of the jungle of human beings and into an alleyway.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Emmaline's struggles didn't go unnoticed. Or maybe the missing goblin was the crux of the investigation, but mere minutes later, with Emmaline halfway out the door and dragging her stone gaoler, did another goblin come sniffing around. Its big, hooked nose twitching as it sniffed the air while its diminutive legs crept along the floor with unpredictably quiet steps. It's green head with its yellow, beedy eyes spied the woman from the garden, making only the smallest chittering sound before it raced back to fetch its master. Had Emmaline noticed, there was very little she could do in the meantime, and mere minutes later, she was greeted by a strange, wicked looking man from the far east.

At first only his footsteps were heard, not deigning to mask his approach in his inner sanctum. The goblin and two of its comrades had come racing ahead of him to leap into the woman's point of view, brandishing gardening implements that, whilst unusual for combat, were noticeably sharp and well forged. Even at the sight of their stupefied and transmuted comrade, they smiled as if Emmaline posed no threat at all, snickering amongst themselves and inching closer, their weapons poking at her position as if harassing a group of cattle that had gone astray.

"Humie dead stuck!" One mocked, laughing in its rasping voice. Some phleghm boiled up as it did so, and it spat it out contemptuously.

"Away, all of you." A voice commanded, and they complied without complaint or hesitation, backing off and giving room for an oddly curled shoe to step into her line of sight. Once she looked up, she found herself staring into the fearsome eyes of what had to be the master of this strange cavern palace. An easterner, though Cathayan or Nipponese or one of the many small kingdoms of Ind, it was hard to say. His beard looked well groomed, and yet entirely worn at the same time. What stood out was his garb, an outfit even more extravagantly colored than Amal's, and far more furnished. It consisted of a robe, or perhaps a jacket, worn as the upper garment with a skirt worn as the lower garment, covering loose fitting trousers. Reds and indigoes and golds shimmered along the cloth, making it hard to judge where one colored ended and another began. In addition, he wore a tall, curious piece of headwear, along with the aforementioned footwear, belts, jewellery made of jade.

"Ah, a delectable one this time," He mused, his riekspiel fluent, albeit strangely spoken. He used the words as if they were wholly unnatural for him to speak, and it was unpleasant to do so, despite his choice to use them. He lowered his bronze staff, topped with a well carved wyvern head, placing it under her chin to lift her up and look at him fully. "A sorceress too? Interesting... Klatza Uch baku Tzeentch?" He squinted his gaze, sensing no reply. "No? No matter. You are lucky, my dear. Not many women have the chance to become the wife of the future king of the old world. And if not...I may still derive some pleasure from you." His mouth opened, showing yellowed teeth.

After drinking her in, he noticed the goblin statue and suddenly let out a few harsh, guttural words of power and snapped his fingers. Purplish energy emanated from the stone goblin that held her fast, stone skin transmuting back into green, pickle-ish flesh until the goblin she had turned to stone popped back into life, falling onto its ass and confused as to what had happened. The sorcerer then kicked the dumb goblin, causing it to screech and crawl away pathetically.

"M-Master found wife?" One of the loathesome creatures asked, ears drooping.

"Perhaps. Even if she is not the right fit, you will bathe her and bring her to me in fresh clothes. She's filthy."