POOHEAD189

Death and Desire: A Warhammer Fantasy RP

فر النمر والمامبا السوداء من المدينة بالدم والفوضى في أعقابهما. سافروا غربًا في الليل، لكن المماليك كانوا في أعقابهم، وقبلهم، انفتحت الصحراء نفسها لتبتلع الزوجين.

The tiger and the black mamba fled the city with blood and chaos in their wake. They traveled west into the night, but the mamluks were on their heels, and before them, the very desert opened up to swallow the pair up.

From Volume II of 'Thieves and Devils'
(_{Translated by Austerwitz Schäfer})

---

"Hurry, it's almost here!" Calliope hissed.

The wind howled, a thousand thousand grains of sand flying as their doom approached from above. The sun had disappeared behind a shape as immense as a falling hill, and a shriek that drowned out Calliope's scream of anger and fear erupted from its beaked maw. Bahadir roared, slamming a large rock onto the portal's ornate visage with the strength of a bull, but it merely gave it a tiny crack down its center, their hopes dashed. Calliope unsheathed her scimitar, stolen from a slain mamluk in their escape, and she turned to face the monster approaching, though it was akin to brandishing a splinter against a rampaging ogre. Bahadir, undeterred, lifted the rock one last time, his muscles bulging as he lifted the stone high above his head, and with a cry to the Old Gods, he struck the barrier with such force, the crack echoed across the dunes as the material gave way, crumbling before his eyes. As Calliope raised her sword, her stance lowered to allow herself to ready a spring, she was grabbed by her belt from behind. The pirate captain gave an unlady-like yelp of surprise as she was thrown into the darkness of the broken threshold.

"Mannan's balls!" Bahadir cursed, stealing one of his companion's usual remarks as he dove in after her. Even as he flew through the hole, freefalling into the darkness, he felt just as much as heard a second scream from the primordial beast, the very dunes around them reverberating to send waves of sand tumbling.

Both Bahadir and Calliope landed on a sand-covered floor of some sort of soft stone, rolling to help ease their momentum as there was a huge crash, and a beak the size of a donkeycart stabbed into the hole after them, snapping greedily. Bahadir and Calliope scrambled back together, staring up at the apex predator that desperately tried to break through the entrance, the thing pecking and shrieking, before it pulled its sharpened beak away and screamed into the air, every movement of its feet like the stomp of a lustrian thunderlizard. A minute passed, and finally with a great beat of wings that dwarfed the sails of an imperial galley, it lifted back into the sky and disappeared. The silence that followed was pregnant with suspense until the pirate broke it.

"Typical," The dark woman sighed, brushing the sand out of her black locks. Bahadir checked their water skins, making sure they were not compromised or broken. Unfortunately, the majority of their meager supplies had been consumed along with their one camel. Both the slave-fighter and the pirate had heard legends of the mighty Roc, but neither had expected to meet one in broad daylight, merely two days from Copher. It had appeared to be a mere vulture or raven at first, something Bahadir had spotted as he gazed at the sky, appreciating his freedom. That was, until it drew closer, and ballooned into the ravenous, monumental beast it was.

After their camel had been snatched, they had raced up the closest dune, and the beating of the massive bird's wings has sent the sand careening into the air, uncovering the Door of The Moon, or so the inscription on the front had said. At the time, Bahadir had not the inclination to think on it, but now that he had a moment to dwell on the image, the moon had looked much like the accursed Morrsleib. Now they were in a cavernous cavity under the ground, hollowed out roughly, feeding into a strange tunnel. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but a few meters within the tunnel, there was a sizeable stream of sand that poured like a waterfall into the floor, though the floor itself grew no bigger. If one was careful, they could squeeze passed it, but the physics alone boggled the mind.

"Your timing could have been better, but not bad up there," Calliope said, as good of a compliment as she would give.

"Thanks," Bahadir said, and then shrugged. "You could have done better."

She raised an eyebrow at him, and the failure to hide his grin betrayed him, uncovering the joke. She snorted. "I've killed men for saying less," she threatened back, albeit facetiously as well.

The barbarian watched the sailor walk under the light of the sun that beamed from above, thrice the height of a man. She placed her hands on her hips, as if daring the portal to remain so far from her grasp. But then she turned and marched away, towards the only other way to go: Past Bahadir and into the tunnel of moving sand.

"Come on, sailor," She said, slapping his thigh like he was a horse as she passed by.

"Koffa!" He exclaimed, Calliope having learned it was the arabyan 'whoa.' She gave a pantherish grin back at him, and then stepped into the tunnel. He moved his unkempt mane out of his face, unsheathed his own scimitar, and followed.

Darkhearts: A Forgotten Realms RP

"No, but good guess." Amal remarked casually, one long arm resting on the back cushion as his hand swilled the bottle gently in a small circle. "I left after a few months, and sailed up the sword coast. I had the idea to be a pirate, or a knife for hire. I took a few jobs, and then my memory fades after that..."

Amal briefly tried to force back the memories, but as usual they would not come. His mind then switched to Charynrae's other words, two things have piqued his interest. Underdark bookworms were something he was unsure of. The Underdark itself was a mystery to him, he had been genuinely curious as they trekked through the snow and moors, but had little time to ponder when they weren't merely trying to survive.

Truth be told, his eyes had glanced at her more than a few times, particularly as she undressed. But there was something about her fixing her hair that was nice to watch. Something simple, but she made it seem so elegant. It had been her first words, before he began his tale, that were on his mind. "I have never met a dark elf before you. I am not used to your skills, but if you are someone's lover, are you able to read their mind or spy lies?" He felt that would be hopelessly boring. Not because lying was something warranted in a relationship, but even playful jests could be seen through immediately.

Generally Amal spoke with stilted common, his mouth less used to languages not calishite. It made his smirking, teasing remarks that much stranger. However, here he sounded genuine.

"And what might I do to hear of these bookworms?"

Gold & Glory: AU thread

"Elngraz deb!" Sketti muttured, if one could call it that. Every word he said was close to a shout so the men could hear his dissatisfaction. Even yelling khazalid, they could feel his pleasure or his anger at the inflection. "Put yer back into it, Robert! Krunk Umgi!"

Out of the surf came Markus and those men that had been handpicked to push the ship out of the deep, rising like the spirit of Luthor Harkon himself. Water trickled down his matted black hair and his nose, but his eyes never wavered, ever forward as his men shoved with him. It wasn't until he felt sand without the splash of water did he glance to his left, seeing Emmaline gaping at the sight of the ship rolling over the ground. A handful of men heaved the last log, running it to the fore of the line as the others kept The Hammer moving inexorably forward. Morgan oversaw the movement of supplies, patting them men on the backs and giving them encouraging words as they set the barrels and crates on the hastily made sleds.

"Mister Jones!" Markus called, and one of the younger fellows helping categorize the stores ran over to take over Markus's labors, tossing him his drucchi sword and his brace of pistols. The captain caught them with ease, strapping them to his soaked leathers and belts with a few quick tugs, before unsheathing his sword. He had begun to sport a light goatee, but even with his drenched clothing and his lack of grooming, he still looked a far sight less philistine than his men; a longsword amongst hammers.

"Steady now!" He cried, lifting his sword. The men groaned in unison as the ship made its way past the undulating sand. Even with Sketti's technical genius and Markus's leadership, it was a precarious thing. The plains were a much better prospect than dense jungle, but even with the dotted copses of trees and shrubs, they were hopelessly exposed. Above them, the sun peeked through the clouds like a jealous lover, the storm having made the sky a smattering of intermingling grey and blue. Markus bellowed: "Steady all! Push!"

He thrust his sword high in the air, the gleaming black metal a sign of his deadly reputation. The men heaved, grunting with exertion. Markus was not sure if they could make it seven sigmar-damned miles, but he was not going to voice that concern. He moved forward, stalking past Emmaline just a few short meters away. The blonde hurried to meet him, still eyeing the ship every now and again. "You were right." She admitted. "I can't believe it's working."

"Keep away from it in case it falls," he whispered to her. She blinked incredulously, opening her mouth to speak before realizing he had not stopped. She stumbled over a shrub and did her best to catch up. Markus began pointing to various men who were finishing their loading tasks, telling them to grab cutlasses and axes to help clear the way. Markus took his blade, and with his men began to move aside any stone or cut a swathe through whatever vegetation might pause The Hammer's slow advance.

Halfdan was at the bow of the ship; a morale booster for the men behind, huge muscles bulging as he pushed with all his might. The two elves, Idrin and Sulandar, were with Markus. Their eyes and grace helped them clear the way like a pair of flowing scythes. Sketti was too short to help push, but he pulled a heavy cart of supplies like a harnessed bulldog over the barren terrain, keeping an eye on the ship as he moved. Every now and then he would drop it and move a log to give the haulers a break. The men were taller, with longer legs, but a dwarf had thrice the stamina of most men. He moved like the organic machine he was.

After an hour, perhaps two, Markus wiped the sweat from his brow. If he had to guess, they seemed about halfway. He noticed there was naught but the wind and grunting around them, and men began to complain loudly. He cleared his throat. "Calder!"

An old salt from Hochland, who pulled a cart with a few other men, looked up at him. Markus jerked his head to the ship, Clader knowing the sign well. The gnarled man cleared his throat, and raised his head as he pulled.

"Now we are ready to sail for the horn! Weigh! Hey! Roll, and go! Our boots and our clothes, boys, are all in the pawn! To be rollickin' randy, dandy, oh!" He sang, his voice rising to tenor, leaving behind the gravel and piercing into the gifted voice of a man far younger.

"Heave a' ho! Heave a'way! Weigh! Hey! Roll and Go!" The men answered in unison, their voices rising. Markus nodded, satisfied in the complaints being drowned out. It was a hard day, but at the pace they were going, it was very possible they were going to make it. At his side, Emmaline had kept pace with him, though 'keeping pace' was tantamount to her walking leisurely and pointing out small saplings and stones for Markus to remove, shielding her eyes from the sun with her fair hand when it decided to show itself. It was only when Markus smacked her backside with the flat of his blade that she started to help, albeit reluctantly.

It was just a half a mile forward, as they passed a large boulder embedded in the soft earth, when Emmaline sighed with exaggerated frustration. As she batted her fringe out of her eyes, she caught a glimpse of movement to the south. She blinked, the figure disappearing behind a small collection of trees, if something had been there at all. Pursing her lips, she went back to cutting up dried shrubs with a keen knife, before she felt a strange tingle in her sense. The faint, residual feeling of a distant wind of magic. It was devoid of life, smelling almost like ash, though it was not her nose that felt the sensation. She peered up again, and that time she knew she saw something slink away into the gently rolling landscape.

"Markus?" She said, and he turned from his work to look to her. She pointed southward, and when he gave her a confused look, she pointed more emphatically. Concern spread in her face, and the captain rose up with pantherish grace. He strode over to her, eyes on the southern undergrowth, not blinking. For a moment, he saw nothing. But then he felt what she felt, his arcane skill lesser than hers but still present, and then moments later, he saw it. His eyes widened.

"Steady men!" He yelled, hefting his sword and taking a pistol out of his baldric, cocking the blackpowder weapon. He barked at the men with him. "Indrin, Sulandar, Hoch, Fernando! All o' you!" Eight heads lifted up. "Look alive!"

"Ghouls!" Frankfurt wailed from the ship-line, his usually gruff demeanor giving way to superstitious horror as the enemy that stalked them finally chose to show themselves. Out of the trees and shrubbery, mottled and grey things loped into view on long limbs, making terrible gains of distance in the span of a few short seconds. Their faces shorn of skin, with gaping mouths of sharp, broken teeth, two dozen of the abominations sprinted at them on all fours like skinned wolves. Bones protruding from their backs, they were a grisly sight, even for the rough men of The Hammer. Markus had read of them in Dolmann's Studies of the Occult. Though tainted by dark magic and cursed by cannibalism, they were technically alive, still. They were men, twisted into corrupt forms after eating their own until it formed them into loathesome things valued by necromancers as attack dogs. What they were doing here was a question he would ask himself once he had given them a permanent death.

Markus glanced at the men rolling the ship, seeing them with wide eyes and fear on their faces. If the ghouls reached them, the ship would not only halt, but fall onto the plains and moor it permanently. Morgan and Sketti came to that conclusion just as Markus did, Morgan crying for them men to keep going as Sketti dropped his reigns and hooked a spear-hook onto his brass arm, before lifting a scattergun in his true hand.

It would have been smarter to remain where they were, set themselves up and fire in a roughly constructed line of pistoliers, riflemen, and crossbowmen. But that would give an easy opening for those ghouls that did survive to reach the ship and the exposed crew. So Markus decided a different plan, one Emmaline saw without him having to explain. He brandished his blade and screamed, drawing the attention of the charging crypt ghouls. "Come on, you bastards!" Before glancing at his men. "For Gold and golden women!"

"Gold and golden women!" His men cried as Markus charged forward, and at the sight, they followed their captain quickly. The elves did not give a battle cry, instead gliding forward silently with their keen blades as the pack of ghouls wheeled like a flock of birds towards Markus, garnering their ravenous attention. There was a horrible screech and a warble of inhuman sounds before the squad of pirates opened fire, and blackpowder smoke plumed just before the two groups collided in a maelstrom of steel and claws on the plains of the isthmus.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Kasimir was also stuck with someone who he could do without, though rather than being mired in self pity, he was wading through the bog of self righteousness that was Reynald of Montfort, a veritable Grail Knight in the making if he was to be believed. As he prattled on about his miraculous slaying of various beastmen and greenskins, and one particularly smelly ogre, Kasimir kept his ears closed and his eyes open. Soon, he found himself in a wood he recognized all too well. The trees were gnarled and bloated at their bases, but not from some evil. It was the near constant rain and the strange soil from the waters that flowed down from Nordland, no doubt festooned with rotted wood and poisoned norscan flesh.

"We need to dismount soon, hide our horses in the brush. There are no beastmen this close to the manor, and we cannot ride up to the archway lest we get molested." Kasimir remarked, already readying himself to step off his horse.

"Deesmunt!? Do yeu tink vwe zshall zsneak in like some...some...zsneakthief!?" Reynald warbled, aghast at the very notion of not charging at anything with his lance coached. As much as Kasimir would have liked to have seen that, it would get them nowhere. He also did not want to see the knight charge as a distraction. He might not think the man too bright, but he did not want his death on his conscience, even if it would be a grand display.

"Monsiuer, our goal is to rescue the damsel, no? When we have her, we shall embark upon a grand sortee and sally forth through the masses of enemies, I assure you."

The Brettonian chewed his mustache as he considered the proposition, and for a moment Kasimir believed he was going to deny him. But eventually he acquiesced with a nod and a grunt, muttering in his native language under his breath. He almost wished he had Emmaline to deal with. At least she was fine to look at, with a better voice than this one. But he supposed he could be going it alone, so he should thank Ulric for the assistance of another warrior.

As the two swordsmen tethered their horses to the trees, there was a commotion up the road. Hooves and flapping cloaks reached Kasimirs ears, and he kept his mouth shut, clinging to his horse a dozen meters away from the road to keep the beast from nickering. To his amazement and relief, Reynald kept quiet as well. Unfortunately, the swordsman only got a glimpse of the small troupe of three that galloped past, but Ulric watched over them, as no one looked their way, too intent on the road.

He realized they were heading toward Kasimir's and Reynald's destination. But why?

Heroes of The Guard: A Warhammer 40K RP

Lieutenant Marcone scribbled a handwritten note silently, the ink pen eliciting soft scratching noises as I waited impatiently. We rendezvoused five minutes ago, by my reckoning, but I had been under the impression he would have been ready to receive Morek and I immediately considering the blatant disorder of the troops and the near death of a handful of them. Whatever he was doing, I found it strange he did not have an aide to do it for him, or that he had not requisitioned a datapad, which might have made the task more expedient.

Finally, with a flourish of his pen, he set the quill down and aired the parchments, before rolling it up and planting his seal on it. Very old fashioned, my father would appreciate a man of his tastes. Perhaps I could too, if he had not kept me waiting.

"Now, as to the matter at hand." Marcone said, handing the parchment to his second, who had approached at just the right time to take it before leaving, as if they had been waiting, watching a picscreen just outside the door. "My apologies on the wait."

"That's quite alright," I temporized, granting an amicable smile as Morek stood behind me, chewing on something as usual. After giving a small glance the squat's way, he looked squarely at me. "As you called the meeting, I assume you would like to speak first."

"That would be acceptable," I said, clearing my throat. It was clear this Marcone was more of a desk officer, and so I appropriated a similar persona, holding myself with an air of professionalism. "At around 0618, there was an altercation in the barracks cordoned off to my platoon. I arrived at 0626, along with the Commissar, and halted the melee before it truly got out of hand. I am here to discuss how justice should be meted, and how we can avoid such conflict in the future, as we are all children of the emperor. We will be arriving to our destination in the matter of a month, and we must be unified before we land." I felt I had laid it out in plain terms, my words only partially dismantled by a soft belch from Morek.

"I agree completely," Marcone responded crisply. "We need to be united before we reach landfall."

A smile bloomed on my face. "That is good to hear. It would not require much harsh punishment for your men, of course. I can provide lip service to my unit to make it seem less congenial."

"My good man, it is your troopers that should be punished." Marcone said without a hint of irony. That stopped me in my tracks, and it took all of my willpower not to give a snort of derision or burst out laughing from the ridiculousness of the statement. I held myself well, leveling my gaze to meet his.

"Lieutenant," I began, emphasizing every syllable. "It was my men that were asleep, when yours attacked. It was my barracks that was assailed. I fail to see how, in any way, shape, or form, my troopers are to blame in this specific scenario. I severely doubt a colonel would disagree with me, either."

"On the surface, you are correct. However, in order to keep further conflict from arising, we must inquire upon the 'why.'" He responded, and cleared his throat. "Are you aware your men have taken more than their fair share of medpacks, equipment, munitions, and ammo?"

"I am aware that we were at the forefront of the engagement with the xenos, and therefore acquired more wounded and lost more munitions, therefore we were more desperate need for resupply. I am also aware it was my deductions that saved the regiment from being blindsided by a waaagh of Orkoids." I reminded him, and Marcone took that as the proverbial nail in the coffin. He gestured, as if it was as plain as day.

"That is precisely my point! It is your...reputation-" As he spoke, I could almost hear the word 'undeserved' during his brief pause. "-that has garnered your men to act so arrogantly. I hear you also disobeyed our Colonel in order to advance upon an enemy without proper reconnaissance."

"We were the reconnaissance," I assured him.

"And now your platoon has taken it upon themselves to requisition almost double what my platoon has received, bragging loudly whilst they do so. I have also received reports of your platoon's nickname."

I glanced at Morek, who looked as neutral as ever, before turning my gaze back to eye Marcone. "So...because my men were wounded and had some bluster for saving the regiment and perhaps the planet, the answer to that is violently attacking them in their beds?"

"The answer is discipline, Lieutenant."

"I'd prefer you call me, 'my lord.'" I said, admittedly with more than a bit of petulance. Truth be told, I did not prefer that even in the best of moods, unless it helped me bed a woman or gain some advantage. However, I felt this man had a massive inferiority complex, and I thought it satisfying to make it worse. I saw Marcone's jaw tighten, and his nostrils flared gingerly. I made sure not to smile.

"Discipline, my lord." He responded.

"I completely agree," I assured him, taking my leave of my seat and clearing my throat, mirroring a number of his mannerisms from earlier. "I shall endeavor to make certain my men do not brag too loudly for their deeds of heroism, and I will do my best to make certain they conserve ammo and bleed less. And in return, I expect you to enact a new standard to your platoon, most notably to keep your men from acting like ravenous dogs. If not, I will put them down. Good day, Lieutenant." Without another word, though I could feel him glowering at my back, Morek and I walked out into the hall and made our way back to my office so I could ponder at this strange conversation.

New Poster Seeks Friendly Writing Community!

@AWildSquirtle welcome!

Happy Holidays from The Team

@nightmare medx I wish!

Blackguards!

excited to keep it going!

Happy Holidays from The Team

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Happy Kwanzaa, and any/all holidays you might celebrate, everyone! We hope everyone on the Guild has a lovely one. Thanks for being cool :)

Blackguards!

Amal's head hurt, and he wondered if he had been struck there. He had been knocked unconscious before, but never for so long. Then he wondered why he believed it had been a long time? Perhaps the growling of his stomach, or the aching of his bones. Perhaps it was just his sixth sense as a thief. He tried to shake his head, his thick mane of tousled hair brushing the length of his face as he tried to rouse himself. Or it would have, if he could move.

He smelled the fetid stench of others nearby. He hoped that was not just himself, because there was apparently a lady present. Her form seemed almost cloaked, ephemeral, like a silhouette. His eyes tried to focus, but the light slid off of her like oil, the shadows caressing her finer features to keep them obscured to his sight.

He tried to move, to let his hand casually slide next to the dagger on his belt, to lean on the wall, to balance on the balls of his feet, but he was rigid. He did not know how he was stuck in place, but he was. It irked him, and he wondered if he even still had the knife at his belt any longer, or his scimitar. He knew some women were controlling, but this was new. Then he heard a voice in his head, telling him to be still, to have patience. Great, a telepath now? Or some ghost or aberration, maybe. He had dealt with wizards and those with psionic gifts before to not be completely startled, but it was still somewhat off-putting.

He tried to give a sardonic reply, but he could not move his lips as well. So the cutthroat complied with reluctance. No sense struggling, he realized. Despite the fact he was standing upright, he could almost relax. Better to be rested when the time came for him to move, because then he would see what was what, and see if he should kill this woman or not. He never liked killing women, but he was not prejudiced. If it needed to be done, he would do it. Though he wished it would at least lead to some gold.

Then his mind drifted to other matters, recalling his final fight against the honorguard of the sultan. Had they bludgeoned him and dragged him to some strange slaves auction? The thief wondered if his was dead, and this was the underworld. Maybe the figure in front of him was granting him his judgement in life, and keeping him here as punishment.

If this was the underworld, it was pretty damned boring.