POOHEAD189

Have At You!!! A Game of Swashbuckling Adventure

Potentially

Blackguards of The Moonsea

He decided he would close his eyes and meditate, musing on the winds of magic and the ways of Mystra. It was an old trick apprentices learned. It was not meant to pass the time, but it served the purpose well enough. Gods, he wished he had a woman to pass the time instead, but it was like wishing for the moon, he thought. And then the last thing he could ever expect, happened.

A mellifluous voice appeared out of the darkness, echoing gently in the deep. It was both lovely but high; an elven voice if he was not mistaken. He'd been lucky enough to hear a few before. Female, he realized. Then the words reached his mind, rather than just his ears, and he realized what she was saying. Disgusting? Yes the dungeon was positively dreadful. That he could agree with. However, the underdark caught him off guard. He could hardly see, but he blinked in surprise regardless. Peering into the gloom, following the voice with his eyes, he began to see twin indigo orbs in the dark looking directly at him.

"By the nine hells and mystra's arse," he breathed, his blood running cold. No, a drow being here? That was impossible, he thought. A female drow as well. What sort of debacle drew such a dreaded creature in this underground jail? If the stories were true, they were even more dangerous than the men. Though she was speaking congenially, or at least in a way that spoke of a shared fate. If nothing else, this would make a fine story if he ever got out of here, and if not, it was another way to pass the time. Though this was not necessarily how he pictured doing so with a woman.

He didn't know he was sitting in the same position, thinking extremely similar thoughts on just how uncomfortable he was. Truth be told, his ass had not felt so sore in a long time.

"I've not made a habit to visit many dungeons, admittedly, but I do agree this one is quite disgusting." He said aloud. Malcador had always been blessed with good looks and a smooth voice, though evidently it had not served him well enough, or he might be out of this shit hole. He had been under the false impression a drow might have a predilection to a place like this, but this seemed to be a learning opportunity for him. "I won't ask why you're here, but am I remiss in guessing you've not been here long?"

He let the question linger before inquiring. "And are you a dark elf? Because if so, that's the most interesting thing I've heard in weeks, beyond being thrown into this pit of destitution."

He did not have a plan on getting out of here, though he could pick locks. First he needed to find a suitable lockpick however, and somehow get it into his hands. He wondered if previously prepared spells could work in a warded space? He did not wish to try it immediately though. There was always a chance it could set off a beacon or alarm to whatever spellcaster had placed the wards. He did not wish to draw attention to himself so early in the game. Plus he was far too curious about his new jail companion. Even if she were just a surface elf, it was still a rather enticing prospect.

Blackguards of The Moonsea

Tell me if the post is good or not! I can make some changes if need be.

@BunniesOfDoom

the post is perfect! I'll reply tonight

Blackguards of The Moonsea

The City of Thentia was not as large as many of the various city states that dotted the inland sea, but it was quite prosperous for its size. Its mercantile interests were plentiful, and though the city's military was small, made up of a few dozen cavalry units, they were trained as elite. Its citizens were independent and fierce in their self determination, and though the nobility was present, they were only granted a few marginal aristocratic rights above the laymen. Though it boasted no mages guild or academy, there was an abundance of independent mages that lived in the city, selling off their services or taking on apprentices to those who could learn and pay for the privilege. In its entirety, Thentia seemed like a model city.

That's what Malcador thought when he arrived three years ago. Now, sitting in the dungeon in shackles, he was not so certain anymore.

Damn! They had even sealed the dungeon with wards to fend off any magics he might attempt to escape it. Well, this was a fine predicament he found himself in. Ugh, the air was stuffy and the ground was dried and mysteriously wet in ubiquitous areas. He could barely see out of his cell, more for lack of light than his position, but he still would rather have had a chair or even a cushion to languish on while he was spending his youth incarcerated for a crime he was shanghaied into.

Originally from Neverwinter, Malcador had been discovered to have a penchant for spellcasting at an early age. Originally placed in the Neverwinter Academy, he graduated, albeit with a bumpy and pugnacious tenure due to his extracurricular activities and being friends with numerous thieves. However, he had given up those proclivities and had sought to continue his studies with a new master, finding himself in Thentia under the tutelage of the wizard Galrod Farthallow, a notable diviner and conjurer who was predisposed to lecture even when discussing what he had for breakfast. Unfortunately, Farthallow also had ties to the Zhentarim, Malcador found out recently, which meant Malcador had ties to the Zhentarim.

Now, Farthallow was unfortunately dead, and Malcador was found guilty by association. It was ironic that the portion of his life the mage felt it was best to give up a life of mischief, that he was prosectuted. It was also unfortunate he now found himself in an empty area of the gaelor's dungeon. Or so he thought.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

"Luckily I came prepared." I said, producing my data-slate, unlocking its system with a flick of my thumb. "Well, partially prepared. I had not foreseen I would need this for an entire trip, but I did not want to be caught flat footed in case there was a problem with our accounts."

"Contingencies of contingencies." Emmaline declared with warm humor. "How much is it? Can we afford to make ourselves the target you wanted?"

I showed her the number. "For a limited time, yes. But we we'll still need to be strategic on how we use the funds. Luckily the trip itself was already paid for." The acquisition of the money to a domestic handheld was easy, but it wasn't a lack of planning that made it limited. A data-slate could only hold so much credit without needed to be connected to an account, and the only way to bypass that was to announce my status as an Inquisitor. I removed my vox, and began to redirect its next frequency.

"Hadrian," she said quietly, placing a hand on my arm. I gave her a look, and she laughed. I knew she was questioning my devotion to the trip. Throne damned me, I was not about to let a paramilitary group with the skill of underhive gangers ruin our vacation. "Redirection?" She asked to change the subject, indicating my vox, her acumen in reading my thoughts as astute as ever. I gave her a brief wink in answer before activating it.

"Yes, I would like to reserve a room. Mhm, for two. Rear Admiral Blasius Deckard. No account, but I have a domestic docket number #041325. ... Thank you." I cleared my throat, and made reservations for two other locations in extreme opposite ends of the city. Due to my status as 'admiral' I also received a discount and half of the funds returned if I ended up changing my mind. Normally I would not be picky on that end, but I found myself without accounts evidently and so I worked with what I had. We took a cab to the nearest motel, albeit a rather suped up location trying desperately to appeal to the tourists who at least wished to appear as if they lived by a certain means. We arrived and changed into a more nondescript garb, fitting the cold weather. At that, we went on a small shopping spree, much to my lover's delight. I allowed her to pick the most ostentatious and flattering garb she could find. We needed to be loud and flamboyant, her effervescent side rearing its greedy head, much like when I first met her. It was almost like the honeymoon never stopped. In an instance of accismus, she almost coyly rejected a pair of dazzling bangles, but they were a good price and I gave my go-ahead, for her delectation.

With our shopping completed, we went back to the motel and ordered in, knowing we had a long night of planning ahead of us. I also needed to make a few calls to guarantee not only an appearance at the Charity Gala the following day, but to set up my plan with the local arbites. It was after a good meal and a small discussion on how manner that we collapsed onto the bed to find some much needed rest.

It was going to be a hell of a day tomorrow.

Tyrants of Illiac Bay

When the dust settled, Amal got back to his feet, though he nearly fell over from the effort. If another goblin decided to poke its ugly hide in the mine at this point, he doubted he or Delphine could defend themselves. Luckily, there seemed to be no more greenskins, nor ogres. If there had been anymore, they had fled long ago to the deeper reaches of the mine. Amal attempted to stretch, but this time it hurt like oblivion, and so he decided to merely shamble, as it were.

"Can you stand?" He asked Delphine. The Breton raised a hand in a thumbs up, but did not remove herself from her prone position, or even lift her head. At least until she gave herself a good moment to collect her senses.

Within half an hour, both of them were up and about, albeit exceedingly bruised, tired, and borderline broken. Amal appraised the body of the ogre, shaking his head. They should have brought poison, he thought. Ogres were always weak to poison, even compared to other humanoids. It slowed them down more, distracted them beyond the norm. Perhaps it was their wide stomachs, he did not know. What he did know was that their teeth were valuable, and he reached for his knife to pick them out. As he reached for it, Delphine plucked it out of his sheathe.

"Sorry," she said without much spirit in the platitude, her predilection for saying whatever got her out of immediate trouble giving Amal a devilish respect for her. It showed just how tired he was that he'd let his guard down to such a point. She had taken his idea and began popping off the ogre's teeth with what strength she still had. Amal decided to check the remainder of the room he hadn't the time to look at before, and to his delight found a flawed amethyst and an old dunmeri ring of ebony in the various piles of filth and refuse. Delphine tossed him his knife back, grinning at how nimbly he caught it, and he used it to cut the ear off the goblin chieftain as proof.

The two crawled tiredly up the rubble incline, not too interested in delving deeper for the chieftain's den just in case they found other foes.

Topside, Amal and Delphine scavenged a few choice items they placed in the closest chamber to the exit, where they built a small campfire for the night. Amal placed the ring and the amethyst on the floor, next to two potions of healing, an orcish short sword, twenty seven septims, some roasted mutton, a silver dagger, the shaman's staff, and a scroll of conjuration. Not to mention all of the ears and teeth in a knapsack.

Amal and Delphine unanimously decided to drink the potions so there was no lasting damage, but that did not slake their hunger, thirst, or rejuvenate their stamina. Nor did it give them warmth, but the fire began to grow larger thanks to Delphine gathering a shrub called Lunaswood, telling Amal to stoke the fire. Amal gave a suggestive whistle at how large the fire grew from the simple addition.

Her legs crossed, Delphine examined the flaw Amethyst in the light with apparent erudation. Amal only allowed himself a small glance at the curve of her legs, before he took on a ruminative look, adopting an amused smile. He rolled one of the septims over his fingers, the twisting coin casting an entrancing glint in the luminous flames. "So," he began without caution. "-what exactly was it that drove you to risk your life for gold with the likes of me?"

Tyrants of Illiac Bay

Have you heard of the insane Bretons?

Amal had not, but he was glad he had befriended one. He wasn't sure if the ogre would die on its own that way, but it was likely to crush Delphine in the meantime if he did not work fast. He was not one for fair play, but he decided to curb the urge to be devious by taking advantage of the Ogre in pain rather than letting Delphine bite it. Amal ducked under a swinging arm, and pivoted his foot, launching himself at a debris pile and using it as a spring board to fly to the saber. He hit the ground in a roll, roughly grabbing for the hilt.

"AH-AH-AH-MA-AH-AHL!" Delphine cried as she was thrown back and forth.

The Ogre finally stopped anw drew in a lungful of air, preparing to back up to crush her against the wall. He threw himself back, Delphine wisely letting go. It gasped as the sword was shoved deeper into its torso. The monster was not dead, grasping at its back in pain. The thief slid under a heavy hand and scrambled up the ogre's body like a rabid cat. Just as the ogre managed to grab onto Amal and squeeze, he drew his saber around and opened the brute's throat with a heavy slash. Blood bubbled out of the wound, and the ogre tossed Amal into the debris, hitting the stones like a doll. He theorized a few parts of him were broken as he rolled to the floor, but his survival instinct kept his eyes opened. He saw the ogre gripping its neck, wheezing and stumbling like a drunk. It barely missed Delphine with its steps, but the giant brute began to teeter over her.

"Dibella's tits!" Amal cursed, picking himself up, bearing the pain as he reached his feet. The ogre whimpered like a dog, before it began to fall like an axed tree. Delphine was feebly crawling away just as its shadow descended upon her. Thankfully, the redguard had long, strong arms, and he grabbed her hand, yanking her out from under the eight hundred point bulk. As Amal pulled her free, it hit the floor with a resounding 'boom,' cracking the stone beneath it.

Amal saw Delphine look up and squint at him, surprised. Amal gave her another grin, however it lost some of its vivacity from Amal's free hand holding his stomach, blood in his hand. He breathed in weakly, but managed to say. "I bet the ogre must be at least thirty." He remarked.

In the deep, they heard a screeching echo. It was as if the very darkness had come alive to end their lives. It was a wordless scream, and the footfalls of something human-sized grew closer. "Jacks promised!" The shriek echoed in the tunnels. It filled their ears, bouncing into the upper levels. "Jacks promised totem!"

Out of the darkness, a large goblin stepped out of the abyssal black tunnel. Its sloped forehead and oversized teeth, along with its iron armor, betrayed its status as chief of the clan. In its clawed hand was an iron axe, and its head was clad in a steel helm with curled horns adorning its form.

Amal coughed out dust, and tried to drag himself to his feet. It was excruciating and slow, but he did it. He rolled his shoulder and bent his neck, before offering a hand to Delphine. "Kill this Tobr'a together?" He asked nonchalantly.

Tyrants of Illiac Bay

Well, he could tell she was reluctant, but Amal also began to form the opinion she was a natural. When push came to shove and it was fight or flight, she fought like hell. He would congratulate her, but he had some goblins to worry about.

The left goblin lunged with its shortsword, swinging in a low arc. Amal parried with his saber, redirecting the swing to fly wide before he leapt over the bone wielding greenskin. It howled in anger and tried to bite at him, only managing to scratch his knee when Amal shove it into the goblin's face, breaking teeth. The other one did not relent however, causing Amal to curse. He sincerely wished to finish one of them off. Luckily, with the broken toothed goblin dazed, he began to break down the defenses of the goblin with the notched short sword, nicking its neck and cutting its arm. It screeched in rage, attacking with abandon. Amal blocked and dodged, enjoying the practice and the danger, despite his obvious reach advantage.

A small handful of debris fell from the crux of ones of the pillars, dusting flitting as Amal felt he was just about to finish this Goblin, before it was hit by something made of pink incandescent light, and screeches exploded out of its mouth. It leaped onto its rising companion, and Amal laughed at what Delphine had done. "Not bad!" He called to her with a wink. The un-beglamoured goblin decided in its pea-brain that it might just lose this fight, with both Amal and its companion now wanting its life. It shrieked in dismay and scrabbled away as more debris began to fall, this time on the opposite side of the chamber. Amal's smile disappeared, his mind finally realizing these might not be ideal signs...

"Amal!" Delphine cried, reaching for him as a chunk of stone the size of his torso plummeted to his position. Amal had the frame of mind to leap out of the way, but the damage had been done. When it struck the ground he had been standing on not a moment before, a crack rolled across the center of the floor, ending at the Shaman's rise in the ground, a seemingly separate bedrock. Delphine, thinking quickly, thrust her hand into her pack to grab a rope, but it was too late. The ground broke beneath Amal, and every goblin, alive and dead, fell into the abyss of darkness with him.

The immense noise polluted the air as much as the plethora of dust and debris. It was like an avalanche in confined quarters, the very ground shaking, even in Delphine's more stable area.

For Amal's part, it seemed to last far too long. It wasn't pleasant, and the situation was very fatuous, but then again he often found himself in such scenarios. Ostensibly his death, he thought, but thankfully the nine divines and the old yokudan gods saw fit that he was not going to lose all of his luck today. He found himself seeing a sliver of light, and began elbowing his way out of the darkness, feeling hard, coarse rock poking into him uncomfortably. Finally, he burst out of the pile of rocks and breathed in air that was only moderately full of stuffy particulars. Unfortunately, he also breathed in an odious stench that he briefly feared was a dangerous gas, before he found his fear was replaced by another.

He had fallen into a lower chamber, larger than the one above, and filled with skeletons and excrement, and what appeared to be a roughly crafted cooking fire. The fire was made out of small logs, and the denizen that had crafted it huffed in annoyance from across the ruined ground. It rose up, and up, and Amal sighed as he realized the thing was not a goblin, or even an Orc. It was an ogre, more pale of skin, with upturned tusks and small, evil eyes. The ogre was easily over eight feet in height, its head moving forward and back in small thrusts, almost like an iguana. It opened its toothed maw and grabbed a huge rock, as large as the one that nearly crushed Amal earlier.

Beneath the ogre, a goblin tried to crawl out of the debris, but the larger monstrosity stepped on it, crushing its skull like a popped melon. Using the step, it reared back its simian arms and chucked the stone at Amal. The redguard cursed and ducked back into the hole he crawled out of, the boulder rolling off the rest of the debris onto the more even ground. Amal yanked himself out after, glad to still have his dagger but lamenting he had lost the saber in the fall.

"Come on, bat dung!" Amal cried at it. From above, Delphine had the best seat in the house. She could help at range, or slide down to join him.

Tyrants of Illiac Bay

Amal almost shuddered. Usually a woman's breath in his ears was a welcome thing, but he was not expecting it and was too preoccupied with the very near future of having to fight for his life. He turned to her, his nose brushing hers. They both flinched a moment, Amal smiling at the situation.

"I get four scalps, you get one?" He asked breathily. "More for me then."

"Uh uh, shaman counts for more than one!" She protested, as loud as she dared.

"But does the bounty office know that?" He asked with a smirk.

"Well, what if I make it worth your while?" She said playfully, before turning off the charm and elbowing him. "By not shooting you in the ass."

Amal gave a silent boyish laugh, shaking his head to show her he was toying with her. "Don't worry," he whispered and held his hand out as she had at the town square. "I will do my part. And whatever happens in there, we split the earnings down the middle."

She eyed him speculatively, as if wondering just how convivial his company really was. However, she took his hand in hers and shook it. Amal gave his trademark grin. "We have an accord." He pronounced, and then gestured with his head to follow him to the tunnel.

Amal found the goblins more or less where they had been a minute previously. The Shaman had skulked off back to the high ground with its meal, while the others huddled around the corpse, taking the scraps the shaman deemed unsavory enough not to take. Amal silently gauged the situation. Perhaps it might be easier for himself to move and kill the shaman before the others were alerted, but no. This was his chance to see just what the Breton girl could do. If it killed her, more treasure for him, and if not, he had a competent partner. Of course he preferred the latter, but Amal was sanguine about almost any situation.

He slipped into the room as the primitives stripped the bones clean and bickered amongst each other. The shaman seemed too intent on their own meal to look up, but Amal still moved carefully, using the shadows and keeping out of the firelight. It helped there were old barrels and crates nestled near the walls. He stepped over a discarded stool, before he froze, noticing one of the goblins turning around to hack a guttural cough. It was only seconds before it saw him, he knew. He simply knew. Hundreds of situations like that had informed him of that eventuality. And so Amal did the best thing he could.

He grabbed the stool, and chucked it at the coughing Goblin.

It's yellow eyes lifted as it saw Amal pick the heavy wooden implement up, and as it coughed, it hadn't the breath the scream before it was hit in the head. The stool and the goblin hit a second goblin in the side, both going down as Amal charged with his twin blades, driving his saber into the side of the third goblin that had witnessed the stool with a dumbfounded expression. It wheezed in pain, chittering as blood pumped out of its torso. A knife in the eye ended its animalistic squeals, and he spun to the other three. One was down, groggy. The other had only a glancing blow, while the fourth goblin, one with a scar on its left eye, was unharmed. It leaped on Amal, as the other had the frame of mind and rage to charge at Amal with a thigh bone.

The bandit bounded back, too close to the other, getting a bruise from the first swing, but too full of adrenaline to feel it. As he began to furiously defend himself against both goblins, he felt just as much as heard the crackle of lightning from the shaman. He hoped he had not annoyed Delphine too much with his jokes.