POOHEAD189

{ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ & ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ }

Tentative interest...

Greetings RPG! It's Candy Cane Part 2 - Electric Christmas Boogaloo

We've been waiting in breathless anticipation

Malleus Maleficarum: Tales of the Grim and Macabre

Eastside was a crossroads in Galanburg. An intermediary area between the capital proper and the shantytowns and ruins of the great fire. The carnival had found prime real estate, and William actually found it uplifted his spirits that the carnival had survived the prior catastrophes when so many other things had been destroyed. He stepped down a small flight of well trodden steps that were in desperate need of resculpting, and waited as a carriage ride full of children passed. To his left, a myriad of excited parents from the lower middle class clapped and smiled and waved at their boys and girls.

He passed the road, into the carnival proper. It was a forest of white and red pavillions and lines of multicolored banners webbing the sky above the festival-goers. There were still a few hours of small daylight left, and everyone was making the most of it. The swelling crowd made the air thick, and to his surprise he heard a jaunty tune of his own people. He stepped past city folk that baltered and laughed, clapping with each step. A ghost of a smile met his face. He saw pie eating and bobbing for apples, a man in a tall hat walking on stilts, nearly colliding with William before the nimble sailor dodged the flying leg.

He saw a man in the costume of the late king setting above a dunk tank, with an arrow target one could shoot to activate the simple mechanism to send him splashing into the murk. There was an axe throwing competition next to it, with wenches and would-be gallants standing far too close to the onlookers, drawing their axes back and nearly cutting into the roudy crowd. Will practically had to leap over a gambling ring of eight men, and as he weathered it, a pander stepped in front of him, smiling a smile that showed a mouth of ivory and faux gold teeth. Will could smell yesterday's lunch on his breath.

"Care to fight the champion in a bout of swords, my goodman?" He asked simperingly. "Only five pence!"

"I'm looking for a woman," Will said, failing to hide his accent, mostly out of habit.

"What better way to woo said strumpet than by winning at a strength of arms! How would you prove-"

Will flinched when an axe head was drawn back, nearly hitting him in the face. With an annoyed grunt, he took the axe out of the careless customer's hand, spun on his heels and launched the axe. It spun end over end (through several people's paths!) and hit the bullseye, sending the King James look-alike into the dirty water. At that, he turned back to the stunned solicitor. "I'm good enough, now where are the gypsies?"

He was shakily led through the maze of colors as the skulking man faltered, smiling peevishly at William at every turn, before they found themselves before an impromptu structure of three wagons with draperies and exotic furnishing just in front of an old, ruined building. The luciferite lights gave it a warm, if ominous feeling, and he felt as if he was about to enter a den of wonders. Nice theater, he thought. At least there was still some bit of imagination in this land.

"You can go-" He began, the final word sounding like 'gooo,' but the man had already disappeared into the crowd. With that, William McTaggart drew his cloak around himself, and stepped through the small entrance. With any luck, she would be here.

Blackguards of The Moonsea

Malcador was unaware, but he was about to get lucky.

The wizard had managed to stumble and sprint through the pandemonium of the assault well enough to make it to the other street, with another dead black clad swordsman in his wake from a well placed cantrip. Even with the spellbook, he had precious few spells left. He needed rest, and to link up with Serphia, but not in that order. If he could find her, they could make it out of there as quickly as a bird flew, or near enough. Of course, a part of him screamed he should run away without her, but another part of him also reminded himself that he needed her around for extra protection. Then, of course, another small part of him wanted to feel what it was like to lock lips with her, and that was a very annoying part that would not shut up.

He stepped over the cold corpse of a man, innocent or not he couldn't know. He did not bother to wait and check. Instead, he stepped over, nearly stumbling, and burst through the front door. He spun and slammed the door behind him, thinking the dangers had stayed behind him. In a twist of fate, however, be both found his salvation and his doom.

A devil and Serphia were squaring off in a corridor down the lobby of the large home. Arlocke scuttled over to him, webs spinning from his behind.

Despite his anxiety, seeing Serphia gave Malcador a sense of purpose, and he was cloaked in power as he hugged the tome close to his chest with his left arm, raising his right hand. With a word of arcane power that echoed across the walls, his hand began to crackle with coruscating blue and purple energy. It arced around his hand like lightning, and when the last syllabal left his mouth, it burst from his hand in a bolt of mystical energy that struck the devil like a cannon shot.

It hit the devil, charring its back and sending it sprawling to the floor. He was uncertain if the attack killed the devil, they were hardy creatures. He doubted it was, and even as he thought it, he was proven correct by it trying to move, albeit still stunned with pain. Arlocke's webs began to sling atop it, but unless Serphia did something, it wouldn't be down long enough to be immobile forever.

Darkhearts: A Forgotten Realms RP

Amal's long limbs were slightly stiff, but as he sat up to stretch them, he paused to watch Charynrae do the same. Truth be told, his dreams had been more filled with a sense of impending doom than carnal pleasure, but when she placed a hand on his cheek and spoke, it was replaced with desire.

"So good, I cannot wait for the real thing." He grinned, suggestively. He desperately wanted to pull her down, but he knew she would not go for it. Damn the whole thing.

After a robust meal, they were out, passed the adventurers and laymen and laborers and cookfires. The Bloodstone lands were far less empty than the true wastes they had left, but compared to the forests and trails of the south, it was still a grim land.

The wind howled across the ruined and vacant valley, carrying with it a cold that assailed the layers of garments they wore, desperately trying to get in so it could bring the cold to their bones. Amal was still somewhat fascinated that the clothing he wore in Calimshan that could provide shade, could also provide the warmth of his bodyheat so far north, though he sported an extra cloak to be certain he would not be found wanting. Especially after the long days in the tundra and moors with Charynrae.

Now, here they were once more. He supposed it was better than before. Now they had the promise of profit, potentially, rather than merely trying to survive.

A shadow passed overhead, and for a moment Amal felt a sense of dread. He glanced up, and saw a large eagle leap off an tor and glide across the wasteland. It was larger than any eagle he had seen, but perhaps he had simply not seen many. It wasn't big enough to harm them, but it was still a sign even the mundane beasts in the wilds were formidable.

"If only we had stayed in the bed," Amal said with a sly smile, but then he followed with a shrugged. "But I suppose doing so with a pile of coins would be preferable. After noontime, we should walk until we find a cave or another form of shelter, and then rise early again."

Malleus Maleficarum: Tales of the Grim and Macabre

In the blackest night, hope lives with the stars.
-Anonymous

Waves lapped at the sandy beaches of Eastwitch, the surf snarling as it struck the stones of Moldensbury, drowning out a wind from the eastern ocean carrying the whispers of a coming storm. The waves grew ever larger and darker as the days progressed, with foam at their tops like snow, forcing themselves in through the mouth of the harbour, as if violating the very bay. The dolphins, though they often gave onlookers one last dance before the winter snows, were nowhere to be seen this siamhan. It was but one more withdrawn blessing from almighty God. In this, the fourth year of the Protectorate, there were greater concerns. Let the astronomers watch for portents and the bodies of the celestial stars, drawn from the movements of the aether. The weather and natural phenonemon had not been a priority of much of the citizenry for some years.

With Sir Thomas Sewell's reforms, the great isle of Abelorn had seen ten summers of civil war, and though there was peace now, it still felt as if a keg of powder was just being lit. The Grand Army of The Realm patrolled the streets, and with them, the new law of the blessed isle. The great fire of two years passed had burned half of Galanburg, and with it much of the work and infrastructure, something the protectorate desperately grasped to remake. The old style of townhouses and apartments was still present. Symmetrical layouts and strapwork decorations, and as usual they were built as high as possible for there was little room on the ground. However, the real estate bought up by the aristocracy and merchant sultans had been remade to include a twist to the previous style, as if to make a new rosebud from the ashes of the old. With the similar designs of yesteryear, they now added much use of columns and pilasters, round-arch arcades, and flat roofs with openwork parapets. It would take some years before even half of the city's ruins were rebuilt, but what rich and well to-do there were could focus on the rebuilding to fill their time, but for the common man, food and sanitation was the worry of the day.

On the terrace of just such a structure, on Wyvern's Street, a portly bellman with the morning paper and a bell of brass rang at the mid-afternoon hour. He cried out so that all would hear his pronouncements before the supper hour. A cold wind lifted his voice in the forlorn overcast of the waning light.

"We give our thanks to Protector of the Realm Thomas Sewell, on this anniversary of the King's death! As you receive the harvest, stay with your loved ones and grow warm in their embrace, and in the embrace of the lord! On this day, the last theater of Galanburg has been shut down, to end the bedlam of vice! On this day a week prior, the Hodgepodge Boys and their band were hung by the neck, until dead! Tomorrow they shall be cut down so that they may rest in the earth. Swearing, cursing, adultery, bigamy and fornication are but the least of their crimes, but forgiveness is virtusian! We shall be a land of honest men, and virtuous women!"

The people of this isle had traded a King for a Tyrant. For every banker, churchman, and coroner that was happy, there were a dozen others paddling at the poverty line. Tellers, millers, laborers, sailors, he watched as they passed him by on the rain sodden streets, clutching their livelihoods as well as their cloaks. The apothecaries and actors not granted clemency by the church were hanged or run out of town. Hungry and destitute, or merely not seeking to be singled out, the masses went about their day with little word to one another. Good riddance, William McTaggart remembered thinking when he sailed from these shores three years prior. These Angals deserved what they did to themselves. His people had suffered enough under their lowland yolk, why can’t they feel the ache of sorrow, something that had marinated in Alban bones for a thousand years?

After what he had seen, he thought differently now, at least to an extent. These poor had not wronged him, and he would wait until they did before he passed judgement. Even the very rich, bastards though they were, weren’t the true devil he was after. While Thomas Sewell worried over the heirs of the late King James to return from the mainland with an army at their backs, Will would keep the bastard's lands safe from the occult, as best he could.

If he could.

To his left, the keening whistle of a piston carriage could be heard from Broadwind Avenue. The rails groaned under the weight of its cargo. When he was a boy, he could only dream of seeing a steam engine in action. Now? There were three in the capital, and word had it a number of the aristocracy had smaller, personalized vehicles they could use without the need of rails, powered by gears and an electric charge rather than steam. He would have scoffed at the notion before his travels, but it was mundane compared to what he had seen.

He stepped out of Wyvern's Street down Montague Abbey, and a cadre of Protectorate soldiers hustles past him. Despite the effectiveness of the new regime, the death and deprivation had led to increased poverty, which led to increased crime. The patrolmen were built for war, as if they were about to be shipped to the Continent. Their armor comprised of a buff leather coat, iron back and breast plate and a baldric, with an iron three barred lobster pot helmet. The sigil of Thomas Sewell's house was the Ram, and so the soldiers had donned small, curved horns on their helms, dubbing themselves Rammers. The lower folk, or those not in range of their swords or flintlock muskets, called them goats and other, more colorful names of that nature.

Will kept his wide brimmed hat down to better cover his eyes, though it mostly served to keep his midnight blue hair from catching the light. In shadow it looked black, but lamplight and the sun betrayed his Yr Alba heritage. Once the goats were passed, he picked up speed, his Jabbokwool cloak swaying behind him as he turned into an alleyway. He had been to this part of Galanburg before, but despite his confidence he moved with careful, wary steps. His quiet feet were even silent in the myriad of puddles, but somehow, a black cat appeared as if summoned and screeched, sprinting past him down the sidestreet. He recovered, let go of his wheelock, and found himself standing behind a reinforced door of oak and swyftiron.

Three knocks, and then two knocks twice, before a single knock. Reminded him of an auld song from his youth. An eye slit was shoved aside, and the bolt of a crossbow poked through. Guns had taken center stage in warfare, but crossbows were still popular for hunting, the peasantry, and… less noisy killings.

“What rises without sleep, and slumbers without rest?”

“The moon,” Will replied, and the crossbow was removed, the hatch was closed, and the door opened. Inside he saw draperies and carpets and many different doors to smaller rooms of unknown purpose, but Alaric had been clear. The last door of the hall, on the left. Will kept his other hand on his sword hilt as usual, walking past archways covered by sheets. The scent of hookahs and opium and other spices pinched his senses, but he ignored it. He found the portal Alaric had granted him, and he stepped within.

Before him were three hags. Fortunetellers, he had been told. Each swathed in cloth from the orient, only their keen eyes of purest black was visible, looking at him with the same alien nature as a toad. He could not tell if they were friendly, dangerous, or even if they were surprised. He saw a cushion he could sit at, but he waited for them to greet his sudden appearance. None did so, and he sighed, reaching into his coat to produce payment, before the leftmost hag raised her hand to halt him from doing so. The rightmost hag indicated the seat, and after hesitating a moment, he did as he was bid.

The first fortuneteller cried: "Hail, sir William, Hammer of Witches!"

The next croaked: "Hail, sir William, Savior of The Isle!"

The last fortuneteller crooned in William's native tongue: "Fàilt ort, sir William, leannan cìochan!"

"Do you mock me!?" He asked them, giving them a glare of warning. He had not fought in war nor slain denizens of the crypts to made into a bit of fun! Not unless he was in a tavern, mind. He was no sir, either. His father had been a cattle driver!

"Mock? No!" The central one confessed. At her side, a black cat wriggled onto her lap. If he didn't know any better, it was the same cat as before. "A storm approaches! In three days, a darkness will land in the midst of this terrible storm. Men will see portents, and dragons will fly above amidst the thunder! Whirlwinds and sheets of lighting, and a great famine will descend upon the land!"

"Dragons?" He asked incredulously, but his smile faded. No one had seen a dragon in five hundred bloody years. No, they were speaking in metaphor or allegory, but even still, it intrigued him. His fingers idly brushed the small, coarse goatee on the admirable taper of his chin. "What darkness is this? I've been searching to know..."

The left one said "One cannot know."

The middle on foretold. "Shrouded, but imminent."

"Boireannach a dh’fheumas tu a lorg!" rasped the right one.

"A woman?" He echoed. He did not like the fortuneteller on the right speaking in his mother tongue, but she would not stop speaking of a woman. One he had to find. "Is this the warning you speak?"

"She is not of the darkness, but to be consumed by it."

"Find her, and you shall find it! Together, you may weather this coming blight."

As one, the sisters murmured in a low chant. He was beginning to grow tired of this trickery. He needed to know the nature of this evil, and they could not know? And they throw some portent of a woman? Paid by them, no doubt. However, despite himself he was drawn in to their theatrics. The ball, seemingly made of pure crystal, began to grow obscure from clouds of powder, likely released by some mechanism. He could not ignore their words, but so far they had yet to prove their skills in any meaningful way, without him merely waiting the three days. How was he supposed to prepare? He had a few ideas, no thanks to these crows. Still, he watched the crystal ball intently from under his hat, and the smoky fog began to dissipate of its own volition. He saw a feminine figure, but his stubbornness led him to begin a denial before the image was clear.

"I don't need a wooooo-" The crystal ball showed a dark woman swathed in wool, satin and gossamer of purple and red. Trinkets and bracelets of bronze and faux gold and hoop earrings glinted in torchlight. She languidly stretched, an immense bosom protruding into the air as her supple arms of honeycream raised above her head. The dark waves of her raven hair tumbling to the cushioned chair beneath a plump bottom. Will's denial ended in a "-hrmmmmm."

He wasn't convinced, by Saint Anderlon, but he wasn't gallus either. At least they showed him something. With a sigh, he looked at the hags. "Where do I find her?"

Together, they spoke without preamble: "The carnival."

Silver & Gold: A Warhammer Roleplay

"What is the difference between an Elementalist and a Diabolist?" Master Artheus inquired, his question slapping Malcador like a whip. The apprentice had just made it up the immeasurably long, winding stairway to bring the newly fashioned lens to the observatory. The Celestial Colleges were known to be the most strict in the entirety of all the Colleges of Magic. There were many reasons and rationalizations, but Malcador could only speak for his own master. He was a strict intellectual and perfectionist, and he demanded the same of his own students. It had made Malcador one of the sharpest students in the Colleges, but it had also been utter hell to go through.

"A Diabolist summons entities from the realm of chaos, daemons, to do their bidding." Malcador said with bated breath, refitting the lens with deft twists of his fingers as Artheus grilled him. The older wizard, black haired with sweeps of silver along his sideburns and goatee, turned from his morning bookkeeping to stare at Malcador. "It is forbidden by Imperial Decree to do so unless under strict supervision by no less than three wizards of sufficient rank. An Elementalist summons Elemental spirits."

"Are Elemental Spirits not from the realm of Chaos?" His master asked quizzically. "Why is one loosely outlawed and the other only beholden to the more mundane edicts of the magical arts?"

"Yes and no. The magic itself is derived from where all magic comes, and the infusion is based in the realm of chaos, however the spirit is not a spirit as we otherwise might view it, such as a chaos entity or an aberration. A...A spirit in this case is the collective memory of an element, without true thought. It is essentially granting a portion of an element an artificial mockery of sentience, whilst being totally controlled by the caster. They cannot rebel or perform deeds not dictated by the summoner." He was glad he had not been out drinking. His hangover would have him cleaning gutters for a week.

"Can an Elemental be considered a familiar?" Artheus asked, crossing his legs. The room around him was tall, before curling into a dome at the precipice. The bookshelves were tidy and neat, yet the wizards large desk was a mess of papers and tomes of various arcane purpose.

"No, master."

"Why?" He asked quickly.

Malcador swallowed, trying to think. "Er because... because they are temporary and have no soul. A familiar needs to be an animal, whom you have spirit bonded with, or more popularly a homunculus who, um, a wizard has created and infused with a portion of their soul. The latter has grown more popular as the other method is considered antiquated, and the great mage Teclis stated that it has the potential to be corrupting in a manner."

Master Artheus granted him a tight lipped smile, pleased. He was strict, but he did give favor when it was called for, and he knew it was Pie Week. The academic questions would last only so long, as would the errands.

"Good, now one last question and you may be on your way, Malcador." He said warmly, though his eyes were as cold as ice. "Why did you come back last night half naked, three hours after curfew?"

Malcador was stricken as if shocked by lightning. Had Artheus divined the reason? Could he lie? No, no if Artheus had divined it, Malcador would be mocked for the act already, and then supremely punished. He had already gotten in trouble with his trysts before. It was ironic, none had been quite as delectable as Emmaline had. It would be divine punishment to have him be separated from her now of all times. No, his master could rightly guess he was out drinking, and had merely gotten too drunk to return on time. Malcador let his gaze fall to the floor, and his hands fell to his sides. "I should have confessed of my tardiness, master." He said with a sigh. "I had gone out gallivanting with the lads, and had lost my senses with strong drink."

After a brief pause, Artheus snorted. "You truly thought I would not have noticed. You truly must have been drunk." The wizard stood up, and went to inspect the immense telescope, inspecting the contraption with a practiced eye. "You can clean lavatory for that, for a week! You shall also recite the next question and answer session in elvish, and for every word you mispronounce or misspeak, it shall add a day to your gutter cleaning duties. If it happens again, I just might think of finding another apprentice..."

"Yes Master." Malcador remarked, bowing his head.

"Now you can run another errand for me, and be quick about it. I am done using Master Oswald's scepter, you must deliver it back to him before noon. If your tardiness causes that delivery to be late..." He let the threat hang, before the looming consequences abated. "Then you can have some pie and leisure time."

The Shattered Vow - A Chanson de geste

Theophana seemed troubled, likely due to the thoughts of the previous days violence careening through her mind. She placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she cast her gaze downwards in contemplation. Torm could tell she was troubled, and he did the only thing he knew to do. He took her hand in his and squeezed it comfortingly, placing his other hand atop them.

Theophana gasped gently, and turned to look at him. He knew this single act could be taken as an advance, as lust. However, to his surprise and delight, she didn't pull away. Their eyes rested upon one another, and for a long moment they stood there transfixed by one another, before they both blinked and pulled away. Torm's heart was hammering in his chest, but it felt nice. He silently chastized himself, but frozen when she opened her mouth to speak.

The two were interrupted by the pavillion flap opening. A squire, albeit a lowlier one more used to clerical and mundane duties named Seville, appeared. He had poor eyesight, so one of the monks had fashioned a strange instrument for both of his eyes, something Torm had been informed was called spectacles. He gave a nod to Torm, and then inclined his head fully to Lady Theophana in a half bow.

"My lady, your presence has been requested." He said breathlessly, clearly having been rushed until he made it to the pavillion's entrance. "Il has graced us this day, brother Albrecht your chaperone has been found alive!"

"Has he spoken?" The lady asked, almost too eagerly.

"I know not, my lady. I only know he lives, and that you must come swiftly." He remarked, only briefly looking her in the eye before casting his gaze downward again. Theophana froze, and glanced at Torm with a forlorn look. Was it longing? He didn't know.

"My lady, I'll accompany-"

"No you will not," She said simply, but placed a warm smile on her face to show it was not due to any unpleasantness on his part, and without another word, she stepped out. Torm was left with complicated feelings, and a strange guilt he felt for a reason he could not fathom. He cleared his throat, and gave Seville a nod, but the other squire held a hand up. "Herr Draufkrieg, you have been summoned as well. Less urgently, but you are to await at the baron's call at the fore of his residence."

Torm raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth, before closing it. He had wondered why, but a few moments of thought was all he needed. Other than Brother Albrecht and Theophana, he had been the only one to witness the events of the attack and subsequent rescue. However, then again, perhaps he was being paranoid. He had yet to be congratulated on his victory by the baron. Perhaps there was a reward in order from his lordship. He did not know, he just knew he wished he could accompany the lady, and that in and of itself, was troubling.

Swords and Silver: The Southern Contracts

Torm chopped into the neck of a zealot, the acolyte's wild eyed stare and wide smile stricken upon his face as his head flew onto the stones. The knight didn't slow or retreat, in fact stepping forward to run the next poor sod through. It was a strange thing, Torm thought to himself in the back of his mind, as he blocked the swing of a falchion and riposted. You could tell a true believer from a man driven to join by circumstance as they died. There was a look in their eyes that showed they were ready to be embraced by the divine, or they still had ties to this life.

Another corpse fell, wet with blood. Sir Christoph and Heraculus guarded his flanks as the knights and dwarves waded into the disorganized masses, more to distract the priest queen's stunned forces than any real hope of victory. Behind them, the silver swords and what dwarves could be spared shoved palisade walls down and broke them into manageable sections. The word had come up the line Bianca had gone in the drink, either thrown or jumped in herself, he didn't know.

A horn sounded in the distance, followed by another. A third, louder one rang behind them on the northern beach of the river. Their time was running perilously short, but Torm felt the hair on his neck stand on end, and he knew magic was being worked. He blocked an axe aimed at his skull, and as his eyes were cast skyward, the stars were obscured to the north. He didn't know what was happening, but he could hear the wind howling. A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he raised his free arm in a guard as a voice shouted in his ear. It was Aljazrad the Mamluk.

"The Captain orders retreat, Lieutenant!" He cried over the din in his heavy accent.

They should have been on their steeds, but the Captain had ordered the dismount so they did not get left behind. The destriers would be the most complicated river crossing, but Torm would soon realize he needn't have worried. At least not on the horses. The dwarves had concocted a cunning and quick solution, carving out the extra palisade logs to trap air and slipping them between the horse's legs front to tail, and tethering the steeds to the rafts so they could swim with added buoyancy. Not an ingenious device, for the knights had been forced to do something similar with leather bags, but clever nonetheless to use the logs for the same fashion. It was the disciplined retreat that was the real problem.

Some fanatics had swung round behind, cutting off their retreat with a thin line of queen botherers. Torm pushed a burly soldier away with a rough shove, before flipping his sword and raising it blade first in the air; a signal the dwarves understood. Their lieutenant, Tostig, had his dwarves begin a chant that showed they acknowledged the order. Torm couldn't rightly command the dwarves, but they knew he had an idea and saw the wisdom in it. Immediately the dwarves backstepped as one. "HOOO HOOO HOOO HOOO" shouting with each step, and the cavaliers retreated behind the line, the stout warriors spinning around immediately.

Now the knights under Torm were faced with the flanking line of foes, and the dwarfs held the onrushing horde back, now backstepping again as Torm and his men spearheaded into the slim line of foes. The tall and powerful armored infantry smashed into them, cutting a swathe and eating through them like acid thrown at a wool blanket. They did what they did best, and the dwarfs held the immeasurable tide back with their impenetrable defense. Makrazid struck a man on the head with his mace so hard, Torm was in awe at the steel head reaching the man's ruined neck. Sir Gerold ran the spike of his hunting spear into the groin of a short zealot, and he squealed like the boars Gerold was so fond of hunting.

The priest-queen's flanking force, armed like militia and low in number, were slaughtered and broken. The knights cleared the path, and what Silver Swords remained on the beach supported the infantry with arrows and quarrels as the dwarves and knights made it to the rafts. The water was cold and dark, and the river never slept, but with the priest-queen's forces nipping at their heels, the last of the Silver Swords pushed off, and slowly made their way to the opposite embankment.

Fantasy Lowfi Dungeon Crawl, anyone?

<Snipped quote by POOHEAD189>

How are you feeling about joining? Happy to reserve a spot for you if you like the idea but don't have time to commit to something new right now. This is essentially a spiritual successor to Basket of Undead :p determined to run a Dungeon Crawl RP

@Mae

Yes, leave a slot for me! I think I'll have more time come next week :)