There, I've given the potential Golem character a possible entry. It does not need to be taken, but I thought I'd leave the opportunity available.
Basically, Jazeer is in the central chamber of the sewer systems, led there by his goblin companion Jakig. There was supposed to be a goblin encampment there, but now it is occupied by something else. Perhaps the goblins did something? Or maybe the wars above have weakened an old seal?
Like I say, optional.
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Outside of Baalor
Hazim was staring death in the face. A half dozen Elven lances were poised at him, throbbing with feigned lunges. The warrior did not know the Elderborn to mock the dead or the dying, but for him it seemed they were making an exception.
"Scum," yelled one. "How many dead and for what?"
"Butcherer. Many of our kind will rejoice in your head upon a spike; lo! the captain of Eblistan's whorish son felled finally," added another.
The six Elderborn, with their immaculate steel plates and flowing blonde hair moved forwards to skewer him like a pig. He willed his limbs to move; to react and make himself a prey not so easy to kill, but he could not. His innards were a motley pattern of pulsating pain and crackling fire, having been run through by that Elf's pesky blade.
"Women," he laughed, coughing blood through his white teeth. "You're all a bunch of artsy fartsy women, high on the moon's blood."
One of the Elves seemed to take serious offence to Hazim's words, and he removed his gleaming rectangular great helm to reveal a flawless face of porcelain skin and pink lips. "Make whatever prayers you wish to make, human, your end hath come," he said, adding a hint of what Hazim perceived to be pity.
"Ah, go fuck yourself," Hazim snorted, flashing a bloody grin.
The Elf hunched his lance.
"Duranar! Duranar! Duranar!"
The Elves stood back, cursing themselves for falling victim to drama. Through the chaos of battle, a mamluk contingent stormed through the clash of swords and twang of bowstrings on horseback; they made for Hazim, striking down any Elderborn foolish enough to step into their path. The Elves surrounding Hazim readied their lances, but a brief hail of arrows smashed into their unprotected chest plates. Two fell.
"Shoulda brought your shields, women," Hazim chuckled.
The remaining Elves knew they were outmatched; the lance was the horse' nemesis, but add a mounted warrior to said horse armed with a bow, and suddenly the threat was negated. They backed off, splitting in various directions, calling for their brethren to aid them.
One of the riders pulled up alongside Hazim, and looked down at him through a slitted bronze helm. "My captain, you look well," the rider said with a gruff voice.
Hazim nodded, "doing just fine."
"Be that as it may," the rider nodded. "Baalor is under attack, and the Prince needs you."
Hazim's eyes widened. An attack, on Baalor? Had Eblistan marched on the city already?
"No," the rider grumbled, as if reading Hazim's mind. "Whatever they are, they are not Elf nor are they our peoples. Regardless, we're needed there."
"My men," Hazim protested. "I can'-"
"They will die," the rider said coldly. "In glorious battle, no less."
Unable to resist due to what he suspected was a mortal wound, Hazim was hoisted up onto the saddle, and the group of horsemen sped off; narrowly avoiding an incoming hail of longbow shot.
Baalor Sewers
"We're here," Jakig screeched, more than spoke.
Jazeer was startled momentarily, "why the change in pitch, my little friend?"
They had walked into a large chamber, with spherical sides leading up to a giant endless chasm for a roof. Sickly water ran through channels moulded into the stone paved floors, and the smell of stagnation was raw to the nostrils. Though darkness held sway, there were a dozen torches spread about the vast expanse, illuminating random patches of stonework.
"Quiet," Jakig hissed, stepping backwards.
Jazeer shrugged. He had not come so far to turn back, "your people dwell here, do they not? why are you afraid?"
Jakig thrusted a trembling finger into the shadows ahead of them, and for the first time Jazeer noticed that aforementioned shadows were moving. He'd of made a terrible soldier, the Crown Prince, and it was fortunate his disease limited him to the safety of his father's walls for most of his life. Not seeing something so obvious would have cost him his life mere seconds into a battle.
"Not your kind, then?" Jazeer asked curiously. He was not afraid, fear had been steadily beaten out of him since he was first diagnosed with leprosy, and by the wards used to treat it ever since.
The goblin frantically shook his head, and turned to flee. "Run human, run!"
"I do not run, little friend, I only seek to find purpose," he said, before glancing back at the approaching mass of who knows what. "I am Crown Prince Jazeer, heir to the Caliph's throne. To whom do I speak?"
The shadows stopped their advance; muttering broke out amongst them.
"Well?"
One of the figures stood forwards out of the darkness.
[Enter Golem, if it suits.]
Hazim was staring death in the face. A half dozen Elven lances were poised at him, throbbing with feigned lunges. The warrior did not know the Elderborn to mock the dead or the dying, but for him it seemed they were making an exception.
"Scum," yelled one. "How many dead and for what?"
"Butcherer. Many of our kind will rejoice in your head upon a spike; lo! the captain of Eblistan's whorish son felled finally," added another.
The six Elderborn, with their immaculate steel plates and flowing blonde hair moved forwards to skewer him like a pig. He willed his limbs to move; to react and make himself a prey not so easy to kill, but he could not. His innards were a motley pattern of pulsating pain and crackling fire, having been run through by that Elf's pesky blade.
"Women," he laughed, coughing blood through his white teeth. "You're all a bunch of artsy fartsy women, high on the moon's blood."
One of the Elves seemed to take serious offence to Hazim's words, and he removed his gleaming rectangular great helm to reveal a flawless face of porcelain skin and pink lips. "Make whatever prayers you wish to make, human, your end hath come," he said, adding a hint of what Hazim perceived to be pity.
"Ah, go fuck yourself," Hazim snorted, flashing a bloody grin.
The Elf hunched his lance.
"Duranar! Duranar! Duranar!"
The Elves stood back, cursing themselves for falling victim to drama. Through the chaos of battle, a mamluk contingent stormed through the clash of swords and twang of bowstrings on horseback; they made for Hazim, striking down any Elderborn foolish enough to step into their path. The Elves surrounding Hazim readied their lances, but a brief hail of arrows smashed into their unprotected chest plates. Two fell.
"Shoulda brought your shields, women," Hazim chuckled.
The remaining Elves knew they were outmatched; the lance was the horse' nemesis, but add a mounted warrior to said horse armed with a bow, and suddenly the threat was negated. They backed off, splitting in various directions, calling for their brethren to aid them.
One of the riders pulled up alongside Hazim, and looked down at him through a slitted bronze helm. "My captain, you look well," the rider said with a gruff voice.
Hazim nodded, "doing just fine."
"Be that as it may," the rider nodded. "Baalor is under attack, and the Prince needs you."
Hazim's eyes widened. An attack, on Baalor? Had Eblistan marched on the city already?
"No," the rider grumbled, as if reading Hazim's mind. "Whatever they are, they are not Elf nor are they our peoples. Regardless, we're needed there."
"My men," Hazim protested. "I can'-"
"They will die," the rider said coldly. "In glorious battle, no less."
Unable to resist due to what he suspected was a mortal wound, Hazim was hoisted up onto the saddle, and the group of horsemen sped off; narrowly avoiding an incoming hail of longbow shot.
Baalor Sewers
"We're here," Jakig screeched, more than spoke.
Jazeer was startled momentarily, "why the change in pitch, my little friend?"
They had walked into a large chamber, with spherical sides leading up to a giant endless chasm for a roof. Sickly water ran through channels moulded into the stone paved floors, and the smell of stagnation was raw to the nostrils. Though darkness held sway, there were a dozen torches spread about the vast expanse, illuminating random patches of stonework.
"Quiet," Jakig hissed, stepping backwards.
Jazeer shrugged. He had not come so far to turn back, "your people dwell here, do they not? why are you afraid?"
Jakig thrusted a trembling finger into the shadows ahead of them, and for the first time Jazeer noticed that aforementioned shadows were moving. He'd of made a terrible soldier, the Crown Prince, and it was fortunate his disease limited him to the safety of his father's walls for most of his life. Not seeing something so obvious would have cost him his life mere seconds into a battle.
"Not your kind, then?" Jazeer asked curiously. He was not afraid, fear had been steadily beaten out of him since he was first diagnosed with leprosy, and by the wards used to treat it ever since.
The goblin frantically shook his head, and turned to flee. "Run human, run!"
"I do not run, little friend, I only seek to find purpose," he said, before glancing back at the approaching mass of who knows what. "I am Crown Prince Jazeer, heir to the Caliph's throne. To whom do I speak?"
The shadows stopped their advance; muttering broke out amongst them.
"Well?"
One of the figures stood forwards out of the darkness.
[Enter Golem, if it suits.]
Rockette said
Well fuck. Sorry Kylmi.Least it'll be interesting to interact. xD
Yeah sorry my nymph friend, but Mundhir needs to go and do stuff. Serious stuff.
This RP will be entering warp speed six as far as the plot is concerned, in an attempt to bring the Prince's web of conspiracies, heresy and fratricide to some kind of coherent conclusion. The whole thing kinda got away from me, I admit.
... Jazeer is still fond of earthly charms though; I mean he's falling to pieces since his wards will be starting wearing off, but he's still good to go. If you hurry, you might get there in time for his genitals to still be intact.... so there's a nice image for you. Leprous male genitalia.
Anyway, I hope to hit this hard tomorrow, and see what Hazim has been doing since he got stabbed, and what Jazeer is up to in the sewers.
Steel fist said
@Hamster: Dude, 3 things:1. If Mundhir smells differently now (and he should), then Shorus will notice that and confront him, like a minotaur would (not violently, but pretty straight forward).2. Is Hazim dead or alive, because that's where Shorus were planning to go?3. I think we can reveal more about the mysterious goddess, Shorus will find her holy symbol in the mad Prince's tent and bring it back with him to Mundhir. What you think?@Rockette: You're not active for a while, so I'll just continue with the kidnapping and you will fill in later :)
Okay, okay. Well I guess you'll all be able to see it in your own special ways. Question him at well, or sit back and watch the fireworks.
Hazim's story will pick up in my next post. Stay tuned.
So to summarise a key plot change:
Mundhir is now a skeleton. Though he appears normal; people like ... well, I guess Shorus and Tarwin are the only ones who wont see through his disguise.
He has been freed of the controlling hands that have driven him since the moment he was born, and he is free.
Though now he has no conscience, feels no pain, and is immune to earthly charms.
So, anyone not seeing him for what he has become will see just plain old Mundhir, but he'll be acting a little cookey.
As for the Mad Prince, in case you guys didn't see, his body and soul were separated a thousand years ago by Ebli Khan's fell magic. Therefore, expect the Mad Prince to literally be mad; but also sorrowful and in a constant sense of yearning for something that he cannot put his hand to. He has been waging a war with the men of Eblistan ever since, trying to recapture that which was lost, without knowing what he is really fighting for; an eternal hatred borne by an unfathomable lack of something.
He has been ensnared by the mystery Goddess who is behind most of everything happening.
Interrogating him will reveal much about the way of things; this is where y'all can go crazy with lore. I'm stealing the show with my shroom adventures.
Mundhir is now a skeleton. Though he appears normal; people like ... well, I guess Shorus and Tarwin are the only ones who wont see through his disguise.
He has been freed of the controlling hands that have driven him since the moment he was born, and he is free.
Though now he has no conscience, feels no pain, and is immune to earthly charms.
So, anyone not seeing him for what he has become will see just plain old Mundhir, but he'll be acting a little cookey.
As for the Mad Prince, in case you guys didn't see, his body and soul were separated a thousand years ago by Ebli Khan's fell magic. Therefore, expect the Mad Prince to literally be mad; but also sorrowful and in a constant sense of yearning for something that he cannot put his hand to. He has been waging a war with the men of Eblistan ever since, trying to recapture that which was lost, without knowing what he is really fighting for; an eternal hatred borne by an unfathomable lack of something.
He has been ensnared by the mystery Goddess who is behind most of everything happening.
Interrogating him will reveal much about the way of things; this is where y'all can go crazy with lore. I'm stealing the show with my shroom adventures.
It was a monster; a thing devoid of all feeling. Neutral, uncaring - not evil, but not good either. Bones ground across slabs of sickly, black muscle. Fangs longer than a longbow's arrow jutted from a skeletal face of unnerving intensity. Were Mundhir not fighting an epic battle within the confines of his mind for the last scraps of his resolve, he'd of noted that the creature was smiling.
"So, mortal, you think yourself able to interfere with Her will?" it spoke, though its fleshless face did not stir. Its voice was deep and guttural, sending slight vibrations through the Prince's innards.
"W..who?" was all that Mundhir could muster.
"Who I am does not concern you, mortal, but what I can give does," it said. There was no emotion to its sunken words, and Mundhir became aware that the more it spoke, the bigger the monster seemed to appear.
Straining his neck to look the creature in the eye, he shrugged, "enough riddles. If you are my doom, then take me, I'm beginning to care less and less with each passing second." He was banking on appearing courageous, but his trembling body betrayed him.
"Tempting, mortal," the creature said. "Though you do not fit my ... criteria."
"What is it you want then?" Mundhir shot back; he brought his sabre up in a futile gesture of defiance.
"To help," it said. "To help you forge your destiny, free from the hands that have guided it this far."
"And," Mundhir chuckled madly. "what price do I have to pay for such a pleasantry?"
"Your flesh."
"My flesh?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
The creature shuddered suddenly, and growled. "I grow impatient. Do you accept or not?"
Mundhir shook his head, "no, I do not. I'll keep my flesh, thanks."
"Then everything you know, everything you love will burn; Eblistan with its high walls, Nillanor with its sad cemeteries, and the lands beyond. All scorched by Her will... made possible by you," the creature rattled.
The Prince was unmoved by such words; he stepped forwards. "I have learnt much since I came here, demon, namely that Gods cannot be trusted, and that their words are poisonous lies. Away from me, before I add you to the list of things to burn at my hands."
"Such hubris. She has willed for this to happen, and I have done what I can. You stupid, stupid mortal, you have no idea of what horror are you to unleash," the creature's voice took on a rasping tone. "Return then, to your precious world, and embrace your purchased doom."
"I accept your offer," Mundhir said suddenly. "Take my flesh."
The monster's terrible grin widened, and it chattered its teeth. "Why change your mind?"
"Because I have lost all reason to live; your promises seem finer than any other, and... I see an honesty in that gruesome appearance of yours," Mundhir said, and paused to throw down his sabre. "I don't supposed you care to give me your name, now that you have my flesh?"
The monster lowered itself, so that its eyes were level with the Prince's.
"Death."
***
Mundhir awoke in the war room; the din of battle muffled in his ears as if he were submerged in water. He raised his hand over his face, when he realised his eye lids would not respond to him, and recoiled as he saw yellowed bones instead of fingers.
"You are dead, Mundhir." the monster's voice had followed him to the waking world.
"You sai-"
"I said your flesh, and I have taken it; you will walk the world without feeling, without weariness, without conscience."
Mundhir mulled these words, and noticed that the pang of dread that had hung over him of late had subsided; the haunting image of an Elf child being ridden down by his rampaging horse nothing more than a grim observation, rather than a soul crushing memory.
"Am I... like you?" He asked, picking himself up from the floor. The world around him was a whirl of violence and bloodshed.
"You are without flesh, without blood and without organs; though others will not see you as such."
Mundhir had heard all he needed; suddenly, he had little care for subtlety. He had come to Baalor a poisoned corpse, and now he was going to leave the ruins a carefully disguised skeleton. Oh, how fun life could be!
Humans fought humans within the war room- but no, they were not all humans. Mundhir's mind recalled the masks the assassins hid behind, and knew them from the night he was infected by the Ice Venom. There was something unnatural about them; something divine and evil. He looked around for his sabre, and noted a woman stood nearby him; a small pile of discarded black clothes around her feet.
"Go Prince. I have removed Her controls over your body, for you are nothing but marrow and gristle. Go and cause Her a mischief, and tell Her that I am waiting."
Sounded like a fine plan to Mundhir; a fine plan indeed. A quest worthy of his uses.
"You there," he said to the feminine warrior, with her scantily clad legs and flowing blonde hair. "My sabre, where is it? We have knife work to do!"
Something shunted him from his blind side, and he crumpled to the floor with the force; he saw the bones of his wrist scrape across the stone floor - though he felt no pain. He chuckled to himself; this was all just hilarious. He looked up to see who had caused such a fun thing to happen, and noted the metal mask frowning at him.
"Welcome to my humble city," Mundhir said, stifling laughter. "Please, stay a while, and let me show you the sights!"
Within an instant, he was on his feet; his fleshless, albeit disguised form was weightless and he felt he was able to move much faster than his former self. The assassin backed up, surprised by Mundhir's vertical recovery.
"Yes, I have much to show you," Mundhir said, and then shoved his bony fingers into the slits in the assassin's mask with a lightning-fast jab. The assassin squealed for a few seconds, and then vanished. "Oh? Where did he get to?"
"They are the Dark Kin, and they serve Her. Men once. Men no longer. They escape my power, and are affront to everything I stand for."
"Is that so?" Mundhir muttered. "Well, let us put them back where they rightfully belong." he cranked his head to the heroine. No doubt she'd stood her ground, defending him for a time whilst he spoke with Ebli and Thrandel. "Woman! My sabre!?"
"So, mortal, you think yourself able to interfere with Her will?" it spoke, though its fleshless face did not stir. Its voice was deep and guttural, sending slight vibrations through the Prince's innards.
"W..who?" was all that Mundhir could muster.
"Who I am does not concern you, mortal, but what I can give does," it said. There was no emotion to its sunken words, and Mundhir became aware that the more it spoke, the bigger the monster seemed to appear.
Straining his neck to look the creature in the eye, he shrugged, "enough riddles. If you are my doom, then take me, I'm beginning to care less and less with each passing second." He was banking on appearing courageous, but his trembling body betrayed him.
"Tempting, mortal," the creature said. "Though you do not fit my ... criteria."
"What is it you want then?" Mundhir shot back; he brought his sabre up in a futile gesture of defiance.
"To help," it said. "To help you forge your destiny, free from the hands that have guided it this far."
"And," Mundhir chuckled madly. "what price do I have to pay for such a pleasantry?"
"Your flesh."
"My flesh?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
The creature shuddered suddenly, and growled. "I grow impatient. Do you accept or not?"
Mundhir shook his head, "no, I do not. I'll keep my flesh, thanks."
"Then everything you know, everything you love will burn; Eblistan with its high walls, Nillanor with its sad cemeteries, and the lands beyond. All scorched by Her will... made possible by you," the creature rattled.
The Prince was unmoved by such words; he stepped forwards. "I have learnt much since I came here, demon, namely that Gods cannot be trusted, and that their words are poisonous lies. Away from me, before I add you to the list of things to burn at my hands."
"Such hubris. She has willed for this to happen, and I have done what I can. You stupid, stupid mortal, you have no idea of what horror are you to unleash," the creature's voice took on a rasping tone. "Return then, to your precious world, and embrace your purchased doom."
"I accept your offer," Mundhir said suddenly. "Take my flesh."
The monster's terrible grin widened, and it chattered its teeth. "Why change your mind?"
"Because I have lost all reason to live; your promises seem finer than any other, and... I see an honesty in that gruesome appearance of yours," Mundhir said, and paused to throw down his sabre. "I don't supposed you care to give me your name, now that you have my flesh?"
The monster lowered itself, so that its eyes were level with the Prince's.
"Death."
Mundhir awoke in the war room; the din of battle muffled in his ears as if he were submerged in water. He raised his hand over his face, when he realised his eye lids would not respond to him, and recoiled as he saw yellowed bones instead of fingers.
"You are dead, Mundhir." the monster's voice had followed him to the waking world.
"You sai-"
"I said your flesh, and I have taken it; you will walk the world without feeling, without weariness, without conscience."
Mundhir mulled these words, and noticed that the pang of dread that had hung over him of late had subsided; the haunting image of an Elf child being ridden down by his rampaging horse nothing more than a grim observation, rather than a soul crushing memory.
"Am I... like you?" He asked, picking himself up from the floor. The world around him was a whirl of violence and bloodshed.
"You are without flesh, without blood and without organs; though others will not see you as such."
Mundhir had heard all he needed; suddenly, he had little care for subtlety. He had come to Baalor a poisoned corpse, and now he was going to leave the ruins a carefully disguised skeleton. Oh, how fun life could be!
Humans fought humans within the war room- but no, they were not all humans. Mundhir's mind recalled the masks the assassins hid behind, and knew them from the night he was infected by the Ice Venom. There was something unnatural about them; something divine and evil. He looked around for his sabre, and noted a woman stood nearby him; a small pile of discarded black clothes around her feet.
"Go Prince. I have removed Her controls over your body, for you are nothing but marrow and gristle. Go and cause Her a mischief, and tell Her that I am waiting."
Sounded like a fine plan to Mundhir; a fine plan indeed. A quest worthy of his uses.
"You there," he said to the feminine warrior, with her scantily clad legs and flowing blonde hair. "My sabre, where is it? We have knife work to do!"
Something shunted him from his blind side, and he crumpled to the floor with the force; he saw the bones of his wrist scrape across the stone floor - though he felt no pain. He chuckled to himself; this was all just hilarious. He looked up to see who had caused such a fun thing to happen, and noted the metal mask frowning at him.
"Welcome to my humble city," Mundhir said, stifling laughter. "Please, stay a while, and let me show you the sights!"
Within an instant, he was on his feet; his fleshless, albeit disguised form was weightless and he felt he was able to move much faster than his former self. The assassin backed up, surprised by Mundhir's vertical recovery.
"Yes, I have much to show you," Mundhir said, and then shoved his bony fingers into the slits in the assassin's mask with a lightning-fast jab. The assassin squealed for a few seconds, and then vanished. "Oh? Where did he get to?"
"They are the Dark Kin, and they serve Her. Men once. Men no longer. They escape my power, and are affront to everything I stand for."
"Is that so?" Mundhir muttered. "Well, let us put them back where they rightfully belong." he cranked his head to the heroine. No doubt she'd stood her ground, defending him for a time whilst he spoke with Ebli and Thrandel. "Woman! My sabre!?"
Colossus said
Marrubium
Sorry it took me a while to get around to this,
accepted!
It's up to you how to enter the RP; Baalor is currently a battleground between humans and some semi-human assassins, and just ouside the ruined city to the east is a battle between humans and Elves. It's hell out there, but it'd be ideal if someone wanted to slip into the chaos.
You might be able to stumble into Aevah and Kyrtaar if they are happy for that to happen. Again, they're out in the wilderness, so slipping in there wouldn't be much of an issue I don't think.
Rockette said
Blah blah blah
Thanks for doing that for me, I was having to go back over the last few pages to remind myself of what had happened and when. You've saved me a great deal of work.
Also, kudos for being so well informed of everything! If I could award gold stars on here, then you'd be getting as many as I could throw at you.
Stefan0620 said
Might want to make another character. Golem, kinda a Dragon age shale knock off. Can we work that in? Mundir/someone could activate it. Sentientish. Work or no? I've wanted to do a character with a golom for an extremely long time.
The world is your oyster my friend, do as you will.
EDIT: I'll get my next post up tonight, hopefully. Time to drag Mundhir out of his shroom trip.
In
Fallen Realms: The Ruins of Ironshore (An exploration and dungeon crawling based RP)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
DiamondBlizzard said
Shadow Travelling is more or less emerging yourself into a dimension of shadow to fast-travel or stalk. Titus can emerge from almost any shadow.. even player shadows if they're weak-minded (if too OP ignore this) used mostly for assassinations by him, he also binds the person with a dark near impenetrable shadowy mist, and other fun things.
So when you say fast travel, you mean he can appear on the other end of the world instantly via someone's shadow? Sorry if I'm sounding stupid, but fast-travel to me means the ability to move from one location to the next in an instant.
IF this is the case, I have no problem with the concept so long as it's limited to the local area - and that it can't be used repeatedly in quick succession. You know, so can't he just teleport, and teleport, and teleport, dropping enemies left and right and vanishing before they can fight back. I understand the appeal to it, but we need something a little less powerful in this RP.
Again, I'm not against the idea of him "vanishing" into darkness, or shadows - or using them to move undetected. I just don't want him untouchable by anything other than light magic.
In
Fallen Realms: The Ruins of Ironshore (An exploration and dungeon crawling based RP)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
DiamondBlizzard said
Umbrakinesis
Tell me more about these shadow arts of yours. Is it something he uses to simply cloak himself? What's shadow travelling?
I'd rather be more understanding of the concepts involved before I accept your entry.
Many thanks :)
In
Fallen Realms: The Ruins of Ironshore (An exploration and dungeon crawling based RP)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
Scenario #1 Planting the Flag
"Bloody fog," Stren muttered, as he stumbled across the beach. Gravel crunched underneath his boots, and his toes were going numb with Ironshore's bitter embrace. "Bloody rain."
Something moved up ahead; or so he thought. A shadow in the fog, of a man - no - too small for a man. A child perhaps? He drew his pistol from his trench coat.
"Who's there?" he called, "you want some trouble eh?"
No one answered him, but a harsh wind blew in suddenly from the sea. Stren strained his eyes from left to right, and he smiled for a moment as he noticed his hand was shaking. "Odd," he mumbled, "not like me to get spooked."
Then again, Ironshore was a different category to any of the islands he'd ever been to, inhabited or no. Its foggy overcoat was thick with an oppressive malice, and him not being able to see anything was driving his mind into anxiety's colourful corner. Maybe, he was getting old, old and stupid.
"You there, boy," he snapped, pointing at a young scruffy sailor of perhaps fifteen winters. "Up 'head, your young bastard eyes will see betta' than mine, eh?"
The youth dutifully obeyed, albeit reluctantly, and he skipped ahead with a small blade drawn. Stren, and not for the first time in his life, was glad there were always stupid, younger folk to send into the unknown, rather than himself.
Something growled; Stren's eyes narrowed, and he saw the dwindling silhouette of the young sailor suddenly vanish.
"Boy?" He yelled, pulling back the trigger on his pistol. It clicked into place.
There was a sudden noise, as if someone was tearing a lettuce in half, and then out rolled the youth's head from the fog; it stopped at Stren's feet, and his eyes widened.
"Arm yerselves," he called back to the group.
Forms materialised, as if called by his words. They circled him. Some were as tall as a man, but others were small, as if young children. One of them stumbled forwards, and Stren wretched into his glove.
"Shit on a stick," he cried.
Before him was a man - or an Elf perhaps? But no, not quite. It was a dead thing; its neck, slanted to one side, and its skin green with sea algae. It rasped at him, and moved forwards with reaching arms.
"Oh ballocks to this," Stren grunted, and sighted the withered husk with his pistol; he depressed the trigger and his hand disappeared behind a ball of smoke.
The creature stumbled backwards, and released a moan.
"The dead walk," Stren called to his comrades. "Get 'em in tha' head, or get 'em with fire!"
He'd fought these wretches before, as they were not an entirely uncommon sight in the world - but their ghastly appearance never made things any easier.
"Bloody fog," Stren muttered, as he stumbled across the beach. Gravel crunched underneath his boots, and his toes were going numb with Ironshore's bitter embrace. "Bloody rain."
Something moved up ahead; or so he thought. A shadow in the fog, of a man - no - too small for a man. A child perhaps? He drew his pistol from his trench coat.
"Who's there?" he called, "you want some trouble eh?"
No one answered him, but a harsh wind blew in suddenly from the sea. Stren strained his eyes from left to right, and he smiled for a moment as he noticed his hand was shaking. "Odd," he mumbled, "not like me to get spooked."
Then again, Ironshore was a different category to any of the islands he'd ever been to, inhabited or no. Its foggy overcoat was thick with an oppressive malice, and him not being able to see anything was driving his mind into anxiety's colourful corner. Maybe, he was getting old, old and stupid.
"You there, boy," he snapped, pointing at a young scruffy sailor of perhaps fifteen winters. "Up 'head, your young bastard eyes will see betta' than mine, eh?"
The youth dutifully obeyed, albeit reluctantly, and he skipped ahead with a small blade drawn. Stren, and not for the first time in his life, was glad there were always stupid, younger folk to send into the unknown, rather than himself.
Something growled; Stren's eyes narrowed, and he saw the dwindling silhouette of the young sailor suddenly vanish.
"Boy?" He yelled, pulling back the trigger on his pistol. It clicked into place.
There was a sudden noise, as if someone was tearing a lettuce in half, and then out rolled the youth's head from the fog; it stopped at Stren's feet, and his eyes widened.
"Arm yerselves," he called back to the group.
Forms materialised, as if called by his words. They circled him. Some were as tall as a man, but others were small, as if young children. One of them stumbled forwards, and Stren wretched into his glove.
"Shit on a stick," he cried.
Before him was a man - or an Elf perhaps? But no, not quite. It was a dead thing; its neck, slanted to one side, and its skin green with sea algae. It rasped at him, and moved forwards with reaching arms.
"Oh ballocks to this," Stren grunted, and sighted the withered husk with his pistol; he depressed the trigger and his hand disappeared behind a ball of smoke.
The creature stumbled backwards, and released a moan.
"The dead walk," Stren called to his comrades. "Get 'em in tha' head, or get 'em with fire!"
He'd fought these wretches before, as they were not an entirely uncommon sight in the world - but their ghastly appearance never made things any easier.
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