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Post by Lady Frost on Aug 17, 2013 16:00:56 GMT -5
This thread is open for all players to post in.
Few things moved along the coastal Bluemist Trail this cool morning. Mists from the Dragonmere laid like a heavy blanket up against the banks and reduced visibility to dangerous levels. During a time when someone poaching along the road would be that much more difficult to locate, most refugees appeared to wait until the mists cleared. This left a prime opportunity for brigands to move about and prepare for the coming prey.
On this morning, two figures, both robed and hooded, quickly made their way west through the mists. Their hurried manner however was to be their downfall, and within only a few miles they came upon a man in the road. The man wore plain brown pants, a grey shirt and a leather vest. His wide brimmed hat was pulled low, sheltering his eyes from easy view. The pair quickly slowed upon coming into view. When it appeared they meant to flee, the man called out, "You both look like you could use a hand. Why don' ya come over and chat wit me".
The pair stood still, looking among the tree line. When they offered no response the man spoke up again and began walking towards them slowly. "I -said- ya should come over and talk wit me."
At this, numerous similarly dressed people appeared at the edge of the mist on both sides of the road. The pair turned to face the approaching man. The woman pleading out in a shaken voice hinting at an elvish accent, "Please don't hurt us! We only mean to pass through."
The man, now only 10 yards or so from them, grinned across a stubbled, unshaven face. "Do as ya told and ya be right back on ya way. Simple as that."
All around the pair the others closed until they all stood only about 5 yards away; the man in the wide hat continuing to approach to within two arms length. "Lets make this easy, hmm?" He motioned past the pair to a woman holding a sack. "Put your things in there and you can be on your way again."
"But we've nothing to give." The woman replied simply. Around the pair, each of the thieves knew together she was lying.
The man in front of them shook his head and sighed, "Ya not gonna make this easy are ya? We can all see ya fancy jewelry."
"What jewelry?", she replied.
The man reached out to indicate the bracelet.
The woman held up her wrist. "Oh..." She responded as if it had been completely lost on her. "I cannot remove it." She quickly added.
The man grinned again, broadly. "That ain' an issue. We gots many'a means for relievin' ya of it!" He then turned his attention to the other of the pair who seemed to be fidgeting and looking about. "What's /your/ problem? Remove ya hood and loot at me." He demanded.
The gloved hands of the figure reached up towards its hood then paused a moment. It lifted the edge of the hood enough to reveal to the man a pair of red eyes, and an obsidian skinned, elven face. The drow sneered then released his hood letting it fall back into place.
The others around the sides and back had obviously not seen what the man in front of them had, though his expression, a combination of surprise and horror sent an unsettling shiver across the group. One of the man around the pair's back called over, "Wha's the mat--"
The woman was quick to cut off the man's inquiry. Her voice was suddenly very calm. "You see, the bracelet is magic and comes in pieces. When it is not whole it--"
The male behind them raised his voice to again ask his question, cutting the woman off. "Hey, Wha--"
Then in a quick flurry, the drow turned, hopped and stepped, his hood falling away in the spin, and placed a dagger constructively through the man's neck. He sneered to the suddenly terrified faces and held a single finger to his lips, eerily indicating nobody else to speak.
The woman glanced over her shoulder at the scene but returned to calmly speaking to the now reluctant man to their front. "I do hate being interrupted... As I was saying, the bracelet is not whole and until it is, it can't be removed. Though even if it was, I doubt I would give it to you."
The man, seeming to be regaining a slight bit of confidence, proclaimed, "We still out number ya and we ain' askin'. Now where's the rest'o this bracelet?"
At this moment the others around them seemed to be fading out of their overwhelming surprise. The woman who had been holding the bag finally blurted out, "That's a drow!" She threw down the bag and turned, running off. The drow took a step after her but the woman held up a hand for him to cease. They all watched her silently for a few seconds as she sprinted down the road. Then, as suddenly as the drow had whirled on the man, a large form passed through the mist above them, accompanied by a heavy 'whoosh' and then the scream of the woman as she was plucked from the ground by a red dragon and carried off back up into the obscured sky.
The scream trailed off quickly and the robed woman, who never looked away from the now terrified man, broke the silence. "There is the other half. Perhaps you would care to go chase it down?" When the man only looked at her, she continued. "Your numbers are quickly dwindling. Are you still intending towards your initial goal? I am not sure you are ready for what comes next."
The man lowered his head and stepped out of the way. He offered in a defeated voice, "We'll not be needin' your things anymore. Go on."
The woman raised her chin a little and grinned across red glossy lips. Her confident and eager tone only added to the man's failing spirits. "Ah, but we do not want to pass. We have been looking for ones such as yourselves, in fact." Glancing over her shoulder to the others she continued. "Unless you think you can run better than that poor woman I think you better take your offer of survival and come with me." The woman and the once again hooded drow lead them off the road towards the treeline.
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Anyone walking the Bluemist Trail between Blustich and Moonever would pass by five beaten and shackled, though well alive, individuals and a charred half-eaten body with a posted sign near them.
The sign reads:
Loviatar watches this road. Anyone caught harming those displaced from the war will be treated to her punishments. We are hunting you.
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Post by Hellwalker on Aug 19, 2013 19:30:06 GMT -5
They trekked across the wildlands, through tall grasses and thickets, passing by groves of trees that masked their passage. Crossing roads quickly when necessary but otherwise avoiding the beaten path the pair make their way to the outskirts of the Vast Swamp - a notoriously dangerous place feared by most due to the myriad of monsters within. The hunters, a rough man and a red haired woman, come to a stop in the shadow of a copse of trees.
Taking a short while to catch their breath, the pair maintain their quiet reserve, until finally the man regains his feet. Following step the woman rises and they finally break the silence. Raising a savage totem into the air he chants - an animalistic series of calls that evokes a rush of energy in the air. Before them appears a large scaled beast, dull brown eyes focused on the master that called it forth. The woman watches as the caster chants again, a short series of spells laid onto the beast as it waits, wings rustling. The summoner nods as he steps back, and the woman speaks, the language a deep growling rumble: the tongue of dragons. Gestures accompany her words in illustration, spoken slowly and simply, as if to a child.
"You will fly east. Follow the edge of the swamp. Watch the ground. See what waits. Search the land between the swamp and the road to the south. See what waits. Then return to us."
The creature shuffles its massive clawed feet, barbed tail lashing in consternation.
"Fly. See. Come?" it croaks back, blinking dully.
"Yes. Fly over the land, see what there is to hunt. Return to us. Then we will hunt, hm? You will feast with us."
"Feast."
The beast blinks dully again, its gaze turning to the man that called it. They focus on each other for a long moment, then with a flurry the creature launches into the air with a mighty thrust of its leathery wings. Raising a hand to shield her eyes from dust and debris the woman issues an annoyed 'tch' before moving back into the shelter of the trees and settling down.
”And now we wait,” the man says calmly. ”Why don't you tell me a story, huh?”
The red-tressed woman smiles lazily.
”Very well, Acamas. Let me tell you a story of dragons...”
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Post by StabbingNirvana on Aug 20, 2013 19:18:52 GMT -5
Three templars on horseback bearing the symbols of Tyr, Torm and Ilmater patrol the banks of the Thunderstone River. Any refugees they come across are greeted and treated of their injuries. They are fed and their thirsts quenched before being escorted to settlements. After mustering enough refugees in one place, they escort those willing to make the trek to Marsember. Upon arrival, other newly arriving escorts are interviewed on how they arrived in Marsember, if they were escorted to city, and how they were treated during any said escorts. He would enter a deeper line of questioning if there were mention of any assistance from churches with a known evil heritage were the ones heading the escort, in particular the church of Loviatar and Malar as they're known to be patrolling the areas the eastern lands.
//edited
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Post by Lady Frost on Aug 21, 2013 0:07:09 GMT -5
Three templars on horseback bearing the symbols of Tyr, Torm and Ilmater patrol the banks of the Thunderstone River. Any refugees they come across are greeted and treated of their injuries. They are fed and their thirsts quenched before being escorted to settlements. After mustering enough refugees in one place, they escort those willing to make the trek to Marsember. Upon arrival, other newly arriving escorts are interviewed on how they arrived in Marsember, if they were escorted to city, and how they were treated during any said escorts. He would enter a deeper line of questioning if there were mention of any assistance from churches with a known evil heritage were the ones heading the escort, in particular the church of Loviatar and Malar as they're known to be patrolling the areas the eastern lands. //edited In regards to Loviatar, nearly nobody says they have had direct contact with the church, though they have seen the grizzly confirmations that the church is watching the roads. Should they patrol farther south they may hear of sightings of a seemingly nonhostile red dragon that soars the skies between Marsember, Blustich and Wheloon. |
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blackarrow
New Member
Midnight (Cassie's familiar)
Posts: 53
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Post by blackarrow on Aug 21, 2013 9:11:17 GMT -5
Three templars on horseback bearing the symbols of Tyr, Torm and Ilmater patrol the banks of the Thunderstone River. Any refugees they come across are greeted and treated of their injuries. They are fed and their thirsts quenched before being escorted to settlements. After mustering enough refugees in one place, they escort those willing to make the trek to Marsember. Upon arrival, other newly arriving escorts are interviewed on how they arrived in Marsember, if they were escorted to city, and how they were treated during any said escorts. He would enter a deeper line of questioning if there were mention of any assistance from churches with a known evil heritage were the ones heading the escort, in particular the church of Loviatar and Malar as they're known to be patrolling the areas the eastern lands. //edited In regards to Loviatar, nearly nobody says they have had direct contact with the church, though they have seen the grizzly confirmations that the church is watching the roads. Should they patrol farther south they may hear of sightings of a seemingly nonhostile red dragon that soars the skies between Marsember, Blustich and Wheloon. Actually, I would have to correct that: many refugees would have had contact with Marissa Darkwood, who has been actively patrolling the roads in question. Refugees would report no ill treatment from her, but would say she took the time to speak to many of them on an individual basis. If further questioned, some might report that Marissa counseled them on the pain they were going through and encouraged them to persevere. As usual, Marissa was very open about her Loviatan faith and displayed symbols of Loviatar. Some refugees who are more open-minded or desperate to find meaning in their travails might be more positively disposed to the Loviatan faith as a result of these friendly encounters. |
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Post by Pedantry INC on Aug 21, 2013 13:56:26 GMT -5
About Malarites the refugees could say this:
A firey haired woman with a great clawed bracer has repeatedly been encountered by groups with children or pregnant women. She brings them food, typically fresh meat, and encourages them to eat well. She provides youth whose parents allow it with daggers. She is always casual and friendly, and sometimes sings songs or tells stories to the young while adults get a chance to prepare meals from what she brings. She often passively teaches lessons about hunting for game with her stories. In the instances where the game she carries isn't prepared, she will offer to teach them all how to skin and prepare the beast (which is typically a deer, though occasionally she somehow manages to bring a bear hefted over her shoulders).
Sometimes accompanying the woman is a savage looking man that rarely speaks.
She seems to mention to every group that the Beastlord provides a lush bounty to ensure that everyone may grow up to be a strong and healthy hunter, and that a healthy hunter may always provide for and protect his or her family.
Some refugees might claim that they swear the woman has scales on the back of her arms, while others say that they saw smoke come out of her mouth while she laughed with the children. More fanciful children with imaginations might expand on this in all sorts of odd ways as children are prone to do, leading to myriad of bizarre statements. The general consensus however is that her name is Mirrir, and that she's quite the singer, even the songs in that rough, deep, growling language are somehow beautiful.
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Aug 25, 2013 8:37:57 GMT -5
Every territory, every concept, every idea, everything in all of creation has an edge. A border. A meeting place with that which lies next to it, lies beyond, just out of reach to the grasping fingers longing to intrude that little bit further. A twilight where light gives way to shadow, and to utter blackness, shadow is as light. A blending where one is lost discerning the place or time one left from that which lies ahead.
It was under the purple and pink streaked sky of skylight that a subtle shadow swept across a fern and tree stump outside Monksblade, at the edge of Sembian held territory. Red foxes hunted the forest floor, taking their turn between the creatures of night and day to fill their bellies on what they could find before they would leave the forest to the creatures of true night. They rooted in the ground, pounced on field mice and licked up their meal with relish, oblivious to the passing of the shadow's source, even their wild eyes and ears failing to pick up on it. But the twilight hunter was not interested in foxes. More dangerous game was on the menu tonight. Less wary, less suspecting, but more dangerous if roused.
At a soft whisper, a voice chanted out a chorus of syllables. The ground and foliage shimmered and swirled almost imperceptibly, like a mirage taking up around a single bush for just a moment, and two eyes, blending nearly perfectly with the darkening forest, took on a green glow for a moment. Through those eyes, the forest came into sharper focus. The gathering gloom of night receded as if a pale, purple tinged white light fell upon everything around. Shadow simply ceased to exist, and all that depended upon the cover of darkness to obscure it was laid completely, starkly bare before those nearly unseen eyes.
The forest slid silently past and around that illuminated vantage, pausing occasionally to turn slowly and sweep the landscape under the forest canopy in all directions. Bats and owls fluttered noiselessly overheard, and three Hullack red wolves prowled past. The wolves paused to sniff the air, and the silent hunter stopped. The wolves glanced around, heads lowering for a different angle on the forest, then padded on their way.
A stream came up into view, and on the other side stood six Silver Ravens, Sembian soldiers, pausing to refill their waterskins. At three foot intervals, downed leaves, still fresh and undried, deformed silently under a hundred and eighty pounds of weight, the barely perceptible indentations closing in slowly on the soldiers at the rate of a slow walk. Above those deformations, a slight distortion of the forest beyond hung in the air like a four foot tall, one foot wide mirage suspended in the air. Eyes keen enough to discern the disturbance would have most likely dismissed it as a trick of shadows in the approach of night. Every five steps, the disturbance paused for five seconds, and then resumed.
The soldiers filled their skins and resumed marching through the forest. The barely perceptible entity trailed behind, gliding noiselessly over fallen logs and through patches of ferns, always keeping a tree or other notable object behind it to the viewpoint of the soldiers. Their movements became predictable, and the silent stalker came to anticipate their glances in its direction, ceasing to move to accomodate the semblance of safety from its direction, and closing the few feet lost immediately upon resuming movement.
As the soldiers walked, they hacked haphazardly at branches and brambles that lay in their path, the sound easily alerting anything within a hundred yards to their presence, that if the torches in their hands hadn't removed all hope at escaping detection to begin with. They also bantered back and forth. The subject of their idle and rambling conversation marked them as bored with patrol duty, expecting no Cormyrean response to their taking of Battlerise, Azoun's Hold, and Monksblade. Each had a name they called each other by as they passed through their route. Montfoy had a brother whose butcher business was struggling back in Sembia. Vladimind's sister was sick with a fever when he left home for the campaign. Colomar had a letter in his bunk he planned to send to his lover the following morning telling her it was over. Alvic was an older man whose wife had yet to produce a child. Chelar enjoyed horseback riding and hoped to take it up again after the war. And Rufric enjoyed fishing, and was looking forward to returning to his father's farm where they'd spent countless nights together under the starlit sky hauling trout out of the pond that lay on his property.
Hours went by, twilight giving way to outright night. Each of the men took on a personality as each and every word of their chatter fell upon the ears of their unseen follower. Montfoy was a serious man, often teased for his boorish demeanor. Rufric, on the other hand, was a cut up, constantly making the jokes that Montfoy missed. Chelar was conscientious and dutiful, another point of ribbing from Rufric. Colomar was a keen minded, task oriented fellow, the most focused of the six on the duty at hand, though even his mind was half caught up in the idle chatting of the group. Though Montfoy was the officer leading the patrol, it seemed Colomar was the moral rallying point of the group with his focused conviction to remain alert and on task. Vladimind was quiet and pensive, his thoughts more than likely with his sick sister. Alvic, for his part, was tense-jawed and bitter.
As midnight drew near, the group stopped to rest by a thick stand of trees. They were to rotate cat naps and keep moving in an hour. They would watch in pairs for twenty minutes each and resume patrolling in an hour. As they settled in, the magically camoflauged shape that followed them eased ever closer, settling behind a wild raspberry bush. A keen observer very close up would have been able to discern the form of a young woman, perhaps a year over twenty, dressed in studded leather armor, every detail of her appearance matching the coloration of what ever was nearest to her at the moment, the hues of her clothes, weapons, skin, eyes, and hair shifting to maintain the match.
As she crouched behind the bush, thirty feet from the group, she considered which of the patrol to take. She wouldn't be able to kill all six on her own, not in one ambush. One she might manage, but not all six. She considered all she knew about each of them, having grown rather familiar with each one in his peculiarities, given the wealth of information they'd unwittingly supplied her with over the last five hours. Rufric was almost a clown. Of the six, he was the least threatening if he survived the night. Vladimind had a sick sister back home, so if any should survive, it should be him. His family knew enough tragedy as it was. Montfoy, the officer, was a good choice, given the blow to morale and organization that would be struck by the loss of an officer. Chelar, in his adherence to duty, was another candidate to begin with. Alvic, with his darkly sour attitude, might do her cause more good alive among his fellows, she mused. But Colomar seemed to fill the role of mental glue that held the group together. His sudden death would fill the others with pause and a moment of doubt which could prove the most valuable. She settled on Colomar. If all went according to plan, then Colomar had slain his last Cormyrean soldier and burned his last prostitute and child.
She would have to wait twenty minutes, because Colomar was set to watch in the second pair. She passed the time in silent stillness, barely thirty feet from the nose of her intended prey. With a long stick, they could have poked her boot. She knew better, though, from three years of experience stalking killers than to think of them as anything other than wary, savy, and instantly responsive. She knew her own speed with a bow and sense for battle, so she knew that any opening and opportunity they afforded her, she would take advantage of. It was the sudden, miraculously unhesitating and appropriate response she had to consciously be ready for. Outnumbered one against six, more than likely weaker than the weakest among them in a straight up fight, it would not take much for this attack to mean her own pointless, futile, fruitless death.
Twenty minutes became thirty as Chelar and Alvic overextended their watch. Her fingers began to sweat as the moment drew nearer. Her heartbeat rose in nervous anticipation of what was to come. With the discipline of a panther lurking in a tree over a deer path in those last, critical moments before striking, she kept perfectly still, breathing in tiny puffs through her nostrils, her eyes narrowed to obscure their whites. The forest's sounds seemed to amplify in her ears as she surrendered her consciousness and all its boundaries to allow even the slightest disturbance anywhere easy access to her conscious mind.
After what seemed like a week, Chelar and Alvic woke Colomar and Rufric. Colomar and Rufric set themselves up leaning against opposite sides of a tree, blades in hand. As luck would have it, Colomar was on the far side of the tree. She slowly, inch by inch, extended her legs without rising from her crouching position, and slid sideways across the ground. Five full minutes later, she was a mere fifty feet away. Colomar was vigilant enough, and his search pattern, the sequence of turnings of his head and eyes, was unpredictable. He had done this before.
A tree stood a little to Colomar's left at a distance of eighteen feet. It would be the best ambush point. Behind its cover, she rose to her full five and a half feet of height, unslinging a composite longbow from her shoulder. Out of Colomar's sight, she slid an arrow three inches towards the edge of her quiver and stopped, making the faint scraping sound of tip against quiver as brief as possible. After a silent, mental count of thirty, she moved it again. And again. And again. Five counts later, the arrow was free. She placed the bow against the side of the tree, and with a smooth, practiced motion, she drew it in near silence.
At a certain level, war is impersonal. A soldier fights those who wear the other colors, regardless of who they are. There are no names, no faces, nothing to set one enemy soldier apart from another. But this time, the bow that levelled towards the heart of its target was held by one who knew the name of the one she was about to shoot. She knew enough about him as a man to choose him specifically, personally, as the one that she would kill. She knew his name. She knew something about his personal history. His family. His goals and ambitions. All of that was about to come to an end with the simple release of two fingertips.
As she pulled back on the bowstring, she thought of the screams of women and children burning at Monksblade. In her mind, she saw Colomar standing outside the burning building, torch in hand. Her eyes watered, and bile rose up in her throat to the point she nearly coughed.
Colomar stood relaxed but vigilant against his tree, his eyes sweeping now and then the dark forest before him. At first, his mind didn't register a nearly silent, whispered, "Colomar." He blinked it away and refocused his attention. A second time, it came at a whisper, "Colomar." This second repetition of his name caught his attention. His eyes swept the forest, right to left. No sign of danger. No sign of anyone present besides his patrol.
Colomar's heart lept into his throat. There, less than twenty feet away from him, cloaked in the shadows of the night forest, blending to the next tree like a moth whose wings naturally match its favorite bark to sit on, was a woman in a hooded cloak, aiming a longbow at full draw directly at his heart. Their eyes met. Colomar froze, not quite comprehending what this moment meant. As he looked into her eyes filled with the heated glare of anger and hatred, she hissed to him, barely above a whisper, "For Monksblade."
A bowstring snapped once, cries of alarm went up, and soft soled boots sprinted into the darkness of the forest.
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Post by Pedantry INC on Aug 28, 2013 20:14:37 GMT -5
It begins in Thunderstone, with a pledge made to refugees. Starting just south of Ghars a bloody swath is cut through Sembian paid mercenaries, and cries of terror and pain echo across the wilderness and way of the manticore alike. Monksblade is littered with the corpses of Sembian Silver Ravens, entrails strewn about in grisly decoration. In Thunderstone, a week after it began, a child is delivered, along with hefty amounts of meat and a Sembian shield. The shield, emblazened by the symbol of the silver ravens, is defaced by the etched words: "Blood for Blood, So we promise the Weak shall pay for setting foot on Cormyrian Soil", under that an etching of the unmistakable etching of Malar's bestial claw. In Suzail, outside the shrine of the Beastlord, several sets of Silver Raven armors, horrifically damaged and bloodied, are mounted, complete with cloaks, helms and shields. Defaced by etchings of the Beastlords Symbol, they stand a testament to horrific violence against the enemies of Cormyr. Within the shrine half a dozen heads are posted on spikes, while more still over days to come fill the shrine with the scent of burning flesh. The two seen placing these grisly trophies are Mirrir Tharasvin, and Acamas Oribasus, who upon questions, boast that the Beastlord has smiled, and that the Sembian forces have suffered greatly for their trespass, and promise that they shall again.     |
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Post by Pedantry INC on Oct 19, 2013 15:46:07 GMT -5
Though nothing as glorious as their first hunt, Acamas and Mirrir have continued guerrilla style fights and skirmishes many times in the east. Striking sporadicly and in different areas, they never fail to exact a toll in blood, though sometimes they fail to kill all their intended victims. The survivors live to tell their brothers-at-arms of a savage man with the face of a wolf, and a red haired woman with the voice of the hells themselves. Their assaults are often bolstered by terrible beasts, massive grey renders, wyverns, terrible arrowhawks, and the largest most predatory beasts the swamp and glens have to offer. Trophies of sembian arms and armor continue to be left in thunderstone, marsember, and immersea, as well as used to redecorate the shrine in suzail.
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