Roleplayer Guild - Forum Roleplaying Games

"If you help me kill the witch, I'll do whatever you want." The curious grin on Vanrius' face melted away to be replaced by a firm expression of resolution, somehow, he had sensed that these people had gathered and united against the witch, Venrius knew that he had to make himself seem as useful as possible to be allowed into the group, stepping past the gathering, he walked up to Char and said "Hail, I am Corinthio of the Roads, wandering blade." said Vanrius, patting his cutlass for emphasis, he was confident with his disguise, there were many such wandering sell-swords in the land, and he could easily pretend to be one, he was even confident in his false tale of revenge against the witch, revenge for a murdered sister, in reality, the King had demanded the witch's death for her power, he sensed it flowing within her and he wanted a potential threat to be eradicated prematurely.

Vanrius smiled, hoping that the young human would accept his tale, but he knew the consequences of being discovered would probably not be dire, nonhuman races were common enough in the world that some no longer cared, still, Vanrius would prefer to avoid potential trouble. He continued on in his speech "So, you go to slay the witch, I must join you, for the time of my revenge is at hand!" Said he with a furious tone.

((Introducing a second character as well as location markers. I guess nobody needs to use location markers since they're just with Char, but when we spread out in the future they will be necessary and therefore mandatory. And your post was fine, Aer. But there is a lot going on. No more characters to the tavern group, please. XD Not sure what to do about Dazzled, but we need to move on. She can catch up later. Maybe defending the witch?

Oh Carol the evil alien overlord. I will not be using him to godmode. He is probably going to end up being more comic relief than an actual scary villain. ))

Char: ~Tavern - Graveyard, Witch's Tower, Spiral's Edge~

Char stared down at the picture of herself, utterly confused. Then her fingers tightened on the paper, until she realized that she had accidentally torn the parchment. The emotion responsible was anger and jealousy. This man must also be writing a book!

She nodded to Lachdonon. "Thank you, but you know, you don't have to put on a shirt if you don't want to. It's hot outside tonight. Don't just do what he says." She pointed to the retreating back of the strange man with the pictures. "We'll see who writes a better book, eh?"

To Wrath she said, "I had not considered using the unicorn as food, but that is a possibility as well. In any case, she seems not to be around. But hopefully she understood my offer and we will meet up later."

Then there was another man - this one named Corinthio, someone who apparently wanted revenge from the witch. Hopefully this raw emotion would make him a useful ally in battle. "We are all glad to help you. Our party was just leaving now to slay the witch."

She was good to her word. It was then that they left the inn, heading towards the graveyard and the witch's tower. When she finally caught up to the strange man with the parchment pictures, she stared at him sullenly for a good two minutes. Then she said: "You know, your book would never sell as well as mine. People are not interested in silly pictures. People are interested in plants. My botany book will be a bestseller; I already have a publisher lined up and everything." She didn't, but that was besides the point. "I will not bar you from coming, especially because the help of your pet giant is needed in defeating the witch, but I will have you know that when this is all done I will happily defeat you in sales."

That challenge made, she realized that they had reached the haunted graveyard. She knew this because a rotting skeleton was running straight at her, rusted sword raised. Char seized the opportunity to vent her frustration and slammed her palm onto the ground. A series of roots came out from under the skeleton, enveloping him in a leafy bear hug. In a matter of minutes, an oak tree stood where the skeleton had been. The dead swordsman might have still clung to some form of 'life' but could no longer move and therefore no longer posed a threat.

Char looked around. Then she took out her journal and wrote, The adventurers were surrounded by an army of the walking dead that was at least a hundred strong.

Carol: ~Entrance, Witch's Tower, Spiral's Edge~

Carol's real name did not exist in the language that either the witch or the prince spoke. When he came to this planet, he had been given a code name that would help him fit seamlessly into the society. Statistics showed that Carol was a popular spoken name, so he took that one. There was a ring to it that he quite liked. And he liked the planet too. Liked it so much that he wanted to conquer it, rule it, own it - that was why he had come there in the first place.

The interplanetary information bureau said that the most powerful creature on the planet lurked in this castle. Be that as it may, Carol had met the witch and she was nothing special. She wouldn't last a day among the gladiators of his home planet. But the analysis sources for his home planet were infamously inept (hence his name, which he still didn't realize was neither bloodthirsty or even male).

Even if the witch was not the most powerful creature on the planet, Carol had a feeling that if he stayed here for a little while some interesting events may happen. And he always followed his instincts. They hadn't helped him win the last five of the six planets that he tried to conquer, but there was also a first time for everything.

I shouldn't sell myself short. I'm not nearly as talented a planet conquerer as my older sisters, but I am the evil overlord for at least one planet. That's a start.

As long as he killed any intruders, the witch gave him food (bad) and bedding (rough). So Carol the evil overlord stood at the entrance of the witch's tower, awaiting any future foolish warriors that dared to challenge him.

Even without the dark and disturbing scenery of the witch's tower and graveyard, passerby would probably notice that there was something...off...about the man. His light blonde hair, almost see-through pale skin, and red eyes lent more to the appearance of an albino mouse or ghost rather than an actual human male. "I hope someone comes," said Carol, yawning and spinning his sword in lazy arcs, "because today is really boring. If something doesn't happen soon, I may have to pick a different location to conquer the world."

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Love the hue.

Noting Char's use of magic to destroy the skeleton, Vanrius grinned, he had suspected that there was more to her than a beautiful face and supple form all along, he briefly reflected on it as a skeleton clad in the ancient silks of a nobleman approached, jeweled mace in hand, Vanrius, knowing that his cutlass could be damaged or even broken by the bones of a skeleton, left the weapon in it's scabbard and threw a bag of powder in the skeleton's face, even though he could have easily torn the head from the neck in seconds, Vanrius chose to remain in disguise, at least for this time. The violet powder scattered upon the bones and destroyed them on contact, the body fell, destroyed, back to earth, the living dead put to rest again by Vanrius, he snatched up the mace, ready to wield it with all his might. He swung his mace again, crushing the skull of another of the cursed undead. Vanrius charged into a mob of skeletons, a snarl that could never have been made by human lips escaped Vanrius in the heat of the moment, but when the skeletons had crowded in a deadly circle about the disguised warrior, it would be far too easy for one who heard the sound to blame it on the undead beings who stalked the cemetery.

The aforementioned snarl was the last thing three skeletons perceived with their senses, returned to them by whatever foul ritual had returned them to life. Vanrius' mace cleaved through the crowd, crashing upon the skull of the central skeleton and killing it instantly, with the speed of a panther's claw, Vanrius dispatched one with a blow to the cheekbone, and finally crushed the neck of the final in a swift stroke. The skeleton came forth from nowhere, a poison-soaked dirk clutched in hand, unexpectedly, Vanrius received a stab wound to the chest that would have killed a human But it wasn't the stabbing itself that concerned him, it was the poison, even the hardy dragon-men could be felled by poison, it was unexpected from an undead thrall, which often wieleded any weapon it found, whether it was a fine axe from the frosted wastes or a rusted broadsword that had seen too many winters. He fell back behind a tree with pain, barely silencing the inhuman cries that sought to escape his mouth; he groaned in pain and agony, and thrust a desperate hand into his pocket, grasping his salvation, Vanrius snatched a small herb and put it into his mouth, swallowing it the second it touched his tongue, the bitter herb went down quickly and banished all of the pain as well as the poison, Vanrius cursed, knowing that he had only two more of these herbs, which had to be painstakingly enchanted to yield their effects. He worried not about the wound, it appeared as any other would, it did not expose his true form in any way. Vanrius climbed back to his feet, using the tree for support, he gathered the mace back up, and proceeded more carefully into an isolated couple of skeletons.

The foppish man just stared back at her looking nervous...unsure of her intentions. When she made her vehement challenge he stifled a giggle, corners of his mouth twitching. Watching her take care of the skeleton he clapped his hands in a way that suggested both sarcasm and childlike amusement. He loved magic, and hated magic users, having no talent with it himself. He looked over her shoulder as she wrote in her journal. "I thought you were writing about botany?"

He shrugged and watched the pilgrim rush into more of the undead monsters with a battle prowess that he respected. He loved fighting, having no talent at it himself.

"In any case, books are to restrictive. Only about one in ten people know how to read or write...and that's being generous. He checked his well manicured hands, frowning at the paint on his knuckles. "But a picture, ah, well almost everyone has eyes. A sentence describing this dreary place might be lost on most, ah but a beautiful snapshot of this waste..." he gestured at the barren expanse in front of them. "Now that speaks to everyone, evoking their deepest emotions...hmm...perhaps a mosaic using religious iconography." He ignored the battles around him, his massive minder plowing forward in front of him. He had two axes now, one in either hand, and crushed any corpse that was foolish enough to get too close, already bored with their slow, clumsy attacks, wishing he could fight the other warrior, the one with the mace, he looked like a scrappy little guy, and strong too. Hmm, perhaps he'd get his chance later.

The giants musings were disrupted as a skeleton rushed him from the other side, burying a heavy spear in his flank. He looked down at it, as if it were an unfortunate stain on his cloths. Dropping his axe he snapped the heavy wooden shaft, splintering it. Taking the broken haft he punched it through the brittle skeleton. Picking up his axe he sniffed. "No sport at all."

The foppish man glanced at him and chuckled before turning back to the sorceress. "My man Ulric's a tough beast, got the constitution of a divine nature. I found him in the northern mountains a few years ago. He's a holy man actually, follows some savage barbarian faith. Dumb as a stump...but a good man none the less."

"Anyway, I've had no one to talk to but him for so long, it's nice to finally meet the legend herself. You seem like the most likely chance I have for a decent conversation at least. For that alone you have the deepest thanks of Phineas D. Walburn, Earl of Sillex." He bowed low, taking off his feathered cap.

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Lachdonon glanced back towards where the strange man had gone with his giant. He wasn't planning on following any order of the man. Even if he was being paid by him.

Shirt or no he needed to get it. Quickly going into his room, grabbing his scabbard and buckling the belt to his waist, he finally sheathed his sword. Then grabbing his tunic and his leather jacket, he started to pull them on as he followed the rest. (They had leather jackets back then...Just defiantly not like ours)

When they reached the cemetary They were suddenly attacked... he barely noticed the others fighting as his fist gripped one undeads head and ripped it off. grabbing the arm holding the ancient sword with it, he pulled it off as well, swinging it around by the forearm of the undead.

The entire time, he didn't pull his sword out, he either crushed heads with his bare hands, or crushed heads with other undead heads. He only received a small gash in his forearm from what he didn't know, but it didn't bother him a bit.

He dropped the arm holding the sword and said softly, "Hmph... fine time to stop drinking..." walking back towards Char's side, he listened to what the man said.

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Glarunk Geraldo Grimsby Gimlick III rested his head on a plush round chair of deep green, feeling comforted in its egg-shaped center. This was not just any chair - his brother had it specially made for the long hours he would spend sitting in the bowls of that blasted castle; it had a hole precisely placed in the back to allow for his thick tale to hang freely without the binding that he felt in conventional seating. At least it allowed him some measure of peace within his alcove. It was dark, dank, damp, disgusting, damnable, and any other 'd' word Glarunk could think of that spoke negatively of his stony home beneath the witch's lair. A boy should feel frightened living in a castle where a known insane murderer and conjurer lived, but it didn't bother him in the slightest. He was lazing in the snuggling folds of the chair only half-watching what was going on in his crystal ball.

With his crystal ball, he could watch anything that was going on in the castle and a small area beyond it. It could only 'see' places it was near enough to. He could also cast spells and have them take effect on wherever the orb was viewing at the time. Except he couldn't cast spells, normally anyway. His species never had mastered that particular ability, though they had found ways around it. They were clever little beasties (most of them, anyway) and found a way to capture the spells of others and keep them in little vials for their own use later. It took precise timing to catch the spell before it hit them. His own father had died trying to entrap a particularly lethal one. But he had lived a good, long life of 436 at the time. That was old by their standards: most only lived to be 500. No one really knew how old they could live to be, however, because not a one had died of old age. They might be clever, but they were also reckless and senseless at times. Glarunk was 150 years old himself, but was only just reaching adolescence. He recalled this fact as he looked down at the floor sourly: flakes fell all over from his scaly little body. In adolescence the Sprunkle body undergoes a period of molting, where it loses its dull scales from youth, in a process not unlike exfoliateing, to be replaced by shiny new scales with some measure of protection and impermeability to water. They didn't like rain, not a single one of them, and so had developed that adaptation throughout the millennia in lieu of other, more trivial adaptations, such as sharp claws or poisonous slime. At least if they were caught outdoors (which was a rarity, as they preferred comfortable, regulated temperatures and surroundings) they would not be completely miserable.

If those attributes and characteristics were not enough to make a person curious, their employment was also a topic of discussion as well. They were the species to be left with all the strange and rather pointless jobs that other species found too trivial for their efforts. Glarunk's family, specifically, was the Keeper of Tales. They went around and kept stories going where they otherwise would have died. Some may see this as pointless, but they would just be too narrow-minded to understand that keeping tales alive were an integral part to the way societies functioned. Ever wonder about the troll under the bridge and why he didn't die off? Well, he simply died one day, drowned in a puddle when he tripped on a rock and fell down on top of the bridge, knocking himself unconscious. He wasn't able to return to his senses to pull himself from the puddle before he met his maker, whomever that may be for trolls. (That was another reason Sprunkles didn't like rain - it caused puddles. And puddles, they knew, caused death.) Glarunk's sister had taken over the Lair Under the Bridge to Nowhere so that the story could live on, bless her heart. She wasn't particularly beautiful, and that along with her scales made her not unlike the troll before her. If she wouldn't have taken over the bridge lair, people would have been unafraid of that particular locale and traveled needlessly into the land beyond, which she knew lead to Nowhere, a deserted land indeed. A few unfortunate individuals had to be sacrificed to perpetuate the fear of the Bridge and the troll, but they were willing to make that sacrifice for the greater good.

Glarunk glanced haphazardly back at the crystal ball, muttered an oath under his breath before he stood, and walked slowly to the Wall of Incantations and Magical Happenings, as he liked to call it. He had sat one full hour on that topic until he found out just the name he wanted to use. Times were slow then...but not anymore. A group of trespassers was caught by the orb's all-seeing eye and had to be dealt with. "The walking dead; 100 strong" read one bottle. Yes, that should do the trick. Unfortunately for Glarunk, some spells lose their potency with time, and these particular dead were about as fragile as a stacked pyramid of cards - one push and the whole thing collapses. But no matter. Should that fail, he had plenty of nastiness to inflict on them, not to mention the overlord who guarded the door to the castle. No on had ever made it past the overlord.

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Took the "What Element are You?" quiz and got 75% Earth and 58% Holiness.
It's pretty accurate - take it to find out what you are!

At the tavern

Jaer held his jaw painfully, glaring daggers at the giant that had turned and grabbed him. He didn't even get a chance to attack. Jaer just sat there, thinking. I need to work on my sneaking skills; I have been on the road for far too long. He stood up and dusted himself off, grabbing his sabres and sheathing them. Jaer walked back to his room, looking at the door and shaking his head. He limped back downstairs, looking at the innkeeper. The man was scared out of his wits; as well he should be. Jaer pulled out his jeweled dagger, looking at the man expectantly from under his pitchblack hood and cloak. The room had gone silent as the innkeeper, his whole body shaking, held out his left hand. Jaer cocked his head to the side and let out a small chuckle; the man was married. Jaer shrugged and put a firm grip on his wrist, looking at the outstreched fingers, deciding which. He agreed with himself on the ring finger and put the blade on it, making the man wince. He slowly sawed back and forth, causing the innkeeper to howl in pain. "You lied, man. You pay," Jaer said as he jerked downward, cutting the rest of the finger off. He picked it up and looked at it curiously, the ring still on it. He pulled it off and stuck it in a pouch, tossing the finger at the retreating innkeeper, saying prayers and the like. He turned back to the rest of the room, sheathing his dagger and walking slowly towards the door and his horse.

At the cemetery

He pulled the sabres from his sheath, eying the girl named Char. "You didn't say there would be undead," he remarked, hitting an undead in the head with the pommel of his sword, succeding only in making it mad, swinging wildly at him with its flail. He followed through with a feint, bringing his right arm up and chopping the head off, removing the arms and legs next; these things tended to not die. Jaer turned back to Char. "Why didn't you tell me I'd have to be fighting these?" he asked, ducking as a rusty bastard sword went flying over his head. He turned and smacked a shin with his forearm, shattering it and sending the skeleton to the ground. Its arm ripped off, crawling towards him. He stomped on it, breaking bone.


((Hey, what happened to the hand that crawled up her robe? Just curious.))

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Char: "I am writing about botany. I plan to put in a detailed description of the tree I just summoned. I also hope to find some interesting roots and herbs in the witch's kitchen. But I am principally writing an adventure botany book, an entirely new genre, the significance of which probably goes right over her art."

Char suffered for her art. No one understood her.

Especially not this man, who was going on some stupid tirade about how nobody was literate nowadays. That was a fine and dandy argument, until you considered that Char had never deigned to write for the inferior masses in the first place. No, Char wrote for scholars. Char had never met any scholars - her life story consisted mosty of a meager upbringing on the mean streets followed by a random event in which she was imprisoned by a rich and greedy thief (from whom she learned that it is not particularly clever to use the person you have imprisoned as your bodyguard, mostly because when a desperate situation occurs they are not exactly motivated to guard you) - but she imagined that scholars were the intelligent kind of audience she wrote for.

As she participated in this conversation, vines ripped through the zombies that surrounded her. Then there was the assassin, complaining about the undead. Char turned to him with a strained smile. She was losing her patience.

"I'm sorry. I invited you on this quest because I thought you could handle whatever came your way. If this is not the case - if it is too scary - then you are free to leave."

Carol: Finally! Carol sensed the life force of intruders. Well, actually, Carol had no powers of sensing life forces, but he could hear them - hear them as they argued, as they ripped through rooting flesh, as swords clanged. He stopped swinging his sword and strained his ears. Then he grinned.

Finally! Something to divert me from my boredom!

He ran from the entrance deeper into the graveyard. There he found his adversaries. A motley crew embroiled in a battle with the undead. Carol was so excited that he ripped his sword through a couple undead himself, before he remembered that they were on the same side.

"Finally!" He yelled to them. "I have been waiting all day for you! But I must admit that you are foolish children for thinking of challenging me. Shiver in fear, dear children! I am Carol the evil overlord - feared tyrant of the planet Laosduagh - and I have come to stop you from entering this castle here and rescuing the prince! To do so, I shall now take your lives!"

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Love the hue.

Jaer kicked an undead in the chest, shattering it's torso and collapsing it's ribcage. "Oh, no, I'm not scared. Its just I hate these things," he muttered, getting a nasty cut on his right arm, causing him to drop his sword. He continued with the other saber, though, up until this new man, claiming to be an overlord, arrived.

He smashed the nearest undead's head in and turned to face him. "No thanks, I tend to hang on to it," Jaer shouted back. He started chopping insanly again, feinting an overhead swing but instead smashing the shin bone with his foot. By then blood loss was getting to him; how deep was this scratch?

When he went to look, Jaer almost got his head chopped off by an undead he didn't see. He smacked it with the flat of his blade, sending it reeling towards the ground. He looked at the cut again; it had almost reached his bone.

How in the...

Jaer had no time, though, because more undead were coming, blades swinging widly. He tested his arm with a stick that weighed more than his dagger; it hurt, but he could hold it. He dropped the clumsly wood and pulled out his jeweled blade that had killed so many and started hacking away, darting in and out of the undead's attacks.

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