Gods & Men: The Ancient Myths IC Thread

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GAME ROSTER

Champions of Good

Alazne de Alann (Human Basque Death Knight) ~ Meeky

Antilles (Human Athenian Ranger) ~ Johnny Blaze

Drzikoll "Goat" Drogan (Dwarven Warrior Scholar; Good) ~ Byrd Man

Hiro Shingen (Human Spell Sword Ninja; Good, Chaotic) ~ Actraiser


Walking the Line


Lords of Darkness

Charaun (Human Athenian Lich) ~ Johnny Blaze

Tyrant, Chief of the Franks (Orc Druid of Predation) ~ Blu

Ysvara Tar'Varrick (Drow Sorceress and Priestess) ~ Zacharius

Tyrant sat on his throne of wood, leather, and bones, stroking the once mighty blade Messer. It was the legacy of his people; the blessing of his great grandfather who lead this tribe as one of the most successful tribes in history. Great champions of foreign tribes came to beg for a place amongst even the common orcs of his tribe, while shamans came bearing riches and slaves for merely being allowed to exist. There was no force of might or magic that could strike down Messer or its wielder. At least, not as once. No matter how the storm howled, the mountain would not bow to it, but as the winds howled, for years and years, the mountain was weathered. Tyrant's ancestor grew meek with age, and while far from feeble, none were a perfect replacement. The tribe was lead, but by a poor choice. As the tribe grew weaker, Messer grew feeble, turning to stone in the chieftain's hands.

And enemies came.

The tribe, so fierce just years ago, had left a path of pillaging and ravaging in its wake. Many feared them, and bowed their heads to avoid their wrath. Now, they rose from their knees, lust for revenge that they had so long been able to satisfy. The stone blade, Messer, was chipped away, large chunks taken by enemies ranging from other orcs, to humans, to even an elven group of skirmishers. The shame of Tyrant's grandfather fell on his mother; a wise and potent mystic in her own right, but with no strong champions to lead.

And then, there was him.

Surrounded by members of his tribe, arrows trained and axes ready, the chieftain and the shaman of the Ironback tribe knelt before him, sweat on their brow.

The quivering shaman spoke for the two of them. "Our tribe offers our full allegiance. We believe you to be Gruumish's herald on Earth! Anything you need, we will give."

"Are you aware of our tribes' history, Mystic Thera?"

Tyrant got off his throne, Messer in hand. "Generations ago, this exact conversation was held before. Your tribe, swearing fealty to mine. Your leaders' groveling at the feet of our champion. And do you know what happened to that loyalty, Mystic Thera?"

He waved Messer at her. "Replace it."

The trembling mystic took a large, unimpressive looking shard of stone from the chieftain, and placed it neatly into a section of Messer that was dented away. The grooves between the blade and the shard glowed bright green, before sealing, though the crack was still visible. "You were one of many to betray us."

The chieftain looked up, belligerent, "Your tribe grew meek. Oaths and loyalty are nothing compared to that! If you grew weak, I would cut you down myself without a second of hesitation!"

The mystic looked horrified. Tyrant put Messer right against the orc's throat. "He doesn't mean that, Lord Tyrant! We will always...." But it was too late. They were past words. With a quick, but mighty blow, the mystic was bisected. Tyrant returned to his throne, staring down at the chieftain who eyed him with rage. "That was a proper orc response Chieftain of the Ironbacks. But never bring such weak willed filth as that mystic near my tribe again."

The rain pattered away at the dirt path, turning it to mud. The black, armored horse and its rider did not care. They plodded on.

The dark rider had been traveling for three days straight now without stopping. Rain, hail, and even howling winds had challenged the knight's passing, torn at the knight's cloak, tried to make travel an impossibility. Nothing fazed the rider or the horse. They simply plodded on, the rider seated firm and straight in the saddle, looking toward some manner of disturbance in the treeline, occasionally drawing forth the shimmering, silver blade and polishing it. The rider never spoke, though, and the horse never whinnied. It was as though they were only specters.

The sky began to clear a bit within the hour. The knight reached up and pulled up his - no, her helmet's visor, staring out at the distance with the most passive of expressions on her half-rotted face. Her pale green eyes took in everything: The trees, the distant river, a lonely mountain - and there, in the far distance, smoke rising from a humble hamlet. It could not have housed more than seventy people, judging by its size, and it was protected only by a simple, still unfinished wooden palisade. It was... Quaint.

Quaint, and too deep in the woods to be safe. Shaking her head, Alazne tugged her visor back over her face. Her black-eyed, nightmare steed picked up its pace.

It did not take them long to reach the village, and Alazne slowed her steed then. It was early morning, and the earliest-rising of the villagers were only just waking up. A few heads came out of doors; an ancient and withered minstrel looked up from the sombre tune he was playing at the village well. They weren't dressed in fine clothes, but they kept their brown, white, and black garb clean and pressed. Alazne felt a measure of respect because of that. They were certainly downtrodden, but they were proud. The knight, whose nature (and gender) was difficult to discern beneath her chainmail, dismounted near the old bard.

"What brings you to our village, milord?" came the old man's deep, curious voice. He propped his bony chin up on a balled fist, his forehead ruffling like old, pinched curtains. "Needin' refuge from the wear of the road, maybe?"

"No," the knight said with a raspy voice, shaking her head slowly, "though I am grateful for the offer." She let her hand rest where it was most comfortable: On her sword's pommel, pushing against it by the wrist. "I am a wanderer. I've come to see what I may do for this village. I will speak with your mayor."

Something about the knight made the old man uneasy. More heads were poking out of houses, now; it seemed the whole hamlet was waking up to see who this rider was. The minstrel stood up, took a heavy breath, then said, "That would be me, sir knight."

"Tell me what troubles your village." It was not a request, but a command.

"Well," he began slowly, "it so happens we've... Well, we've had troubles with orcs lately. We've two families in mourning, still."

The knight stared at the old man through her bascinet. The mayor knew to continue. "T'was a moon ago, miss. Three of our boys, and one child, were out in the woods with our village's best hunter. They were learning the trade, and..." The knight's stare unnerved the man, and so he simply got to the point. "They were killed, miss, 'cept the child and one'a the young men. Orcs found 'em, and hacked 'em apart before they could do anything but run. We haven't had orc troubles in this land in years, and the Romans aren't doing anything for us..."

"Which way?" Again, the knight was terse, and her voice commanded.

"South of here, by the river. One of the boys said he thought he saw them heading toward a fire south-west of there... There's an old fort near that, if you need a landmark."

The knight did not answer immediately. Instead, Alazne reached for a brown pouch at her side - a coinpurse - and set the thing in the surprised old man's hands. "Thank you," she said simply. Then, she reached up to her saddle, pulled herself atop it, and began trotting away from a confused old bard.

"Milord!" he called out. "Your name, milord - what is it?"

And that question she did not answer at all.


* * * * *


It had not taken her long to find the old fort by the river that the old minstrel had described. It was Gauls' work, long broken and in ruin from an old siege, likely long forgotten. It once must have kept watch over the forest, but now, it was just a ghost of the past.

Nothing was more fitting a place for Alazne to rest, not that she needed to... and its stone tower was still intact. It would be a good vantage point from which to search for an orcish camp.

Alazne left her steed outside, then began her ascent up the tower steps. They were old, rotting bits of wood against stone, and were wont to creak with every step she took. She could feel the wood groaning beneath her feet as she went up, and up, and up. She kept her hand near her sword, as always. In ancient ruins, no matter how small, something was always lurking, even if it couldn't be seen, smelt or felt. Something was always there.

It was as she was going up the stairwell, just as she began passing the fourth floor of the tower, that she felt it. It, however, was very tangible. It was an arrow in her side, piercing her chainmail and biting into the leather beneath, and the pale flesh beneath that. Alazne stopped and snapped her head toward the arrow's source, in the darkest part of the tower.

Orcs. Three of them. One was charging with an axe, another with a sword, and the third was setting another arrow against his bowstring.

It was a quick, brutal end. The axe-wielder swung at Alazne with all the might he had, but her blade was quicker. The sword shattered his fighting fingers, tore through his hand, split the axe's wood in two, then tore a terrible chunk out of his side. She met the sword-swinger's blade with her own, then again, and then disarmed him with a twist, a flick, and a flourish. He only had time to widen his eyes in shock before her sword's brilliant blade was rammed between his eyes.

An arrow embedded itself in her chest, and another flew past her ear. She ducked the third as it came at her, and she marched swiftly toward the archer. He was frantically about to try and shoot another arrow, but the death knight snatched his throat, and he dropped his weapon in shock and pain.

She held him there, above her head, then slammed him against the wall. He stared at her with a mixture of fear and hatred, expecting to die then. He did not.

"You will tell your master," Alazne said began icily, "that I am coming for him. You will tell him that the Black Knight offers him one chance to surrender, end his raids on the people of this land, or be eliminated. You will tell him I am coming, and I will not stop until the raids end or every last orc in this forest is dead."

She released the orc, who gasped for air. She let him catch his breath, and she watched him run down the tower like a bat out of Hell.

This was better than she had hoped. The orc would unwittingly lead her to his clan, or whatever might be commanding his clan. He would never know he was leading her to his people. They would negotiate with her or judgement would be served.

As the orc fled into the woods, the death knight mounted her horse. She waited a few minutes, then began to pursue at a steady pace.

The Enlightenment School
Rome
3 Weeks Ago

"Oral exam tomorrow," Professor Drizkoll "Goat" Drogan yelled after the students scurrying from his classroom. "Ten positives and ten negatives to Alexander's rule. Prepare for full rebuttal for all answers!"

The students gone, Goat jumped from the stool he stood on for class. His bulky frame bounced against the stone floor of the classroom. Righting himself, Goat waddled towards his dwarf-sized desk and surveyed the papers students had laid on his desk as they left the class. He plopped behind the desk and began to grade the papers, a pair of reading spectacles on his face.

"Goat," a voice said from the doorway.

He looked up and saw the thin man dressed in the gold and crimson colors of the school. While Goat himself did not wear his school pride so fervently, he wore a school crest badge on the label of his robes.

"I have a man who wishes to speak to you," said Marcus Crissus, the school's headmaster. Behind Marcus, was a squat fat man with a ruddy face and dark black hair. He wore the crimson red of the Legionnaires. "Professor Drogan, this is Legate Vibius Atius Calvus."

"Call me Goat," he said, rising from his chair and extending a hand to the general.

"Curious name," said Calvus, reaching down to shake Goat's hand.

"It comes with being born with a full beard."

"Well," said Marcus with a nod. "The Legate has business he wishes to discuss with you, Goat. I will let you two get to it."

Marcus made his exit and Goat led Calvus to a pair of chairs. Goat leaped up onto the cushioned seat while Calvus calmly sat.

"So," Goat started. "What in the world possesses a man who has Augustus' ear to come and see a dwarf scholar."

"How did you know--," Calvus started before being cut off by Goat.

"I keep up with current events," he said with a wave of his hand. "Also, lovely Triumph you had last year. It seems that, since the death of Caesar, we don't see as many as we used to."

Calvus grunted in acknowledgement, rubbing a fat cheek with his hand.

"Well, be that as it may, I have come to you for a reason, Professor Goat... how much do you know about Greece?"



Greece
Now



Nearly a month later, Goat was passing through the Greek countryside. He was strapped on a miniature horse, riding at a gentle but fast pace. He needed to hurry to his destination. Time was against him in this case, the clock had been ticking ever since that day he had turned down Calvus' offer to head up the Roman army's expedition into eastern Greece.

Goat wasn't sure how much of the Legate's story was true, but it was certainly one worth taking a risk for. If he hurried and worked quickly, he could be gone before the Romans could even get to Greece. They were an effective fighting force, but much more slower moving than one dwarf and a tiny horse. He had a crude reproduction of the map he had drawn up in his office, as best he could remember from the map Calvus had shown him. On his back was the large battle axe that had seen him through many a scrap, on each hip were the two throwing axes he could throw twenty yards and still strike a man in his skull.

With his guide and his weapons, Goat squeezed his legs around his mount and urged the beast to hurry along its way.

Somewhere in the hillsides of Epilus, Greece...

It was nearly midday, but the sun was nowhere in sight as the sky was completely blanketed with a dense, gray ceiling. Though no rain had fallen yet, it was only a matter of time before the sky's opened up. At least, that's what Antilles, who traveled via horseback down an old dirt path in between the forest covered hillsides, surmised. Shelter in the forest would be easy enough to find though, and, besides, a little rain never hurt anybody.

"It's almost lunchtime, isn't it, girl", Antilles spoke to his horse as he patted her on the neck.
"And we have been riding since before dawn..."

Antilles scanned the area sharply, looking for a good place off the beaten path to rest up for a bit and get some much needed food in both his horse's and his own stomach. The latter which was promptly telling him via it's grumbling that this was indeed the right choice.

"Let's see if we can find ourselves a good place to relax for a bit..."

---

Antilles leaned forward and stoked the fire, the flames of which licked the bottom of the small pot that contained his nearly simmering soup. The log he sat on was freshly fallen from one of the nearby trees that surrounded him in the little glen just few dozen yards off of the road. His horse stood calmly a few meters away, munching on a bowl of oats.

As he stirred his soup, Antilles began to feel a light sprinkle of rain begin to fall against his skin. Looking up, Antilles smiled as the rain began to pick up a bit more; not quite a downpour, but more than a light shower.
Though there were times in which he felt homesick, missing his home of Athens, it was out here in nature that Antilles felt one with the wider world. Out here he was in contact with nature, basking in it's splendor and living off what the Earth provided him.

Antilles got up, gathered the proper items, and began to set up a small rain-catch to fill up his waterskin. As soon as he finished setting it up, his horse began to get agitated...frightened.
That's when the ungodly roar echoed across the hillside and through the clearing. A large shadow shot down from the sky, a stream of pure white frost blasting out of one of it's heads as it came. The freezing breath struck Antilles' horse, freezing the poor animal solid.

Antilles cursed under his breath as he rolled and dove towards the log, grabbing his bow and nocking an arrow as the monster crashed into the other side of the glen, the ground trembling a bit on the impact.

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All four of the chimera's heads eyeballed Antilles with hungry malice as the white dragon head reared back, intending to loose another blast of frigid breath. But Antilles arrow flew fast and true, striking the head right in it's snout, causing it to jerk back and bellow in pain.

The lion head roared, a sound that resounded across the entire area and would unnerve lesser men, and the creature charged. Antilles gritted his teeth and stood his ground, nocking another arrow and firing, scoring another solid strike on the dragon head.

Antilles' ducked quickly, dropping his bow, as two torrents of venom from the snake heads of the monster's tail came in aimed for his eyes. Antilles drew his sword as the chimera was nearly upon him, each one of it's snapping heads looking to tear him to pieces...

The orc archer stared back at her as she followed him to the edge of the forest. "You will see what happens to the proud when the challenge the Tyrant's Throne." He walked a ways into the forest, then shot an arrow into the sky. Something was odd about this arrow though. Even though she was a decent distance away, the arrow seemed to scream through the air as if it had just wised right past her head. As she pursued the orc, something bizarre happened to the forest. There was no sign of the orc archer, or his passage. In fact, there were no clear signs of direction in the forest at all; normal methods of navigating woods revealing conflicting information. There were at least six directions that should be due north, according to basic survival training. As she moved, the underbrush grew thicker, and the bushes all had thorns. While next to useless for piercing her thick armor, they were adamant in their attempt to entangle the nightmare. While the flames burned away most plants, they were soon replaced with sap soaked vines, proving to be much more resilient to the fire.

Tyrant watched from nearby, several trees away, manipulating the battlefield to his advantage. His druidic powers allowed him to walk through the thickest brush as if it were a road. His novice knight was too sure of itself; coming to fight without knowing anything about the prey. It was made worse by the poor decision to bring a large horse and a heavily metal suit of armor through nature's domain. If she was as bad as he thought, he might be able to render her completely helpless before he even needed to arrive.

Magic was warping the forest. That was obvious. Alazne was an intruder, and someone was trying to keep her out... and test her.

Alazne did not know who - or what - was trying to keep her back, but she knew they had the advantage, and she knew the power nature could harness. The force wanted to see her expend her resources (what little she had), wanted to see how she combated the forces before her. It wanted to learn what she had to bring to bear.

The archer was getting out of sight... but that was, perhaps, not so much a problem. If the orc and this unseen conjurer were in league with one another, then defeating the conjurer would mean one less dangerous foe to face later. She knew, too, that for the forest to still be defying her, the sorcerer had to be nearby... Unless they were truly powerful.

The death knight dismounted, her chainmail 'chinking' as her boots hit the ground. She drew her sword, and simply shredded the upstart plant life before her in clean, practiced sweeps of her blade. The vines and thornbushes gave way to that, though one vine managed to grab her by the arm. She simply yanked it loose with superior force.

"If you are aligned with the raiders," the knight announced to the unseen sorceror, "then you are my enemy. If you are not, then your efforts are misguided." No more words were needed. The knight rested her blade on her shoulder, listening carefully to the sounds around her. She let her dread aura, a tool she normally kept slightly in check, flow freely from her as she let herself listen. Fear, she knew, could cause a man to act oddly, rashly - or to act at all when it was a poor decision. If the sorcerer dared to move when he felt fear, she would hear him. She would find him.

Halfway through the day's journey across the hills of Greece, a cloud and light rain had passed overhead. Grumbling, Goat pulled the hood of his cloak up and let the horse continue at a slow pace through the soft mud of the road. There was a soft rumble of thunder somewhere off in the distance, too far away for the lightning to even flash across the horizon. With a soft cluck of his tongue, Goat urged his small horse to pick his speed up as they came over a hill.

There came a sudden and disturbing roar through the air. Goat's horse neighed and bucked, spooked at the noise. Goat grabbed the reins of the frantic horse and steadied him back to normal. "The hell has gotten into you," he said angrily. "And what the blazes made that noise."

Somewhere down below, there was a clash of steel against a hard surface. Goat glanced down and saw what had caused the roar and spooked his horse.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Johnny Blaze

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"Oh," he said softly. "No wonder you were spooked."

As the beast raged, Goat noticed a man trying to fend off the multi-heads of the monster. With a sigh, he slid his battleaxe from the holster strapped to his back. With one hand on the reins, the other hand holding his axe high on the hilt, Goat urged the horse forward into a gallop down the hill and towards the attacking monster.

"I liked that horse", Antilles muttered as he rolled out of the way from the snapping maw of the lion's head. One of the lion's paws came down at him, and Antilles, still rising from his roll, was unable to avoid it as the feline claws slashed through his tunic and scrapped against the elven chainmail underneath. The blow sent Antilles sprawling to the ground, but otherwise unharmed; the chimera's attack would've torn through normal chainmail, but the mithril links of his elven armor held firm.

Antilles frantically scrambled backwards on his hands and feet, narrowly avoided the horns of the goat head meant to gore. He would have to be sure to say a special prayer to Hermes should he survive this.


"I've had about just enough of this", Antilles stated as the snake-headed tailed whipped in at him, venom dripping from it's fangs. But Antilles blade was just a bit quicker, and the chimera howled in a mix of pain and rage as the two snake heads fell to the ground in a splatter of black blood as Antilles' blade slashed clean through.

Suddenly, with a loud screech, Anima, Antilles' falcon, dived in like a lightning bolt cast from the hand of Zeus himself and slashed at the chimera's lion head as she zoomed by, avoiding the snapping maw of the white dragon head. The attack did no harm to the chimera, but it did allow Antilles to scramble to his feet and gain a bit of distance.

"All right, monster", Antilles stated as he squared off against the now irate and snarling chimera, "where were we?"

It was then that, out of the corner of his eye, Antilles caught the glimpse of a most welcome sight bounding towards them from the hillside treeline.

With a loud bellow, Goat raised his battle axe high and jumped from his galloping horse. While the miniature horse stopped short, rearing up as its rider sailed through the air, Goat flew towards the Chimera with the razor-sharp blade of his axe aimed for the neck of the goat's head. An appropriate target, thought Goat, as the blade sliced through the monster's neck and stopped at the base of its neck bone. With blood spurting from the wound, Goat held on for dear life as the third head of the monster shook violently, trying to toss the dwarf and the lodged axe from its neck.