If you want to play both Fallout 3 and New Vegas, I'd recommend trying out A Tale of Two Wastelands.
3
likes
3 yrs ago
You're a rock star
3 yrs ago
Unless the problem is in the air.
1
like
4 yrs ago
If they at least have the decency to say that they're leaving instead of simply ghosting the RP, that's good enough to me.
7
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Bio
I originally got into forum roleplaying on the official Bethesda Game Studios Forums in 2007 or 2008. When the forums were replaced with Bethesda.net, I was one of several close-knit Fallout RPers who came here.
Argus was shocked upon seeing what lay within the bear-boar as he beheld its true nature. Not a mere beast, but an undead puppeteer and its fleshy puppet. As a necromancer himself, he was no stranger to just how deeply nature could be twisted with a little creativity, but this thing managed to be unnatural on every single level.
The shock was only momentary, however, and quickly was replaced not with horror or disgust, but aggravation. Even after heading onto land, these undead were still hounding him. He wouldn't even get the consolation of the beast's blood- this thing was surely well past the point of feeding upon.
At least the skeleton could serve an outlet for his frustration.
Ever the dirty fighter, Argus lunged his head forward and bit down upon the skeletal wrist of the hand that had grabbed him, intent on biting the hand off and releasing his sword hand from its grip. Once his arm was free, he'd swing his sword diagonally at the skeleton within, aiming to strike both its neck and a few of its arms. Without its appendages, the puppeteer might not be able to manipulate its puppet.
Following the knights' victory in the tomb, Fleuri departed the tomb, one last task to complete, but not before thanking Gerard for putting Armand's morningstar to good use. He returned to his family mausoleum and returned the weapons to the hidden compartment. Here, they would rest, until the next time that House Jodeau was called upon to bring release to the desecrated dead.
He himself had not done much in terms of fighting the undead aside from the shambling corpses in the antechamber, but from the look of the battle downstairs, Sir Gerard had gotten good use out of Dawn's Break in his scuffle with the reanimated corpse of the Demonbreaker. Remarkably, the weapon looked entirely unscathed from whatever combat it had endured in the former mercenary's hands. His own use of Candlestick appeared to have been a bit more minimal, but it did at least see some use against Alfrid. The last to be returned to the plinth would be any unexpended holy water vials. His family's contingency had proved its worth, and he would need to remember to inform them how helpful these tools had been.
Fleuri slept soundly that night, although he could not stop thinking about the fight against Alfrid. The warrior's moves, his deft and masterful swinging of that heavy axe, occupied his mind both during the night and even after awakening. It in fact inspired him to spend his precious downtime sparring and practicing his swordsmanship, trying to make sense of what he had experienced fighting that warrior. Other times, he sought out the knights that clashed with Jeremiah and Erich, desiring to see what they could teach him of those fights. He enjoyed sparring with Gerard in particular. The man's commoner, mercenary background meant that the two had plenty to teach one other, and despite their differences, Gerard held no disdain for Fleuri. Swordplay was not the only skill that he sought to hone in this time, however. He also spent some time riding, seeking to refine the dismount he had performed on the griffin. By the end of the week he was even beginning to combine dismounting and attacking, riding past an imaginary foe only to jump off and attempting to strike them with the momentum of his descent.
After about a week, Fleuri had been feeling quite pleased with the progress he was making in sharpening his skills. Then came that turbulent, humbling night.
Fleuri gripped his neck, disoriented and dizzy at the outcome of his last duel of this strange arena. As his bearings returned, the knight recalled what had just happened. His last foe in this otherworldly arena had been a Vos Korvungand warrior, some hero from the glory days of Taleria, far removed from the craven raiders that the first Iron Roses had had famously crushed.
The northerner's style reminded him of Alfrid, but with much greater finesse, swinging a heavy axe as deftly as most knights could swing an arming sword. He had battered aside Fleuri's blocks, pushed through his attempts to parry, and in the final act of the duel, grabbed the blade of the knight's greatsword with an uncovered hand, utterly unfazed at the blood drawn. Fleuri had only a moment to realize that the warrior's other hand was bringing the axe towards the knight's neck with incredible speed, then everything started spinning.
Ah, that's what that was... he mused as the realization of what happened dawned on him. I was too slow that time...much too slow...
This experience had not been wholly unfamiliar to him- he was, after all, a veteran of tournament combat. However, there was no audience, save a strange, silent dark-haired woman. There was no holding back- for all foes came at him to kill. And there was no death- those he had struck down vanished, and when he was slain, he reappeared where he started, fully healed and restored.
Whatever this was, it was more real than any tourney he had ever fought in.
There was little hope of actually achieving a victory, now. Each foe was deadlier than the last, and they had already crossed the point of solidly surpassing him some time ago. The most that he could do was take note of his defeats- who defeat him- the skill and techniques with which they struck him down, and how he blundered into it. All while this happened, the black-haired woman watched. Fleuri was no stranger to being defeated in front of massive crowds, and in front of prominent figures- it was just part of tournament combat- but this felt like he was being judged.
The ideal knight would relish this opportunity to fight such a myriad menagerie of foes without holding back, to be able to battle unrestrained and unburdened by the permanence of death or injury. They've be unfazed by both the pain and the defeats, and continue to face even hopeless odds unfazed. However, Fleuri was not that ideal knight. The shame of the cumulative defeats and the pain of the deaths had been fraying his resolve and weakening his spirit. If the goal was for the mysterious black-haired spectator find the knight's limit, he was sure that it had been solidly established many fights ago. At this point, his losses were feeling more like each a cruel reminder of how weak he really was.
Fleuri readied his greatsword for the next challenge, for the next foe that would no doubt remind him once again of his inadequacy as a knight. He knew that his next foe would be even greater than the last one, but he wasn't prepared for what emerged. It was a knight whose shining armor and youthful, androgynous face were well-known to him from paintings in Candaeln.
"Mirror Knight Florian..." Fleuri managed to speak, lowering his sword. He wasn't sure if he'd get an answer- it could just be a phantom.
"And you must be the one called the Flower of the North." Florian replied as he came closer. Fleuri was a bit surprised to hear the knight speak- could he be speaking to the spirit of the real Mirror Knight?
Fleuri found himself freezing up, his spirit suddenly too overburdened to move or reply. The shame of weakness, the feelings of unworthiness to stand before a founding Iron Rose all came rushing though him. He didn't even deserve to show his face to Florian.
"You were a tournament fighter before joining the Iron Roses," Florian cordially spoke. "How about it, Flower? Perhaps you would like to grant a duel to a fellow Iron Rose?"
Fleuri didn't know how to respond. All the foes that had triumphed over him so far, they were beneath Florian, and it helped drive the point home just how vast the gap in skill was between the two Iron Rose Knights. All this time, the mysterious woman watched, observing firsthand the weakness and inferiority of the present-day knight compared to one of its founders
Nevertheless, he couldn't say no to someone like the Mirror Knight. Consequently, he forced himself to raise his sword and inelegantly assume a crude combat stance.
Fleuri didn't deserve to stand before Florian, not in his pitiful, weak state. He didn't deserve to call himself an Iron Rose. His presence in the order tarnished the radiant glory of it and its heroes. Best to just let get it over with and let the Mirror Knight cut him down.
"Come now, I know you are better than this," Florian assured him. "Let me show you." Florian produced a greatsword almost identical to Fleuri's and assumed his foe's own stance, mimicking his foe's own movements in the manner that he was famous for. However, this was not the reflection of the broken, frozen man before him- through the tears that had distorted his vision, Fleuri beheld the graceful movements from when was at his very best. Not as Fleuri was currently, but at what he could be- what he should be.
Is this how the Mirror Knight sees me?
"...I see..." Fleuri managed to speak. If this was what he believed, if the Mirror Knight had faith in him, then he couldn't allow that faith to be misplaced. He stabbed his sword into the ground and moved his hands to his head to remove his helmet. He was still a little apprehensive about showing his face, but Florian deserved this courtesy, and besides, Fleuri didn't want anything to restrict his ability to see the Mirror Knight in action. He wiped his eyes and took his sword, assuming a proper stance with the graceful movements that Florian expected of him.
The duel that resulted was an enlightening experience. Florian was legendary for his ability to copy a foe's moves and techniques, and consequently, it gave Fleuri a unique opportunity to assess the flaws and weaknesses in his own technique. Every time he attempted to exploit those perceived weaknesses, though, Florian had a trick readied to counter it. Fleuri even attempted to employ one or two of the tricks that his previous opponents in this dreamscape had successfully used against him, but the Mirror Knight had an answer for them too- even when they fought using the same style, Fleuri's weaknesses were not Florian's.
The duel ultimately concluded with a sword thrust cleanly through Fleuri's neck, despite a clumsy attempt to parry it using one of the very tricks that Florian had employed previously. There was never question what the outcome of the duel would be. In truth, the only reason it lasted as long as it had was because Mirror Knight Florian had allowed it to. As with the previous duels, Fleuri vanished from his spot upon Florian's sword and found himself back where he started.
"Now there's the Flower of the North that I was looking to face," Florian complimented him despite the sheer lopsidedness of their scuffle. "It has been a long time since I've had someone use one of my own techniques against me."
There was much that Fleuri learned from this fight. About himself, about his combat style, and about moving forward. He might not be able to mimic foes like the Mirror Knight could, but if he applied what he learned from being so masterfully beaten at his own game, he'd surely be able to greatly refine his swordsmanship skills.
Upon awakening, it took a few moments for Fleuri to be sure that he was truly awake and back in his bed in Candaeln. The first thing he did was climb out and make his way to his desk. Still groggy and not fully awake, he lit a candle, fetched writing implements, and began to recount the dream in an almost trance-like state. He had to write it all down before the details faded from his memory like dreams often do. It was clear that the normal rules of dreaming had not applied to this dream- it was far longer, more painful, and more enlightening than any ordinary dream, but he wasn't going to take the risk.
He recounted the foes he fought, the defeats he suffered, and the mistakes he made in each one. By far the largest section was dedicated to his duel and interactions with the spirit of Sir Florian. He painstakingly recorded his duel down to the most minute details- he did not want to forget anything about that fight, for both practical and sentimental reasons.
There were also two other sections that merited extra attention- the duel with the Demonbreaker and the showdown with the dreadful dragon Volkstraad. Having missed the chance to do battle with Erich's animated husk in the tomb, and having just gotten his fire back thanks to the Mirror Knight, Fleuri had been quite willing to face such a legendary figure in a duel. The appearance of Volkstraad carried a much different tone. It was a malevolent, honor-devoid monster that took a saint to kill, and even then she did not face it alone. Even in the dreamscape, with its assurance of revival if killed, the terrible dragon's arrival had struck fear into his heart.
By the time he had written all he could, the sun had risen. Now fully awake, Fleuri dressed himself and exited his room. Perhaps he could seek out Dame Tyaethe- as a paladin and a founding Iron Rose, she'd be able to cast some light on this dream, and in the very least confirm or debunk the things he saw and heard within it.
Fleuri found Tyaethe sitting in the main entrance room, looking like either she was gearing up to go outside, or had just come from outside.
"Dame Tyaethe?" he asked, approaching. "I had a very strange dream last night, one that seemed to break every rule of dreaming. I don't suppose you could help me figure out whether or not it was just a creation of my imagination, or if it might be more than that?"
The creature's thick hide made it difficult for the vampire to injure, and it didn't seem fazed by any injuries. Many aquatic creatures were the same way, their thick layers of skin and fat making it difficult to get to their blood and vitals. If he wanted to kill this thing, he'd need to either cut deeper, or take another approach. After all, as tough as this thing was, there were so many myriad ways to bring about the end of a mortal being's life.
Fortunately, when the bear-boar reared up, it gave the vampire better shots at its vitals without damaging the pelt. In fact, it was precisely the underside where it'd need to be skinned from. Argus thrust his sword at the bottom of the creature's chest seam and thrust upward. Even if he didn't hit anything immediately vital in the process, this ought to make it easier to find and strike at something that would put it down, right?
Let's see what you look like on the inside, monster.
"You'll get to see the source of this destruction soon enough, Dame Luana," Ethelred assured her, making a point to use her new title. "Assuming, of course, the Harzelslack forces haven't moved it." The druid was certainly enthusiastic. Assuming she wasn't overstating her skills, she'd be quite useful in tracking down these wyverns, assuming they left any sort of trail or sign that she in any of her forms could pick up on.
"I believe the Harzelslack fort lies that way, not far from here, your highness," he answered Sorcha, pointing in the approximate direction of the fort. "The black wyvern perished right outside it."
Ethelred wasn't sure what the corpse would be like at this point, or how much Harzelslack had already managed to process it. It was a bit amusing that this dreaded beast, this powerful lord of wyverns, was now just a carcass to be butchered.
Ethelred made his way behind Sorcha and Luana to the throne room to witness the knighting. It wasn't something he needed to be present for, but he believed it was considered right and proper to attend the ceremony for their newfound ally.
In truth, he was a little surprised that Luana agreed to it. She hadn't exactly cast the impression as someone that would bind themselves to such a deep committment, especially after having only been with them a few days. On the other hand, Sorcha took just as big a risk in knighting Ethelred when he came to her. Sure, he had a bit of a reputation, but with his family's downfall, any knowledge of him would be hearsay, rumors, and spoken tales passed from mouth to mouth.
Being knighted had been quite meaningful for the Frozen Knight. The first reason was that he hadn't actually been knighted prior- knightood wasn't really a tradition in his family, and they saw no real value in the formality of it. If a man wanted to call himself a knight, if they deemed him worthy in strength and character, that was good enough for the Ethelings of Ceolread Castle. In fact, their own titles of Etheling were emblematic of their disregard for the others' perceived limitations of social mobility. In the culture they had come from, it roughly meant "prince", connoting to someone who possessed the standing to potentially become a king. By calling themselves Ethelings, it was understood that they were making a statement declaring themselves royalty, and defying the authority of anyone in this broken land- or anyone of their homeland- who dared to say otherwise.
If they were still around, they might have even suggested that being knighted by Sorcha was meaningless to them. To Ethelred, however, to be knighted by the returned King, whose court had codified the very concept of knighthood in Albion, was a very validating accomplishment and a great honor.
I hope she understands the full magnitude of the vows that she is making. Such an oath is not something to be made lightly.
The Steel Princess conceded a point that the necromancers would no doubt be at least somewhat aware of the Lions' presence. Her plan, however, already appeared to factor this in- they would not simply passively bait the foe out, rather the Lions would provoke them in an act of iconoclasm to rouse them into reaction. With any luck, Roger surmised, such a spur of the moment retaliation would prove sloppy and lacking in planning.
Velvetica announced that she was going to allow the Lions to volunteer for roles- at her sole discretion, of course. Roger already believed he knew the role he was most suited for.
Lirrah, the Nem merchant, was busy haggling with Kayliss for poison components. Roger wasn't sure if she'd be tagging along. She was quite useful as a supplier, and one could make the argument that she was too valuable logistically to risk in combat. On the other hand, she was also a decent archer and grenadier, made even more lethal by the disarming facade of harmlessness that she had mastered. Kayliss might be the Lions' dedicated assassin, but Roger suspected that Lirrah would be quite the deadly infiltrator if she needed to be.
Sir Guillaume had already volunteered to play the role as bait. No surprise there- he was the archetypical knight-in-shining-armor, the sort of beacon of chivalry and courage that Roger's mother would want him to emulate. This meant he would be just the kind of person whom they would expect would vandalize the necromancer's effigies with minimal regard for being retaliated upon even if outnumbered.
If they see him riding around and tearing their icons apart, they'd have little reason to assume that it's part of a trap, because that's just what valorous men like him do.
"Shortclaw and I volunteer to take part in the ambush team," he announced. "We're not exactly suitable to play the role of bait, but we're quite confident in our ability to outflank and pursue." The griffin rider looked around at the others, awaiting to see what roles the others would be volunteering for.
The necromancer managed to survive Gerard's attack, his chest caved in but still evidently clinging to life. Fortunately, Fanilly stepped forward and shut that dead-defiling windbag up for good. With the necromancer dead, his minions would fall with him. Erich would no doubt follow, although it was warmed Fleuri's heart to see that the famed Demonbreaker would return to death not as a necromancer's defiled puppet, but as the shining knight that he was in life. Armand Jodeau would surely be proud that his arms were used in this victory.
This ought to be be recorded the books, Fleuri felt. After the War of the Red Flag, the account of the Demonbreaker breaking free of a necromancer's hold and returning to his former glory to bring about the death of his tomb's desecrator was a tale that needed to be told, to serve as a reminder that even in its most disgraced hour, the heroism of House Cazt never died.
As for the lightning witch, she made no effort to continue to fight. For all intents and purposes, she was defeated. However, Fleuri still had his word to keep to Alfrid.
"Captain, I believe she's speaking the truth," he spoke up. "That warrior...Alfrid...in his last moments, he asked to not drag her any further into this, said that she's only here because of him. Just someone who got involved in the wrong crowd at the wrong time."
The authorities wouldn't be able to let her go, of course, but if both she and Alfrid spoke the truth, she wouldn't deserve to be treated as a ringleader of this conspiracy.
Roger said nothing as the others debated tactics for this battle. Shortclaw, meanwhile, was watching the exchange between Cadmon and Gisela, seemingly interested in their debate. It didn't matter much to the knight- Velvetica was the one who had the final say on the orders and plans. True, battles rarely went according to plan, but there was a big difference between going into battle intending to do something completely different than what you were ordered to do, and adapting to the changing battlefield even if it meant going against the letter of your orders.
Still, there was no harm in discussing tactics, so long as everyone could be depended upon to do as they were ordered.
Roger saw two merits in laying a trap for their raiders. First, it'd thin their numbers, robbing them of precious bodies to defend the camp. Second, it would provide Kayliss with disguises for her infiltration mission once their raiders are wiped out. He was unsure, however, how quickly the necromancers would react, both to the initial sighting of an ambush target, and to the subsequent failure of their attack.
As far as his own role went, Roger guessed that he'd be placed with the ambush team. His griffin wasn't exactly able to pose as a mundane caravan beast or lowly patrol mount, and the sight of them it flying overhead would alert the necromancers that something was amiss. There was a good chance that they'd be walking for much of this mission.
It was easy to forget the humanity of one's foes, especially during the heat of an intense fight. It was ordinarily quite unwise to consider such nuances in battle, because even a brief moment of hesitation or distraction could get a knight killed. Just like with Sir Rickard. Even so it was a melancholy sight to see a dying opponent overcoming the fear of the end, the excruciating pain of a fatal wound, and any grudge against his killer to face his end with dignity and use his last living moments to plead for the life of another. It wasn't a common thing, that was for sure.
"I'll do what I can, you have my word," Fleuri assured the dying warrior, raising the visor of his borrowed helmet, as to allow his foe to see his face and to give the man some assurance that his words weren't being received by a a heartless sheet of steel. There wasn't much else he could do there- there was no patching up this wound, and even if he could somehow save the warrior, to a northern warrior like him, it might even be considered a grave trespass to deny him a worthy death like this.
Fleuri was so distracted by the warrior's death, so caught up in not wanting the warrior to breathe his last alone, that when he looked up, he realized he was the only one left in the upper chamber. All the others had descended to continue their mission. After sheathing Candlestick and recovering his greatsword, he hustled down the stairs and deeper into the tomb. He could not allow himself to fail his fellow knights by falling behind.
When Fleuri reached where the others had congregrated, following the sound of the clash of metal and the cracking of lightning, he took a second to assess what what was going on. The first thing he noticed was that none of the Iron Roses had fallen. This was good- he didn't want them to have a repeat with Sir Rickard. The second thing was the foes they faced- several undead, a necromancer- no doubt the leader that the Nem mentioned, and near him, the Nem hostage. There was a female mage- presumably the mage woman mentioned by both the Nem and Alfrid- and an armored warrior battling the knights. The second warrior in the Nem's description of the conspirators, perhaps?
It took another moment for Fleuri register the warrior's armor.
Erich Cazt, the Demonbreaker.
Fleuri desperately hoped that he was a mindless undead controlled by the necromancer, and not a willing undead participant in this treasonous conspiracy. Part of his hope was because Erich was a formidable warrior in life and would be very difficult to take down if he was still in his prime, but most of it was because Fleuri desperately didn't want to believe that such a great hero could fall so far.
What followed upon his arrival would quickly answer that question. An arrow shot by Dame Cecilia sliced the necromancer's arm off, releasing his hold on the hostage. At this point, Fleuri watched as the armored figure of Erich grabbing Gerard and throwing him towards the necromancer, before ceasing his movements. Having fought necromancers himself, he was able to recognize the sight of a one's control over a minion slip, but the sight of an undead momentarily regaining its wits to turn upon its controller was something he had not previously witnessed.
Fleuri saw little need to mop up the remaining undead. Any that remained should fall once the former mercenary brought Armand Jodeau's morningstar down upon the necromancer.
It looked like another victory for the Iron Roses.
Just then, he noticed another figure in the room- a shadowy figure leaning against the wall, sarcastically congratulating them and mentioning a certain Damon who according to her had somehow weaved his own plans into this. Fleuri had no idea what she meant, however. Before he or any other could ask, the shadowy woman vanished.
If there was any doubt in Argus' mind that this monster was an unnatural creation, the seam upon its chest dispelled it. Somebody clearly made this thing and sewed it shut. Those same stitches, however, would provide an ideal place to fatally disassemble this creature without compromising its pelt any more than it already was. Assuming, of course, that he could get close enough to cut them.
That might be easier said than done, however, he concluded as the bear-boar began to charge, hurling its massive claws at the vampire.
First, Argus used his blood magic to spray a stream of his own blood in the monster's eyes, as to impair its vision. Then as it drew close, the pirate slashed at the underside of the first paw to come towards him, seeking to both turn the blows aside and hopefully lacerate an artery. The next paw to come at him would receive the same attack.
This would be much easier if he wasn't trying to leave a serviceable pelt, he thought.
I originally got into forum roleplaying on the official Bethesda Game Studios Forums in 2007 or 2008. When the forums were replaced with Bethesda.net, I was one of several close-knit Fallout RPers who came here.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">I originally got into forum roleplaying on the official Bethesda Game Studios Forums in 2007 or 2008. When the forums were replaced with <a href="http://Bethesda.net" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank">Bethesda.net</a>, I was one of several close-knit Fallout RPers who came here.</div>
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