I GUESS I'll stop holding up the story. This was a somewhat difficult post to write, not to mention probably more words than Linus is going to speak in the entire rest of the game.
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"Where is the King?"
If only the Elven leader could know how recently those words had been repeated by others. In Areta, when even the royal bedchamber was discovered empty. In the Captain's quarters, whispered with an edge of bitter futility as their quest had pressed on. How they echoed, accused, demanded beneath the inscrutable blank helm of the rider now hunched atop its steed, mounted in silence as the young monarch himself gave his speech. Like the ghosts of his fallen brothers, flanking him loyally, even in death. One hand kept a firm grip on the reins as the traumatized mount twisted its head, whinnying plaintively with fear and adrenaline, starting back and forth and pawing at the sand with shaking legs. Thin breaths hissed in and out of the perforated helm in a low, metallic wheeze. Where is the king?
The act reached its conclusion, but there was no applause. No apology No protest or clearing of throats. Only when it seemed the desert could hold its breath no longer did that dry, broken voice shudder from beneath its iron shell.
"You think this a game?" it rasped.
The figure dismounted heavily, advanced. The standard of Areta, dusty and ill-used, that had not left Linus Kolbe's hand since the previous night, was thrown down to the glittering desert sand.
"An Elfish pantomime? You think yourself a hero, to sing upon a stage, beyond which lies nothing?"
The inscrutable helm was torn off, thrown to the baking sand as the standard had been, the abhorrent visage of death exposed to the blinding sun. Kolbe's hands took the front of the King's tunic in a hard, merciless grip, neither of the other two men immediately able to believe what was happening.
"Gerald of Antour--" Alonso's feet left the ground. The world heaved to one side as the caked earth of the canyon slope thumped hard against his back. "--Konrad Falkenberg. Good brothers! Loyal to the crown! Husbands! Fathers! GONE! Do you understand?" Kolbe screamed it up at him, voice ragged, "THESE MEN ARE DEAD FOR YOU!"
It was even more horrifying up close. Barely human. Tortured flesh and incurable lacerations, glistening with desert sweat. One white eye staring from a ragged, red pit, the other burning with a hot, unspeakable fire that was not sanity, that was not madness. The knight's shoulders heaved with raw, labored breaths as the words were torn from his throat, almost as if unbidden.
"Areta rots while you dally with harlots," Alonso was pitched backward, the hot earth thumping against his back once more a moment later. "Frolic with Elfen scum! Crows circle the empty throne. Barons and foreign sorcerers sharpen their knives. Your people are fatherless 'neath the shadow of carrion birds! Forgotten! Abandoned to chaos, to dogs like Harking! On a whim!" He rasped, "A boy's whim!"
"Kolbe, that's enough!" The Captain barked sharply, snapping out of the nightmare, "Stand down, that's an order! Kolbe! LINUS! You swore an oath! This is your KING, damn it!"
"Where?" Kolbe turned, pointing an accusing finger, leaving the apostate monarch to slide to the baking sand. Mister Hooves stamped, nostrils flaring, still turning tight circles behind him. "Where is my king?" he croaked, "Where the sapphire and the gold? Where the jackal, and the scale?"
He bent, snatching up the beaten standard. Red-tinged sand hissed from the dusty blue fabric as he held it palm-up in shaking mailed hands, horizontal to the earth.
"Duty, is a heavy burden. All my brothers knew this. Knew fear. Pain. Stared into darkness. But we gave no ground!" he turned back to Alanso, "Do you understand? Did as we must! Paid a price, greater than a golden ring, and a woman's bed!
"You seek traitors? Look to a mirror, and search thine own heart! And if still you would run, trade the crown for a vagabond's cloak and the kingdom for a ditch, then go! But this--" He paced closer, pointed; the grim visage with its canvas of unspeakable wounds as horrible now as ever. "THIS is the face you're spitting in!
"Thus I ask you. Because I must know." Kolbe's voice was strangled, now, winded, as though the flood of words had worn red what was left of his throat.
"Are you my king?"
If only the Elven leader could know how recently those words had been repeated by others. In Areta, when even the royal bedchamber was discovered empty. In the Captain's quarters, whispered with an edge of bitter futility as their quest had pressed on. How they echoed, accused, demanded beneath the inscrutable blank helm of the rider now hunched atop its steed, mounted in silence as the young monarch himself gave his speech. Like the ghosts of his fallen brothers, flanking him loyally, even in death. One hand kept a firm grip on the reins as the traumatized mount twisted its head, whinnying plaintively with fear and adrenaline, starting back and forth and pawing at the sand with shaking legs. Thin breaths hissed in and out of the perforated helm in a low, metallic wheeze. Where is the king?
The act reached its conclusion, but there was no applause. No apology No protest or clearing of throats. Only when it seemed the desert could hold its breath no longer did that dry, broken voice shudder from beneath its iron shell.
"You think this a game?" it rasped.
The figure dismounted heavily, advanced. The standard of Areta, dusty and ill-used, that had not left Linus Kolbe's hand since the previous night, was thrown down to the glittering desert sand.
"An Elfish pantomime? You think yourself a hero, to sing upon a stage, beyond which lies nothing?"
The inscrutable helm was torn off, thrown to the baking sand as the standard had been, the abhorrent visage of death exposed to the blinding sun. Kolbe's hands took the front of the King's tunic in a hard, merciless grip, neither of the other two men immediately able to believe what was happening.
"Gerald of Antour--" Alonso's feet left the ground. The world heaved to one side as the caked earth of the canyon slope thumped hard against his back. "--Konrad Falkenberg. Good brothers! Loyal to the crown! Husbands! Fathers! GONE! Do you understand?" Kolbe screamed it up at him, voice ragged, "THESE MEN ARE DEAD FOR YOU!"
It was even more horrifying up close. Barely human. Tortured flesh and incurable lacerations, glistening with desert sweat. One white eye staring from a ragged, red pit, the other burning with a hot, unspeakable fire that was not sanity, that was not madness. The knight's shoulders heaved with raw, labored breaths as the words were torn from his throat, almost as if unbidden.
"Areta rots while you dally with harlots," Alonso was pitched backward, the hot earth thumping against his back once more a moment later. "Frolic with Elfen scum! Crows circle the empty throne. Barons and foreign sorcerers sharpen their knives. Your people are fatherless 'neath the shadow of carrion birds! Forgotten! Abandoned to chaos, to dogs like Harking! On a whim!" He rasped, "A boy's whim!"
"Kolbe, that's enough!" The Captain barked sharply, snapping out of the nightmare, "Stand down, that's an order! Kolbe! LINUS! You swore an oath! This is your KING, damn it!"
"Where?" Kolbe turned, pointing an accusing finger, leaving the apostate monarch to slide to the baking sand. Mister Hooves stamped, nostrils flaring, still turning tight circles behind him. "Where is my king?" he croaked, "Where the sapphire and the gold? Where the jackal, and the scale?"
He bent, snatching up the beaten standard. Red-tinged sand hissed from the dusty blue fabric as he held it palm-up in shaking mailed hands, horizontal to the earth.
"Duty, is a heavy burden. All my brothers knew this. Knew fear. Pain. Stared into darkness. But we gave no ground!" he turned back to Alanso, "Do you understand? Did as we must! Paid a price, greater than a golden ring, and a woman's bed!
"You seek traitors? Look to a mirror, and search thine own heart! And if still you would run, trade the crown for a vagabond's cloak and the kingdom for a ditch, then go! But this--" He paced closer, pointed; the grim visage with its canvas of unspeakable wounds as horrible now as ever. "THIS is the face you're spitting in!
"Thus I ask you. Because I must know." Kolbe's voice was strangled, now, winded, as though the flood of words had worn red what was left of his throat.
"Are you my king?"
If I may ask, @Life in Stasis, what is the next step? I was assuming that the knights would have a standoff of sorts with the elves but given the numbers (2 vs 17?) that seems rather impossible.
He's right; We'll need GM intervention or those Elves don't stand a chance.
Nice, looking forward to meeting everyone IC.
YOU MESS WITH THE CROWN, YOU GET THE HOOVES
Metal heels thumped into the horse's flanks. The mount's bellow sounded across the plain, echoing back dully from the rocks as it was thrown into a gallop, sending the pair thundering across the dry earth. Linus flattened himself against the saddle, the fluttering standard held low like a jouster's lance. A tarnished, horseshoe-shaped medallion graven with the name "Mister Hooves" jingled from the mount's tack. Linus glared at it a moment through the perforations of his helmet. Poor name. Lacking purpose. Would have words with Falkenberg if he still lived.
They drew nearer, pounding across the sands. The Captain spoke true. This was their charge. But his mind circled even as his focus was honed to a narrow point. Why run? 'Twas no callow defiance. A trap? No. Unthinkable. Couldn't have anticipated this meeting. Perhaps simple fear. Perhaps some grander gesture. Perhaps something to do with the curious absence of the boy's companions. Answers would be had soon, for the distance closed, nearer and nearer.
The King's mount turned sharply, cantering down through a pass Linus couldn't have perceived even had he known it was there, descending into a dry, shallow valley. Kolbe drew hard on the reins, twisting the mount's head painfully to one side. Mister Hooves lurched, singing in protest, twisting its body to follow, legs gouging a furrow into the earth and skidding a good three meters before slowing enough to turn, throwing up a glittering wave of sand in their wake. Reckless. Stupid. Couldn't follow now. Continue, then. Use the elevation to see how the land lay. Avoid further surprises.
Kolbe thumped the horse into action once more, slowly building to a gallop along the crest of the ridge. He leaned hard in the saddle, gripping it tightly as he looked below, tossed up and down by the relentless pace. There -- a white blur, trailing a billowing cone of dust. The Captain was in close pursuit, keeping pace with the boy, unwilling to endanger a child of the Royal bloodline but clearly losing patience. The valley was narrow, but treacherous, serpentine. Their apostate master could not outpace them, but they could be lost. It was time to force a resolution.
Linus pulled. Another primal bellow rang across the empty plain, one that the other two riders were puzzled to find drawing rapidly closer.
The desert in front of Alonso exploded into a heavy fountain of dust and silica as Mister Hooves landed bare meters in front of him, ploughing into the sand and skidding near a forty-degree angle, legs scrambling to control its momentum. The standard of Areta, stained, torn and ragged at its end, flapped above the cloud, held high in one tarnished, armored fist.
They drew nearer, pounding across the sands. The Captain spoke true. This was their charge. But his mind circled even as his focus was honed to a narrow point. Why run? 'Twas no callow defiance. A trap? No. Unthinkable. Couldn't have anticipated this meeting. Perhaps simple fear. Perhaps some grander gesture. Perhaps something to do with the curious absence of the boy's companions. Answers would be had soon, for the distance closed, nearer and nearer.
The King's mount turned sharply, cantering down through a pass Linus couldn't have perceived even had he known it was there, descending into a dry, shallow valley. Kolbe drew hard on the reins, twisting the mount's head painfully to one side. Mister Hooves lurched, singing in protest, twisting its body to follow, legs gouging a furrow into the earth and skidding a good three meters before slowing enough to turn, throwing up a glittering wave of sand in their wake. Reckless. Stupid. Couldn't follow now. Continue, then. Use the elevation to see how the land lay. Avoid further surprises.
Kolbe thumped the horse into action once more, slowly building to a gallop along the crest of the ridge. He leaned hard in the saddle, gripping it tightly as he looked below, tossed up and down by the relentless pace. There -- a white blur, trailing a billowing cone of dust. The Captain was in close pursuit, keeping pace with the boy, unwilling to endanger a child of the Royal bloodline but clearly losing patience. The valley was narrow, but treacherous, serpentine. Their apostate master could not outpace them, but they could be lost. It was time to force a resolution.
Linus pulled. Another primal bellow rang across the empty plain, one that the other two riders were puzzled to find drawing rapidly closer.
The desert in front of Alonso exploded into a heavy fountain of dust and silica as Mister Hooves landed bare meters in front of him, ploughing into the sand and skidding near a forty-degree angle, legs scrambling to control its momentum. The standard of Areta, stained, torn and ragged at its end, flapped above the cloud, held high in one tarnished, armored fist.
I never knew that we needed someone who was not used to the life until I read started reading Devi lol. I like how she's kind of out of the loop - it suits her for some reason.
Ha, yes -- I didn't consciously plan it, but it's what they call a foil. Usually that's between characters (we have a few of those going on here,) but in her case it seems to work on the setting as well.
Finally got a stupid post up.
That is a weird way of spelling "awesome".
Pah. Keep posting, Elf scum. You only add to the list of crimes you'll have to answer for when Linus and Mister Hooves come to collect.
Devi Rana | Regalia - En route to Safehouse
Devi leaned against the window, watching the city disappear. The glass vibrated against her cheek, the reflection of her painted eyes staring back at her as they drove further and further into the empty foundations of Regalia, picking up speed.
It was a strange, lonely feeling.
She never drove herself anywhere anymore. There was always someone waiting, ready to open a door and make sure she ducked through it. Today, that was Jim Hawj; a doughy, loyal Hmong thug with a shaved head and round-framed sunglasses that never seemed to come off. Devi's eyes kept drifting to the black submachine gun nestled beside the driver's seat. She'd never really considered what it was for until today.
The zone outside the window was empty. It FELT empty, as though this part of the city had simply atrophied and died from loss of blood. Concrete structures loomed like tombstones, stripped warehouses laying open like the carcasses of dead whales. There weren't even any rats. But there were cars outside her destination as they pulled in. She wasn't certain whether that was a good sign or a poor one.
They slowed, tires grinding to a halt against dirty concrete. Her driver pointed.
"Hong's car." He muttered, nodding toward an askew BMW parked in front of a set of black treadmarks . "Shit got real."
Devi blinked. "Beg pardon?"
"It's fine, ma'am."
"No, it's not fine," she leaned around the seat, trying to look him in the eye, "I want to know what you meant by 'shit got real'. I've just walked away from a set of assassins, I wasn't expecting it to get any realler. If there's something I should know then I want you to tell me."
"It's fine, ma'am." he repeated. "I watch front entrance. Just in case motherfuckers not get memo."
He patted the gun, firmly. Devi threw up her hands and got out of the car.
Gloved hands tossed her red-and-gold silk scarf closer around her neck as the wind cut through the back of her coat. The clicking of her heels echoed back at her forlornly, amplified by the vast theater of the warehouse as she stepped through the wide doors. A dark labyrinth of painted metal crates towered in front of her.
"Hello?" she called, a soft chorus lilting back at her from the four walls, fading and dying by degrees.
No, of course not. Too easy.
It's true that anyone in the know would have no difficulty navigating the dense maze of shipping containers. But Devi was not in the know. Whether by accident or design, nobody had introduced her to the Regalia branch bolthole during her brief engagement with the Ariella Syndicate. She didn't know the route.
But she knew labyrinths.
Mazes followed rules, basic, simple, mathematical rules. Understand the algorithm, and you could understand the mind of the architect. She had a regular subscription to the Minotaur Society's puzzle books. This was the sort of thing she did for fun. And it was the kind of thinking that had in some part gotten her headhunted by the Syndicate in the first place.
It took two false starts before she had it nailed as a poor man's Hopcroft–Karp sequence and found herself standing in front of the red container. A panel set into its side rotated with a smooth, mechanical whine, revealing a hi-tech retinal scanner. Devi stared at it.
"...got to be joking." she murmured, leaning in to present her eye to the glass.
There was a clunking, and a dull thunder of machinery as the far end of the crate opened into a cargo elevator, radiant in white light. Devi stepped inside, wrapping her arms around her waist. A sleek security camera that looked as though it were designed by Steve Jobs caught her eye. She glared up at it, gesturing toward the doors.
"I'm sorry, I thought I was working for a criminal fraternity, not James Bond."
The doors closed.
She was going down.
The doors opened with a musical chime. Devi stepped out of the elevator, feeling less and less real by the moment. The safehouse was bright and comfortable, more like an upscale train station than the modern oubliette she'd been expecting. The facilitys other residents had already made themselves at home. Quinn Gyles she knew. A well-groomed, boyish-looking man of some reputation, though what that reputation actually was, nobody quite wanted to tell her. People tended to stop looking her in the eyes when she pressed the matter.
Along with him slouched a petite Asian woman shoveling chocolate pretzels into her mouth, who looked vaguely as though she wanted to spit in Devi's face on general principle. Devi wondered, briefly, what her role in the organization was. Was that her car outside? No. You know what, never mind.
She clicked over to the inset sofa, easing herself down and crossing her legs as the huge television flickered silently. Her fingers toyed with the maroon leather handbag in her lap.
"Why--" she cut herself off, recrossed her legs, digging her nails into her temple. "Why was I nearly killed in my own office, by the people I'm supposedly working for? They seemed to think there was some sort of conspiracy going on, that I had something to do with it, and I'm fairly sure they were simply going to kill me and then hunt down the loose ends through the books. This is not actually how I wanted to spend today."
It was a strange, lonely feeling.
She never drove herself anywhere anymore. There was always someone waiting, ready to open a door and make sure she ducked through it. Today, that was Jim Hawj; a doughy, loyal Hmong thug with a shaved head and round-framed sunglasses that never seemed to come off. Devi's eyes kept drifting to the black submachine gun nestled beside the driver's seat. She'd never really considered what it was for until today.
The zone outside the window was empty. It FELT empty, as though this part of the city had simply atrophied and died from loss of blood. Concrete structures loomed like tombstones, stripped warehouses laying open like the carcasses of dead whales. There weren't even any rats. But there were cars outside her destination as they pulled in. She wasn't certain whether that was a good sign or a poor one.
They slowed, tires grinding to a halt against dirty concrete. Her driver pointed.
"Hong's car." He muttered, nodding toward an askew BMW parked in front of a set of black treadmarks . "Shit got real."
Devi blinked. "Beg pardon?"
"It's fine, ma'am."
"No, it's not fine," she leaned around the seat, trying to look him in the eye, "I want to know what you meant by 'shit got real'. I've just walked away from a set of assassins, I wasn't expecting it to get any realler. If there's something I should know then I want you to tell me."
"It's fine, ma'am." he repeated. "I watch front entrance. Just in case motherfuckers not get memo."
He patted the gun, firmly. Devi threw up her hands and got out of the car.
Gloved hands tossed her red-and-gold silk scarf closer around her neck as the wind cut through the back of her coat. The clicking of her heels echoed back at her forlornly, amplified by the vast theater of the warehouse as she stepped through the wide doors. A dark labyrinth of painted metal crates towered in front of her.
"Hello?" she called, a soft chorus lilting back at her from the four walls, fading and dying by degrees.
No, of course not. Too easy.
It's true that anyone in the know would have no difficulty navigating the dense maze of shipping containers. But Devi was not in the know. Whether by accident or design, nobody had introduced her to the Regalia branch bolthole during her brief engagement with the Ariella Syndicate. She didn't know the route.
But she knew labyrinths.
Mazes followed rules, basic, simple, mathematical rules. Understand the algorithm, and you could understand the mind of the architect. She had a regular subscription to the Minotaur Society's puzzle books. This was the sort of thing she did for fun. And it was the kind of thinking that had in some part gotten her headhunted by the Syndicate in the first place.
It took two false starts before she had it nailed as a poor man's Hopcroft–Karp sequence and found herself standing in front of the red container. A panel set into its side rotated with a smooth, mechanical whine, revealing a hi-tech retinal scanner. Devi stared at it.
"...got to be joking." she murmured, leaning in to present her eye to the glass.
There was a clunking, and a dull thunder of machinery as the far end of the crate opened into a cargo elevator, radiant in white light. Devi stepped inside, wrapping her arms around her waist. A sleek security camera that looked as though it were designed by Steve Jobs caught her eye. She glared up at it, gesturing toward the doors.
"I'm sorry, I thought I was working for a criminal fraternity, not James Bond."
The doors closed.
She was going down.
The doors opened with a musical chime. Devi stepped out of the elevator, feeling less and less real by the moment. The safehouse was bright and comfortable, more like an upscale train station than the modern oubliette she'd been expecting. The facilitys other residents had already made themselves at home. Quinn Gyles she knew. A well-groomed, boyish-looking man of some reputation, though what that reputation actually was, nobody quite wanted to tell her. People tended to stop looking her in the eyes when she pressed the matter.
Along with him slouched a petite Asian woman shoveling chocolate pretzels into her mouth, who looked vaguely as though she wanted to spit in Devi's face on general principle. Devi wondered, briefly, what her role in the organization was. Was that her car outside? No. You know what, never mind.
She clicked over to the inset sofa, easing herself down and crossing her legs as the huge television flickered silently. Her fingers toyed with the maroon leather handbag in her lap.
"Why--" she cut herself off, recrossed her legs, digging her nails into her temple. "Why was I nearly killed in my own office, by the people I'm supposedly working for? They seemed to think there was some sort of conspiracy going on, that I had something to do with it, and I'm fairly sure they were simply going to kill me and then hunt down the loose ends through the books. This is not actually how I wanted to spend today."
Likewise! That's one thing about written RP, it really makes you aware of when you don't have unoccupied time.
edit: get posted
edit: get posted
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