Haeo

From the weakest goblin to the Strongest god

@Jangel13, I wish I could. I'm not sure that you ever told me what you had in mind. My last post was on page 17. Personally, I was wondering if Skrik would be encountering wolves from his tree/camp.

Roleplay about being trapped inside a roleplay: Adventures from the Place Holder

John was tuning out the vast amount of irrelevant noise and confused chatter. He had to control his power, the flow of it was something that he could feel inside him now. It would be difficult to control it for a little while and he would likely need quiet to meditate and focus on practicing. Unfortunately, quiet was not something that this tavern offered. But, for now, he was focusing on two things to the exclusion of all others. The first was his control. The other, the efforts and words of the person in the group who was of greatest interest to him.

"It is illogical to reject sensory information that has been repeatedly confirmed as well. I've thought about this kind of possibility before. Though, it was idle speculation at its best." He replied to Rosemarie's first statements with deliberate calm. He liked remaining methodical, but he was also buying time to recall his character design and specialization... and their implications. "To answer your question about skills... this character is a pure caster with a couple different kinds of spells with a focus on mastering a small group of persistent pets. In the long term, this character has no power ceiling and the pets don't have one either."

This character was also inherently capable of infecting the ecosystem with essence powered monsters in a chain-reacting storm of magically empowered evolution. But, he wasn't too eager to mention that part just yet. So, he paid attention to Rosemarie's attempt to use her own character's magic. It was far from the unintended and immature outburst that had been his first experience. She actually achieved some moderate success... and then she crashed to the floor. John found his new state of being to be rather impulsive. He had already stood and reached down to grasp her arm and help her up before he realized suddenly that he was not nearly as strong as he was used to being. This was driven home by his awareness that he had failed to help her up and had instead only managed to pull himself down to the floor, kneeling beside her in mildly stunned silence with a subtle hint that he may have bruised his knees.

"This... is going to be a challenge... and... we've already attracted some attention." He had finally noticed the visitor at their table. Whatever it was, it was far from being anything comparable to them. He turned to this new addition to their local patch of the growing chaos with a discerning eye. "Pardon our... distraction. My name is Jo.." He paused and smiled bitterly. "Fardur... Fardur Nearsigt. Would you care for... a snack?"

Pursuit of Power

Klase had only so many moments before he was engaged by the King who had been leading the Primferan soldiers. The King of Primfera conducted himself with dignity, though he seemed to be suppressing some distaste. It was no shock to Klase that any king should prefer to have one of their own subjects attain honors rather than the subject of another Kingdom. Klase showed proper respect in both body language and tone but said nothing of real substance beyond thanking the monarch for the acknowledgment and also for the offer of patronage, however unlikely his acceptance would be. There was little enough time for such things and the King of Primfera seemed to share that thought, departing as swiftly as he had begun the exchange. There was no time to brood over the meeting. There was little enough time to save those who could be saved and he could ill afford the distraction.

The wounded who yet breathed and those whose minds had suffered the greater blow were being escorted to their homes or to nearby shelter where they could be treated. It was a swift and valiant effort. The common people of the city rushed to the aid of the fallen, yet for all the good will and determination of those who responded the cost had already been far too high.

The beast lay dead, oblivious and caring nothing about the level of harm it had wrought. This was no victory, not really. Victories were for warriors who bested each other in combat, battles of flesh and will where honorable conduct reflected well on the defeated as well as on the victor. This was merely the extermination of a pest that had run free too long. And Klase had counted the cost.

More than two dozen lay dead from Exodus alone, another half-dozen from Earthica had joined them along with a few who were difficult for him to identify by garb or appearance. In all, more than thirty people lay dead and more than a dozen were wounded but still breathing. If what Klase had learned about the populations of the Kingdoms was accurate then more than one percent of all humanity had perished already, and all because one mutated bear had learned to pass the wall. Such ‘victories’ could easily make humans extinct.

Klase felt little but bitterness, though he hid it behind a mask of stoic endurance as he worked to organize the chaos of the scene. Some would no doubt cheer over this victory. After all, a commoner without fame or title had managed to achieve such a kill, and in the sight of a foreign king as well! Surely this would bolster the pride of his fellow Earthicans and he had no doubt that it is what would be expected of him as well. The princess who would be waiting for him on the morrow would likely be expecting a head held high and a warrior prepared to receive a reward for such a ‘great feat’. Perhaps she would expect a show of loss or sympathy, perhaps a little false humility and self-depreciation. The thought of putting on such a show was enough to raise his bile and sour his spit. All he had really done was put a stop to an already devastating defeat before it became even more catastrophic.

His mood was as dark as the blood-stained mud that half-covered him.

The night’s grisly tasks distracted him from his thoughts as he applied himself with greater fervor but they did nothing to relieve the sick and hollow feeling in his gut. It was difficult to say who would survive from those who had been wounded. Even with careful tending, the odds of infection were high. Yet, they still had a chance to survive. Klase would not disgrace that fact by counting them among the dead. As grim as the night had been, the fight for survival was far from over. As bitter and bloodied as this trip had become since he came to this city, the dawn did eventually come.

A new day was creeping nearer, and it brought with it that awareness of the future that gives no peace. He had come to this place with tasks to accomplish. No matter this tragedy, those tasks still needed doing. No, they were even more important to accomplish because of this horror. And, with his newly earned notoriety, some of them would be far easier while one in particular could be nearly impossible. At least, it would be nearly impossible if he were alone.

“Da, I need your help.” Klase said quietly as the first rays of true dawn began to brighten the sky and warm the morning. The two men had been sent back to their quarters as more and more women and local citizens arrived to aid in the tending of the wounded.

The other four from their party had divided themselves up into two groups. One was busy skinning and dissecting the bear so that warriors from all kingdoms could study the twin skeletons that had made it so difficult to kill and train themselves accordingly. The other group was focused on getting the stall set up and preparing to be proxies for their companions who would be too busy making up for lost time to attend the full extent of the funeral ceremonies. Commoners rarely had the luxury of spending a full day in mourning the fallen. Survival and the needs of the many came first. And so, the two were alone in their room, seeking to cleanse themselves of the blood, mud, and filth of the night before.

No one was idle enough to suggest a fancy floral perfume or complicated bathing ritual when there were wounded and dying men downstairs. The two men made due with an ample amount of cold water and suitable soaps. Telt sat on the edge of a bed, his hair still damp from his latest turn at the tub. He had far less filth to clean off than Klase who had been unfortunate enough to be splashed with ample quantities of bloody mud, to say nothing of the other… leavings of the battlefield that he had handled during the clean-up.

“What is it, boy?” Telt showed his concern on his face but the look in his eyes spoke volumes of what he suspected.

“I don’t think that I’ll be able to go to the King. Not now that so many eyes will be on me. It would be… too dangerous. Can you deliver the… gifts that I brought for him in my stead?” Klase asked as he continued washing himself. The mud and scent of blood were proving a challenge to remove.

“I can do it for you, son.” Telt said without hesitation but he continued with the tone of a mild reprimand. “Just remember what we came here for, all of it.”

Klase paused for a moment as water dripped from his hair defined arms into the basin. His face was mostly concealed by his hair but it twisted into an expression of barely repressed rage and desperation as he remembered that he would have to ‘work and woo’ as soon as the mourning day was over and the festival resumed. His head turned and the two men’s gazes met and locked as firmly as blades. The tension in the room rose dramatically, but only for a moment. Klase closed his eyes and took a ragged breath, resuming his cleaning as he calmed himself.

“Duty remains… Aye, Da. I remember.” He said softly, his voice thick with emotion.

Telt looked at his foundling son with sympathy, but his voice was firm and unwavering.
“I know you can do this, son. Remember that it doesn’t matter if the one you woo is rich or poor. Don’t close any doors that you don’t have to. Every lass and lady of age is a chance, well… unless they be married already.” Telt grinned a little, teasingly, at this little quip. “Not that you’d be looking for that kind of trouble, of course.”

Klase said nothing. He knew that his father was trying to improve his mood. But, he could not bring himself to do more than finish washing and begin his final preparations without a word. He had been informed that he was to present himself to the princess in her study after the formal mourning ceremonies were concluded. So, he needed to dress in mourning black. Yet, he hadn’t packed any black clothes. The necessary dye was fairly difficult to acquire back home and they hadn’t made any sales yet so he had no coin to use to purchase it. In lieu of black, he donned his most understated garb. It was still hunting leathers and tunic but it was of high quality craftsmanship in a dark brown with no embellishment and the tunic was a dark enough gray as to make his respectful intent clear. His hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, his beard was well combed and his blades were well maintained and rested upon his hips with a simple leather band serving to bind the weapons into their scabbards. He carried them in case of another incident but had bound them so that they could not be drawn quickly as a sign of his caution and honesty. He looked thoroughly respectable and respectful. And with a limited budget, there was only so much finery that could be expected of a nameless commoner from Earthica.

Yet, as he made a fringe appearance at the mourning ceremony near its conclusion, his appearance was the only thing that might have drawn reproach. His conduct was perfect. In fact, it was too perfect. No commoner should know such polished etiquette. Yet, it seemed effortless. His presence was subtle and unremarkable, making no stir to disrupt the proceedings, but his glacial eyes were piercing and intense. None of those few who noticed him could hold that gaze for long. He saw the Princess making her rounds, fulfilling her duty. She seemed… brave. She was shouldering an unpleasant duty with admirable dedication and honor. Klase was impressed.

He also noticed that he had been spotted by one of the guards, shortly after the princess had gone into the palace to continue her duties. That guard and he exchanged a brief but meaningful look that culminated in an exchange of subtle nods. Then the guard went inside, passing a whisper from one guard to another until one whispered in the Princess’ ear. She began working her way out of her social obligations and proceeding inside. Klase waited for a few minutes before he followed her into the palace. Once he entered, one of the guards gave him directions to the study where the princess would be waiting.

As he walked through the halls, following directions toward the study, all he could think about was the balance. The balance upon which survival depended. Not his survival, not even his country or kin, but the human species as a whole. His work thus far had brought back valuable goods from the brink of oblivion but he was bound to keep secrecy until his King decided to make it public. His sword had ended one small threat to human survival but not before it had exacted a terrible cost. It twisted his innards and the weight of his knowledge felt as though it would snap his very bones. But, a deep breath restored his composure, pushing the weariness and frustration deep into the brilliant depths of his gaze and it was with grace and poise beyond his station in life that he approached the study door. He was surprised that there was only one guard outside, a token of honor and care in a dark and distracted day. The guard opened the door and motioned for him to enter but did not announce his arrival with anything more than a discrete knock on the door’s frame. It seemed that this was to be an informal meeting after all.

His first sight of the princess had been in public and her demeanor had been perfectly maintained. Here too, in private, her composure held strong. Yet, it was too perfect to be anything but a mask. Klase could not blame her. He too was wearing such a mask. He greeted her with a perfect bow, precisely and genuinely executed. His voice too was respectfully soft, lacking any trace of the boisterous spirit and wild warrior pride that his countrymen had displayed prior to his arrival in the city. Yet, he was no mere bumpkin from the backwoods and his eyes seemed to be by turns, piercing and gently reserved. He knew she was a young woman who had secrets to keep, and respected them and her, even as he kept his own mysteries closely guarded.

“Princess, I am Klase Gale. I was told that you wished to see me.”

He was not blind to her beauty, but it did not confuse him. He knew of her wealth, but it did not entice him. He understood that his position would allow him to demand almost anything, but there was no sign of greed or desire in his demeanor. If anything of his inner state was perceptible through his mask, it was that he was weary and determined. That determination was the focused will of a man who looked at the pitiful tool in his hand and then set to work carving a mountain into gravel without complaint. Here was a commoner who carried the world on his shoulders and didn’t want it to show.

Though, he did find himself distracted briefly by the memory of his father’s words. In particular, he recalled that he was not to reject any woman as a prospect for his ‘wooing’. It was an embarrassing and frustrating thought.

From the weakest goblin to the Strongest god

My patience... may end up becoming legendary... for I yet remain.

Pursuit of Power

@Aamaya and @Lord Zee, Sweet post you two! Now I'm looking forward to the healer and the Primferan King's perspectives even more! With those pieces filled in, the battle scene will truly be complete.

Pursuit of Power

The night was quiet and the rain beat a soothing rhythm on the eaves as it drenched the streets below. The inn was still and peaceful, those within sleeping deeply from too much food and drink. Yet, not all were so oblivious.

In one of the upper rooms there sat three pairs of watchful eyes. While some slept, others kept vigil. Such caution might seem excessive to those accustomed to the safety of walls and soldiers. But, these were commoners. They had little to protect them from the terrors of the night but each other and the scant defenses of their villages. Their caution was a hard won prize of terrors past. Tonight, it proved a valuable prize indeed.

The first sounds of death were enough to draw those watching eyes. They sought the source from the relative safety of their dark room. As battle was joined and the beast came into view the three pairs of eyes became six as their companions joined them at the window. It would be a good chance to see the warriors of Exodus at work. But, the beast survived, survived, and continued killing. It took wounds and did not slow or seem to be weakening.

“I’ve hunted beasts like this. They should have killed it by now…” The voice of that same older man was a whisper, barely audible to those beside him.

“Something’s wrong. It’s… different than the others.” The younger man replied as his hands found his bow and sheaf, stringing the bow and checking its tension and bindings.

Then the two fell silent as a small group of Earthican warriors charged into the fray, waving their weapons with abandon. Yet, instead of relief and confidence, their charge brought only fear and weakness to the men in the upper room. Solveig was not unknown to them. Before his death, several of the men in the room had been getting their weapons ready to join the fight by his side. In the brief quiet that followed his death, those weapons fell from suddenly worthless fingers.

Through this, all that the young man and his father did was watch and prepare. The older man checked his axe and gathered a shield from his pack. The younger one loosened his blades in their scabbards and checked his bow one more time. The arrival of the Primfiran soldiers and their King was a surprise to them, but while those who had dropped their weapons in fear began to grumble bitterly against the cockroaches for coming so late to steal the glory the young man stood from his perch and stepped out the window onto the heavy wooden overhang that kept the rain from the room below.

“Klase!” The old man’s harsh whisper carried farther than he had intended in his surprise. “Don’t get yourself killed!”

Klase raised his bow and pulled a heavy arrow with a strong tip from his quiver. “I won’t. I was trained by Telt, retired captain of the guard. I know how to survive.” He knocked the arrow and drew it back to his ear as he lined up the shot.

“I’m going below to lend my shield.” Telt said, rising from his place to go downstairs and use the door, like a civilized old man. The other men voiced protests against fighting alongside ‘Primferan cowards’. Telt only responded with a ‘harumph’ as he brushed past them and walked quickly and quietly through the inn and out the front door. He made little noise as he moved into a space between two of the Primferan soldiers. He kept pace with them, neither charging nor retreating. Yet, whenever the beast’s claws seemed likely to break the formation he placed his shield in the path and deflected the strike before dodging back behind the fence of spears. He was one who knew the value of surviving a battle, but more than that, he also knew that a beast didn’t care if its foe was honorable or not. Beasts didn’t need killing by soldiers. They needed killing by hunters.

A few moments after Telt joined the fray the first arrow found its mark, driving deeply into the body of the beast. Yet, it seemed to stop too soon. The beast stretched and struck again at the offending spears and the arrow within its body snapped… twice. Klase heard that sound as it carried well and far through the organized chaos below him. “Twin-bone…” He muttered as his eyes narrowed and he readied another arrow. This time, he aimed for the knees, the hips, the shoulders, the elbows, the neck. Arrow after arrow cut through the rain with far more power than normal for a bow. Their impacts sounded like distant thunder as they audibly cracked bones. But, time after time, the sound of the shafts breaking inside the wound echoed the impact as the twin skeletons of the beast shifted around each other, levering against its muscles to snap the stout wood.

The pain of its wounds was starting to show and the beast’s movements finally seemed to slow. It was taking its time now, listening for openings and trying to lure the soldiers in closer. It was clever, for a beast, but its vision was too poor for it to find where these painful strikes were coming from. The missiles cast by the Primferans were successful in confusing it but they hadn’t been biting deep enough to strike anything important. Against a normal beast of this kind, the Primferan King’s strategy would have already proven lethal.

Klase dropped his bow back inside the room along with his empty quiver and softly jumped the six feet to the ground, landing as softly as a man his size could. His piercing gaze marked the location of every man and corpse in view as well as the beast itself as he began to make his way along the faces of the buildings, keeping quiet and maintaining a watchful eye on the Primferan King as well as the movements of the battle. He moved softly and carefully, avoiding the wounded and the dead alike, until he reached a place where he was downwind of the beast. Here he stopped and drew his swords as quietly as he could. The flash of a distant lightning bolt reflected off his glacial eyes and cold steel alike. He was ready to kill and cautious but neither eager, nor afraid.

Klase and Telt shared a glance and a muted nod. Telt knew what his son needed from him. He spoke to the men around him and to their king without turning his eyes from the beast.

“Hold or give way but keep its eyes here!”

With that he began striking his weapon against his shield and singing an old and bawdy warrior’s drinking song to the rhythm of the blows. The beast became agitated at the noise and lunged at the line in that place again and again. The spears kept it at bay but several of them broke from its confused swipes. Yet, the soldiers held their nerve and did not break. The presence of their King clearly bolstered their morale. During this cacophony, Klase used the distraction to close the distance until he was just close enough.

The lightning shone off of the axe that still remained in the beast’s shoulder. Then he struck. Lunging forward, he coiled his body tightly into as small a space as he could by the beast’s right side while he used a hooking thrust to stab his short sword into the beast’ left leg from behind. He had not underestimated the beast’s reaction.

It spun instantly, swinging both forepaws in a powerful swipe that would have sent Klase flying. But, he was crouched so low that the blows missed him by inches. For a brief moment, the beast’s forelimbs were extended to its far side and its head was extended, seeking the new threat. Klase suddenly uncoiled his body in an explosive surge of power, sweeping his sword in an upward arc with enough force to carry his own body a foot off the ground. His blade stopped just before contacting the muddy street. It had flashed through its arc as though it had struck nothing at all. Yet, a moment of stillness followed that strike.

Then the beast’s head fell free from its body to splash into the mud. Its body lingered upright for a moment before joining it with a great splash of mud and blood as its own veins emptied their contents to complete the staining of the ground. Klase stood where he was. The splash had covered his back and his left side in filth. His victory was clear. Yet, he did not cheer or shout out his triumph.

He simply straightened his posture and began to check the fallen for life, sparing a moment for a brief nod of respect to the soldiers of Primfera and a short bow to their King whose experience and strategy had made his maneuver possible. Telt, however, stepped toward the kill to retrieve the axe from its shoulder and the other weapons that the fallen Earthican men had wielded. They would be sent back with their bodies, if it could be safely done. Then he signaled to the inn for the others to come down and do what they must for the fallen. And wounded.

The fighting was over. The real work was next.

Roleplay about being trapped inside a roleplay: Adventures from the Place Holder

The start-up for this game was proceeding apace. Craig’s antics and slovenly conduct were consistent with prior experience, although he was putting a great deal of effort into trying to be dramatic. Well, a great deal of effort relative to his standard mode of conduct. The other players were gathering with the usual banter and disrespect for the GM. He was… deserving of such opinions. Still, preparedness helped. The notebook that John had used for his character was only the physical copy. There was a digital one as well.

He felt a little pang of sympathy for Rosemarie. Cheese powder left terribly persistent marks on paper. Though he was glad to see her pleasure at the sushi. He had done well in paying her back. He took another brownie, woefully neglecting his own sushi in favor of the treat as he felt a tremble. It wasn’t from his body but it didn’t feel like an earthquake either. He paused a moment but took a bite before letting himself begin quietly brooding about the odds of structural instability in a house where Craig lived. It was not a reassuring line of thought.

Then the tremble returned as a great rumbling disruption that broke many of the things that Craig had often abused and tipped over John’s chair, leaving him briefly on the floor. He did manage to regain a crouching position as he focused on the glowing book.

John was an educated man. He knew instantly that this kind of behavior was unnatural. Scientists would have twitching fits if they saw this kind of display and weren’t able to immediately discredit either it or their own eyes.

“Craig!” He yelled into the din. “What kind of gypsy-kissed-broken-mirror-store did you buy this book from!?”

Then Craig was gone. The room was gone. It was quiet but for the soft murmur of the conversation of strangers. He was sitting again but on a simpler chair. And… he looked around to find that they were clearly in the common room of a tavern. He was also wearing decidedly unfashionable and heavy robes. And, he felt… weak… irritatingly weak. The others looked… vaguely like themselves but they were clearly not… not anymore. They had been… forced to don the identity of their characters.

He looked to his left and saw what could only have been Rosemarie… or rather her character. She was looking him up and down at the time and their eyes met. In that unguarded moment, he saw surprise and worry in her eyes as she covered her mouth in shock. She was rapidly diverted from her appraisal of him to her shock and embarrassment at being suddenly as scantily clad as her character. John was momentarily grateful that he was not easily embarrassed, otherwise he would have been blushing at what she was wearing. But, another impression was demanding his attention without mercy or patience.

That reaction would probably not be the first time he would be pitied in this wretched and weak body. Still, some part of him felt a surge of unreasonable anger, subtle and primal, at being so disrespected. He controlled it, with some little difficulty, and was suddenly and chillingly aware of the reality of their situation. He also felt a subtle warmth from where his hands rested on the table, one still holding a half-eaten brownie. There was a slight darkening of the wood around his empty hand, as though a fire had burned there for just a couple moments before being put out.

“It’s not a dream and we’re not hallucinating. That wretchedsonofarabidlemurtoadspawnedhermaphroditehooker managed to make us part of his game.” His voice was cold and hard and the exceptionally elaborate and creative curse he used was spoken so quickly that only a very attentive ear would have been able to break it down and fully comprehend it. Such insults were a bad habit of his that only came up when he was close to losing his composure, a thing that none of his current company had seen as yet. His certainty came from that brief moment of foreign rage. It had been an unwritten aspect of the changes made to his character in his backstory, a side-effect, in a sense.

Pursuit of Power

I only just got my character's intro in... his name hasn't even been used IC yet. One way or another, I'm going to pursue his story further. I hope that I can continue with at least some of you and in this setting, even if things have to change a bit.

Pursuit of Power

I live and read... and wait.

The Patriarch's Return

But should it be filled with French waifs?

Bump