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The Tired One

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In Mass Effect: Phoenix | A 24th century adventure in space → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay


In Mass Effect: Phoenix | A search for a Captain and Co-GM → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
@Andreyich

There is a good bit of lore here! I’ve been enjoying reading it thus far!
In Fire Emblem: The Slumbering Goddess → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
@Obscene Symphony

Red is best color
In Fire Emblem: The Slumbering Goddess → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
@Achronum

I have no idea :D
In Fire Emblem: The Slumbering Goddess → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
I'm prolly gonna be an innocent commoner boi.
In Mass Effect: Phoenix | A search for a Captain and Co-GM → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
I am always interested in a Mass Effect roleplay, so count me in!

In Fire Emblem: The Slumbering Goddess → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
@POOHEAD189

Don't worry brother. I have equally no clue what I am doing.
In Fire Emblem: Three Houses Interest Check → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
In Fire Emblem: Three Houses Interest Check → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
I’ll throw my interest in!
In Empire of the Dead → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
The Road

A Collab between Lauder and Cyclone


The land itself was weak in these parts a ways south of Leria’s neck. The soil had become thinner and more ashy, having rapidly lost much of the fertility that it’d had in centuries past. It was hard to believe that this was once the breadbasket for many a Lerian kingdom and duchy, the land carved out and sectioned between small farmsteads and clustered hamlets in some parts with keeps, castles, knightly manors, and larger farm estates in others. Now it all just seemed empty, the lords in their great homes and halls having met the same grisly fate as the peasantry. Between the innumerable decayed houses that had been abandoned and left to collapse even by the undead, half-fallen fences wrapped around old pastures choked with weeds, but never in any of those fields or in any old barn or stable would one see the remains of dead animals -- all of those had been long since taken and put to use, or had left on their own after having been brought back by dark powers.

Though death had yet to fully conquer these parts, its cold grip was tightening. There were signs that the vegetation struggled, for the trees had sickly yellow leaves that would bud and then slough off not long after, leaving the scraggly branches always half-naked as if locked in perpetual autumn. Rather than taking on the hue of verdant green or even the yellow of parched fields or hay, the little blades of grass seemed somehow anemic, faded and just...colorless. A similarly gray and bleak morning sky loomed above the rural hills, accompanied by a crispness in the air that hinted at coming rains. The wind was lively enough, but everything else that moved was anything but; a large band of travelers followed a winding, cobbled road carrying themselves with dead silence, dead eyes, dead bearings.

Among the band there were well-equipped guards numbering at least two score, about twenty in the front and that many again in a rearguard trailing behind, with the rest scattered intermittently in a thin screen along the long procession’s flanks. The guards all marched on in perfect lockstep without the slightest hint of fatigue or deviancy. In that manner the caravan journeyed on through the morning just as it had done throughout the whole night and the day before.

Between the vanguard and rearguard of armored ghouls, there was a great caravan. Porters, well over a hundred, carried burdens of crates and sacks over their shoulders, in their hands, sometimes even upon their backs. Others drove the dozens of wagons that rolled in a long train over the road, pulled by draft animals every bit as ghastly as the rest of the ghouls. And in the middle of it all there was a lavish palanquin carried upon the shoulders of a half-dozen undead. The merchant named Faustus was of course the one sitting atop the thing; his was probably the only palanquin in all of Leria. Even before the Fall, when haughty nobles ruled this land and flaunted their unearned wealth in near every way imaginable, these sorts of litters had never been seen; the lordly types had preferred to ride those great and majestic warhorses that cost as much as houses, or for longer trips they oft used great big wagons with plush cushions and velvet inside, and shelves filled with books and other things to make the idle time pass.

His palanquin came from a near-mythical land called Salarmand that lay far to the east, across many mountains and seas. It was styled in the manner as the litters of the princes and lords of the eastern realms from whence silk came, with a canopy and silk curtains to shield the wearer from the elements and from unwanted eyes. And it was smaller than a wagon, with just a seat for him to sit upon and enough space on the sides to stack a few of his papers and ledgers, but that was fine. He did not need books to idle away the time for he was not at rest, far from it. As the only revenant around to keep control of all his ghouls making up this vast band, he remained ever vigilant. From his heightened position he peered through the transparent silk curtains and observed the passage of his caravan, occasionally issuing commands or directions when they came upon a fork in the road or somesuch. Fortunately he was able to save much of his breath as this was an easy and familiar enough path, being the most direct route from the southern ports by the White Straights (where they’d begun this journey) to round the Bight and then head up to Necron itself, the capital of this empire of the undying.

Caravans were almost always smaller than this one, but otherwise were a frequent enough sight upon Lerian highways. Even the undead had their needs and consumed certain goods, so industry of a variety of sorts remained essential and abundant enough. Labor was now in no short supply either, and slavering ghouls more often than not seemed to make for better and more manageable workers than had the living peasantry. Quarrels and trade disputes between the various revenants major and their respective minions happened on occasion, but by and large, commerce had boomed. Despite the Pax Mortis, patrolling ghouls or watchmen still existed as a relic of the past when the living, be they beast or man, occasionally made nuisances of themselves by preying upon small parties of ghouls or attacking poorly defended infrastructure. Up ahead, atop a hill that stood above the others, there was the silhouette of one such sentry. They lurked in high places all across the countryside, like scarecrows, or shadows, nominally guarding the borders of their masters’ fiefdoms in perpetuity. Nowadays their real primary role was to act as mere border markersor semi-intelligent signposts able to mutter garbled directions to any slavering ghouls stupid enough to both find themselves lost. Of course, the sentries also came with the beneficial side effect of being able to keep tabs on the comings and goings of the neighboring (and quite possibly rival!) bands of the undead while they were at their posts, or to alert their masters of any passersby.

As the caravan drew nearer, the near-skeletal sentry atop the hill suddenly stirred from its stoic reverie to lean forward and inspect the oncomers a little closer. After a few moments it threw its head up to the baleful light of the sky, opened its maw, and unleashed a harrowing and long-drawn howl. It shrieked for what must have been five or six moments, until every last ounce of air had been forced from its lungs, or whatever decayed cavity was left within its innards. The cry resounded off the hillsides, seeming to echo, but in reality being repeated in a relay of sorts. Another ghoul about a half-league away repeated the call, and then another one a half-league away from it, and so on. The message was clear--wait. The lord-revenant of this country would doubtless be on his way to find the source of that call, and he would expect the ones at his border to remain in their place until then.

Faustus peered at the ghoul above with displeasure; up until then, they had been making good time. Though the heads of the many ghouls in his retinue had all snapped to face the howling sentry, their march had gone on unabated even if a hint of trepidation might have entered their mechanical motions. Faustus leaned forward and brushed aside the silk curtain to speak, ”Halt the procession.”

The revenant’s voice came low and soft, icy and distinct, like the touch of snow upon flesh that still lived and felt. The words found their way through the rotted ears and into the head of a ghoul that marched immediately in front of his palanquin -- his ancient. In contrast to its own crude and decaying form, the standard-bearer held high a well-kept and freshly dyed banner upon a long and polished haft of wood, the bottom of the shaft terminating with a metal knob. Twice in quick succession the ghoul slammed the metal end of the standard down upon a cobblestone underfoot. That rapping was the signal that ordered the caravan to stop, and so stop it did. Then came silence, the sentry above still gazing emptily at the caravan, with some of Faustus’ ghouls returning the stare, some shifting their gaze to their master, and others peering off absent-mindedly into the distance or empty space. The waiting began, and Faustus’ mind wandered.

Even as the land in these climes could be called struggling by the standards of the living, the earth remained just fertile enough, and the days likewise just bright enough, to support agriculture yet. So scattered here and there throughout the mostly empty countryside were some of the old manors that remained in use, occupied by revenants major and minor; in some cases, by the very same knights and lords that had owned those lands in life. Around such occupied manors were vast fields of grain tilled and endlessly watched after by ghouls -- here was where the production and trade of the prized aqua vitae began. The master of that sentry above was probably just some revenant who managed such a plantation or brewery, but there were of course other possibilities too, and remote as they were, the Whisperer was a suspecting sort with a wandering mind. His talent for intrigue came in part from that constant wariness that bordered upon paranoia as he mused over near every possibility of danger, no matter how remote.

In parts where there was no industry at all to speak of, the revenants major still had need for supplies and yet had little to offer in turn. It was not unheard of for revenants major who faced such limited prospects (or who were simply particularly quarrelsome) to become robber barons and exact a toll upon all passerby, or rapaciously levy supplies from the nearby wards of other more productive revenants. Such types were loathed by Faustus and many others, for they were borderline bandits that strained the Pax Mortis and made little effort to contribute to the realm. With a haughty view of themselves, they’d often claim to be generals or warlords, and they and their ghouls for the most part merely idled around in great hordes, nominally contributing through acting as permanent ‘protectors’ of Leria -- an empty and largely needless role in these days of peace, decades having passed since the last earnest battles had been waged against the living.

In any case, for Faustus there was little reason for concern. His own ensign, imagery of a black field filled by a golden ship beneath a pale moon, was on prominent display on that banner that his ancient bore. His crest was well known throughout Leria; Faustus’ name and his epithets carried weight, certainly demanding enough respect to be above petty extortion. So he waited, mulling over his past dealings too numerous to count, trying to recall if he’d ever done business with a revenant who lorded over these parts. Even with the clarity of undeath, it remained difficult for a merchant as prolific as he to recall so many faces and past transactions from memory.

Silent minutes passed as Faustus sat in quiet contemplation, eventually leaving the revenant to turn to his ledgers in search of an answer to his musings. Yet, after a short time there came the slightest of noises echoing from further down the old cobbled path. The sound was easily picked out to be the sound of metallic boots upon the stone pavement, slowly drawing nearer and nearer as the caravan remained halted. That noise stopped as a darkened figure stopped further down the road a fair ways ahead of the front of Faustus’ vanguard, and the merchant looked out from his commanding position atop the palanquin to examine that lone figure. It was clear that the figure held aloft a sword in its left hand and a shield upon the opposite. There was nothing but silence from the figure as it stared down the caravan, merely casting a voiceless judgement upon them. It had seemed that a minute had passed before the figure continued upon its path towards the caravan, new features becoming clearer and clearer as it approached.

Faustus beheld the new arrival with some amount of interest, and then confusion. It seemed to be a ghoul, for the lord-revenant of these lands would certainly have come with a whole party, and would doubtless look more...impressive even from afar. It seemed as though the thing was no more than a wandering ghoul, perhaps even unbound. Perhaps it was this that had alerted the sentry? That theory was set aside when the one atop the hill suddenly snapped its head away from the caravan and towards that stranger, letting out a second, shorter howl.

Ancient armor, a patchwork of faded and greening pieces, was among the most clear of features, as well as the fleshless face of a skeleton walking towards them. While it did not make any hostile action, a sinister force seemed to follow it as no voice of greeting nor inquiry came from it until it was practically a horse’s length away from the guards of the caravan. That skull merely stared down the ghouls before it snapped to view the banner of Faustus, before returning its gaze to those that might be considered its kindred.

“Your master?” a near whisper of a voice came from the skeleton, speaking to the ghouls in a long and drawn out tone. It was clear after a moment’s contemplation that this was a request rather than any other sort of inquiry.

The withered and deep-set eyes of Faustus’ vanguard stared back in silence, their tightly-packed line stretching across the road’s length and then some. One of them answered the question by silently pointing its halberd toward the palanquin behind it, beyond many a wagon and porter. Visible even from afar by virtue of his raised pallet, Faustus had his ghouls set the palanquin down upon the ground that he could clamber out onto his own feet and approach in person. At the sound of their master’s coming footsteps, soft and near-silent even in spite of the bulk beneath his robes, the lines of the vanguard shuffled, parting to create a gap in the middle of the line with just enough space to let their master face through the formation and look upon the strange ghoul unobstructed.

Faustus was recognizable as the ‘master’ here, even if one didn’t feel the palpable force of will that he exerted over his ghouls. Whereas the guards wore fine steel plate that gleamed beneath a fresh coat of oil, and the many porters and other caravaneers were outfitted in rags, the revenant had fine long robes woven from yellow silk, the garb imported all the way from the distant kingdom of Bharata that lay beyond even Salarmand. Just the materials for materials for such ostentatious wear was worth more than many a noble could ever hope to afford.

A wax mask hid his visage and hairless head, just as the robes did the rest of his form. From between the shoulders of his bodyguards and through that mask, the Whisperer gazed upon the strange ghoul and remarked, “A lost soul, perhaps?”

The wight gazed upon Faustus, an unbearably long silence following as it merely stood there without movement. A harsher, guttural voice came in a response to Faustus’ words, “I am no ‘lost soul’, vagrant.”

The irony here did not elude Faustus. Here it seemed that he might just be facing some would-be robber baron after all, pathetic though it would be if the lone ghoul tried to attempt any mischief upon a caravan so well guarded. But what was more was that this wretch, a vagrant in every sense of the word, projected that same insult at him! If its capacity for speech was any indication then this wight seemingly had much of its mind intact, if not its manners or its sense.

Others might have flinched at the grating tone or prickled at the brash slight, but the merchant seemed indifferent, casting his eyes back to the sentry hill. “Then while we await the arrival of that one’s master, let us talk. If you are not lost, just what is it that you are doing?”

“I am looking upon an aberrant land,” the ghoul answered, looking around at the landscape that barely contained much more life than the wights themselves. It had become clear from how the unbound ghoul looked upon the area, that the now dead lands were not the ones that it was familiar with in its past life. However, as its gaze shifted back to Faustus, it spoke once more in the hushed tone that had spoken to the ghouls, “Now, what business do you have in these...withered lands?”

”Would you believe that these reaches are some of the most untouched?” the Whisperer quipped back, bemused at what seemed a quite recently risen ghoul. “Follow this road, and the aberrance and darkness only grows. At the very end is Necron, the city that hungers. I travel to it bringing goods. I am a broker of sorts, you see. A merchant.”

“A barterer,” the skeletal figure mused as he unhurriedly shifted in place, sword and shield still in their respective hands as the two spoke. Razzak’s stance was that of a hardened warrior, unlike the mindless ghouls that many revenants major and minor would use under their employ. His sockets stared at Faustus, meeting the revenant’s gaze in what could be assumed to be either wariness or blind stoicism.

“I am Razzak, Slayer of Atrebates!”

“I take it that we have no quarrel, ‘Razzak’? I do harbor a healthy respect for the Pax Mortis.”

If Razzak could have narrowed his eyes, he would have as he looked over the merchant through an intelligent face. The armor shifted as the lone ghoul brought his sword up to point at the leader of the caravan, unmoving otherwise while the other ghouls focused on the potential threat. Razzak did not know if Faustus was truly someone who could be labeled as a worthy individual and he knew very little about what to make of his ghouls. All that the lone ghoul knew, or rather what he instinctively knew, was that many caravaneers went hand in hand with underhandedness.

“I am beset by doubt as to whether you truly do harbor such ‘respect’. You have yet to step from your custodians to meet me as an equal nor have you even given me a name to speak to you by,” Razzak’s hushed voice stated, vexation clear in his voice. The ancient one took a singular step forwards, the armor he wore shifted loosely upon a form that contained little flesh. “I know not of this Necron nor your banner, magnate. How would I know that you truly are no ingrate merely lying to me?”

Displeasure now radiated from behind the mask, somehow. But Faustus was patient enough that his irritation had not become anger -- yet. ”I respect the Pax Mortis,” he reiterated, ”That is to say the law of the land. The peace that we maintain by the Great Necromancer’s wishes and demands. Do heed who you use such words upon, ‘Razzak,’ for you may well come across a revenant more irate than I: one who in his hubris might just cast aside the Pax Mortis as it suits him, one who may have you crushed and returned to the earth once more, or worse.”

He gave a moment to let those words of warning set in, then continued, “I am called Faustus, and to answer your question, you have no way of knowing save to take me for my word. If I bore you ill will, it would be easy enough to brand you a villain and have my ghouls mete out ‘justice’, after all.”

In the distance, the steady pounding of hooves could be heard off to one side. Faustus turned his head to see a host of horsemen crest a hilltop. ”Ah, the local lord-revenant. I suppose you could take him for his word instead of mine, if you would rather.”

A gesture of the merchant’s hand called forth his ancient, the standard-bearer advancing right up to the side of its master while the distant riders made straight for the ensign. The wall of ghouls that had faced down Razzak began shifting their attention to the side, and those that had been in the rear of the caravan now stalked forward as well to reform their ranks along the caravan’s flank and meet the advancing host.

The unbound ghoul shifted his weight, turning himself to view the direction from where the sound of hooves was approaching from. He allowed himself a brief moment of thought, desiring to see how the Pax Mortis was between others of his own undead kind. While Razzak knew nothing of the land that had perhaps been his home, there was no doubt that there had been much more that had changed than what he had felt comfortable with. Yet, he was confident enough to have an idea as to what a lord-revenant could be despite his unfamiliarity with the term itself.

As the horsemen drew near, Faustus’ keen eyes made out the heraldry upon a faded banner that one of them carried: a black iron warhammer backed by a field of blood. Yes, he remembered now. This was a revenant he’d met before, one with such a prodigious penchant for violence and talent for cruelty that he was notorious even among the undead.
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