Penny

Tricksters and Theives: A Warhammer RP

The clerk, now considerably more solicitous, escorted Emmaline to the door. A pair of guards followed at a respectful distance, probably more interested in observing Emmaline’s departure than providing any actual security for the ink spotted young man. As they stepped out into the street the clerk looked around, clearly expecting to see a coach or some servants.



“Did you come here alone Fraulein Van Gelders, it isn’t safe for a lady to wander…” he began. A large coach with a four horse team rattled down the cobblestone street, coming to rest in front of the group. Footman in livery stepped down and opened the door, folding down a cunningly made ladder. Emmaline realized with a sinking feeling that the coat of arms emblazoned on the side of the coach was very similar to the one on the case the clerk was still carrying.



“Ah, splendid,” the clerk said, clearly assuming the coach had come to pick up ‘Margarite’. A youngish man with a pointed patrician nose and expensively tailored velvet suit stepped down.



“Good morning Sier Van Gelders, I was just concluding our business with your sister,” the clerk simpered. The cold gaze of the aristocrat swiveled to Emmaline. Of all the cursed luck. Emmaline stepped forward and hugged Van Gelders, who stiffened in shock.



“Hello Brother mine,” she said brightly, then snatched the case from the clerks hands at the same instant she drove her knee into Van Gelders’ crotch. The nobleman let out a shriek of agony and doubled over. Emmaline snatched the case from the clerk and brought it round in a wide arc, connecting solidly with the point of the noble's chin. He snapped back upright, cracked his head against the coach and pitched forward into the gutter. Emmaline leaped into the open coach door and flung the purse she had pulled from Van Gelder’s double into the face of the nearest guard. He reeled back in a shower of gold and silver as coins rained down on the pavement with a musical rattle. Bright light sparked behind the horses and as one they screamed and bolted. The carriage lurched down the street, bouncing high into the air as the horses, panicked by Emmaline’s magic sting, ran pell mell down the street, shattering the ladder in spray of splinters. The coachman was hauling on his reins trying desperately to halt the now out of control horses, screaming at the few townsfolk on the street to get out of the way. They struck a sausage vendor's cart with a glancing blow, flinging bratwurst and hot oil in all directions. The proprietor, a mustached man with a stained leather apron, chased after the coach, waving a fist in the air and howling obscenities. Emmaline bounced around the inside of the coach like a pea in a whistle, desperately clinging to her case. A glance behind her showed one guard helping Van Gelders to his feet while the other, accompanied by a Golden Kettle thug, were sprinting down the street after the runaway coach.



Emmaline gripped the plush seat and spoke another word. The metal fittings attaching the team to the coach exploded in showers of rust and the horses broke in all directions away from the now out of control carriage. They bumped up over a small rise and began to race down the other side towards the fish market. The district spread out before them, a long curve of the Reik built up with piers that were crammed with fishmongers, pie vendors, and cheap eateries where dock workers could get fried fish and ale from stalls of brightly colored canvas. The road ended fifty feet short of the river bank, protected by bollards of stacked river stone and ancient rope so rotten it wouldn’t have stopped an ambitious child. The driver, not paid enough to die at his post, leaped clear, hitting the paving stones and rolling to a stop against the side of a chandlers shop. The coach was jouncing violently on the uneven paving stones, racing downhill into the pall of smoke from dozens of shallow pots where fish and sliced potatoes were being fried. Shouts of alarm were already sounding in the street below.



“Ranald’s bloody balls,” Emmaline gasped as the coach picked up speed. She stood up, bracing herself with both feet and one arm, and ripped the plush cushions from the seats. Before she could stop herself she stepped across to the far door. Gathering the cushions around her body she timed her opening, took a deep breath, kicked the door open, and leaped, sailing out of the coach and into an alley mouth as it flashed past. The forward momentum of the coach smashed her into the side of the fullers shop, driving the air from her chest even with the cushions to break her fall. She fell on her back in the alley, the stolen case still clutched to her chest. The screams from below grew in volume and then there was a tremendous crash of splintering wood and tearing fabric from down the road.



A vagrant was sitting against the side of the alley, a mangy dog at his heels, his face was frozen in a mask of shock, a stick of grilled meat halfway to his lips, as the blonde woman picked herself up and brushed dirt from her dress. She cast aside the plush cushions and checked to make sure nothing was broken.



“Are you ok miss,” he asked, clearly at a loss for what else to say when a pretty blond in a fine dress flew into his alley.



“Yes of course, why do you ask?” Emmaline replied, risking a peak out of the mouth of the alley. The coach had plowed directly into the fish market, a bollard having smashed its front axle on the way across. The rear wheels were elevated and spinning, its front end half submerged in silvery fish that had been released from shattered barrels. Amazed looking citizens stood around, doing alot of pointing and gawping. Emmaline looked back up the road to see the two guards who had been in pursuit cresting the rise. She ducked back before they could spot her and pressed herself flat to the alley wall as they raced past, brandishing cudgels and shouting down into the fish market.



“No reason,” the vagrant replied. Emmaline plucked the second purse she had swiped from Van Gelders from a pouch, hefted it once, then tossed it to the man.



“Ranald’s blessing on you friend,” she told him and hurried down the alley, intent on putting some distance between her and the bedlam she had just created. Whatever was in this case had better be worth it.

Ill Met in Ostland

Natasha cursed and ran across to where Marius lay moaning. She was slighter than he was but whipcord strong and well practiced with getting drunken kossars into the saddle. She half lifted, half tossed him over Dagbhert’s back. Marius screamed in pain as he landed on his shoulder. Fortunately there was now a lot of screaming. Somewhere an alarm bell was beginning to ring and men were rushing out into the rain to see what was the matter. Fire and explosions were never taken lightly in a powder milling town, where a stray spark could annihilate the whole village in a heartbeat. Even in the sheeting rain the tavern was burning brightly, hissing and spitting as those portions of the flame not covered by the roof were slashed with rain.



“There they are!” someone shouted, lantern lights appearing at the end of the alley. A crossbow bolt streaked past Natasha’s ear and buried itself into hitching post with a musical thunk. She glanced up anxiously at Marius, wondering if she had time to tie him in the saddle, but the merchant was upright, gripping his reins in his good hand, white as a sheet in the uncertain light.



“Teem to go,” she called, swinging up into Konya’s saddle and grabbing Dagbhert’s in her free hand. She touched her boots to her mares flank and the horses leaped into a gallop, careening down the narrow street, powerful hooves throwing up great clots of mud behind them. They burst out of the street and onto the docks that fronted the river.



“Wait what is the…” Marius shouted but his words were drowned out by the thump of hooves on wooden boards as both warhorses charged headlong towards the raging river. Natasha let out a high pitched warcry as Konya and Dagbhert both leaped from the docks into the water. They hit with great sheets of water, sinking to their necks before their natural buoyancy lifed them. Cold water soaked both riders instantly.



“Hya! Hya!” Natasha urged and both warhorses began to frantically paddle. The river was swollen with the storms rain, a dark gray thing lit by the occasional flashes of lightning above. The horses swam for all they were worth, the current sweeping them down river at an alarming rate. It seemed certain they must drown but Natasha kept both horses swimming hard across the current. Konya was beginning to whinny in panic and Natasha feared she might have misjudged when suddenly she felt land beneath the horse’s hooves. The river was very broad with rain, but the portion beyond its normal banks was not deep. Both horses emerged, shivering into the knee deep overflow, shaking vigorously against the damp and the cold. If there were pursers on the other side of the river they were invisible against the gray black curtain of the rain.



Both Natasha and Marius were shivering when the horses reached solid ground. They trotted into the thin woodland, gaining a measure of cover from the enervating wind. Natasha unbuckled her saddlebag and pulled out a horse blanket which she tossed to Marius, her own quilted armor doing a somewhat better job of keeping her from freezing.



“Where are we going?” Marius asked through chattering teeth.



“Gowing? Not so much gowing ayeny place, as gowing avay from reever,” she explained, though this wasn’t entirely true. After about ten minutes of riding the forest was growing thicker, though the rocky soil permitted nothing like the impenetrable tangle of the Drakwald and other great forests of the Empire. Finding a rise Natasha dismounted briefly and climbed it, then returned and adjusted their course slightly. Ten minutes later a ruin came into view. It was an old stone mill, mostly tumbled down now, with the skeletal arms of its sails collapsed save for sad looking stubs. A trail of sorts lead to it and Natasha guided the weary horses up the rise. One of the upper floors was still partially intact providing a roof of sorts, and there was a shallow basement. Natasha dismounted and tethered the horses in a corner where they could press together under the horse blanket for warmth, then descended into the basement and gathered up the age rotted wood and a few handfuls of stray straw. It was dry enough under the shelter of the stone and after a few tries she managed to spark the flint of her carbine and get a small fire going.



“Are you ok?” she asked Marius as he sank to a makeshift seat on an ancient barrel.



“My shoulder,” he groaned. Natasha crossed over and examined it, then put one hand on his arm and the other on his torso. With a brutal shove she popped the joint back into place. Marius shrieked in agony.



“Beater?” she asked solicitously.

The Hyborian Chronicles: Of Sword and Sorcery

"I don't ...have much left," Sythemis gasped as Amal half carried her up the pillar. Her skin had lost some of it's lusture giving her a wan and sallow look. A gasp left her lips as Amal's hand closed around the diamond, lifting it down from its pedestal. The bells hammering was so intense it could be felt deep in the stomach, physically painful against the eardrums. With shocking suddeness, the sound ceased and was replaced by a rumble. The pillar shook beneath them as though an earthquake rocked the tower. THen the soild stone disintergrated into gravel and slumped downwards in a shower of stone that swallowed at them like mud. Sythemis held on to Amal, spreading her body wide to keep from sinking to her death in what was now a mountain of small perfectly circular pebbles. The thief, by the grace of all the gods, kept hold of the stone as the careened down towards the forested floor. There was no dust and the grinding of stone on stone was like the hiss of a thousand blizzards. It took an oddly long time for the pile to come to rest.

"She is no man's queen thief," a cold voice declared from the portal by which they had entered. Antiachus stood framed by the arch. His body was nude and oddly mis-shapen, as though growths of some kind were stretching the skin beneath. Thin traceries, like old scars covered him from the neck down, forking and spreading like thin ivy. Only his face was whole and human, handsome and terrible with black eyes that gleamed with malice.

"Not that it need long concern you," the wizard declared, lifting both his hands palm upward. The jungle began to pulse and throb. Great humps began to appear in the forest floor. Clawed, skeletal paws, burst out in showers of dirt as creatures, like the one Sythemis had dispatched but long dead, dug themselves free, empty skulls glowing with red eldritch lights.

At The Edge of The World

I watched somewhat dubiously as Beren cocked back an arm and tossed his hook. Anti-climatically it fell to the ground and he hauled it back and tried again. The second cast succeed, catching in a branch. Beren hauled back twice, making the foliage shake and stiring up a flutter of brightly plumed birds. Beren handed me the rope and I stepped back, getting a grip, then I took a running leap. I sailed out over the water like a pendelum. For a moment I thought I would make it without difficulty, when suddenly there was a huge erruption of water as one of the log things, red jaws yawning open to display finger length teeth, launched itself up at me. Instinctively I kicked out, my boot connecting with its snout with a crack. The force of it struck up through my legs, knocking me off the rope and tumbling me into the shadows on the far side. I hit the water with a splash and rolled up onto the bank, scrambling up onto the bank while the water boiled behind me.

"I'm alright!" I called back, heart thundering in my chest. "I'm alright!"

Beren managed to recover his end of the rope and was pulling it back for his own swing.

"Try not to get eaten!" I encouraged. Beren made the swing without difficulty, the log thing apparently having been discouraged by my accidental kick to its face. He retrieved the rope by whipping it back and forth till the hook fell free.

"Well that was interesting," an accented voice called from the brush. We both turned to see a figure clad in mail of overlapping scales stepping out from behind a violently green bush. He wore a high nosed sphangelhem and faded red cloak. A powerful crossbow was held in one hand, cocked but not pointed. There was a long bladed cavalry sword at his hip.

"Do you make a habit of beating up crocodiles?"

Gold & Glory: AU thread

Emmaline gripped the lock and whispered her incantation. Nothing happened. The strange elven metal indifferent to her magics. Sighing she gripped the bar instead, and splintered it to rust. The crew burst free and grabbed their weapons. The approaching dark elves might have been taken aback as their former slaves rushed at them from two directions but they reacted like professional soldiers. With a shout the approaching elves pivoted into two echelons, locking their shields against the rush. For a moment they onrushing crew faced a wall of evil sigils and glittering spear points. There was a tremendous crash and the formation flew appart in a spray of metal, blood and gore. One of the carronades on the Hammer had evidently still been loaded and had been used to good effect. The elves had no time to regroup, the crew, all experience sailors, weren't phased by the roar of cannons the way landsmen were. They tore in with desperate fury. The elves were grabbing for swords and swatting with shields but the shock of it was too much. Emmaline saw one elf go down with a split skull, another lost a hand to a hacking blade. There was curious sound of deforming metal as a length of chain smashed the side of his helmet deforming the metal and whipping his head sideways with a crack. The fury of the crew as like the sea in a storm. Their fear transmuted into blind rage. One of the crew, already spitted on a spear, grabbed his killer and wreched his neck sideways.

With nothing useful to add to the developing rout, Emmaline hurried up onto the Hammer, feeling an odd sense of security despite the fact the ship was in such dire straits. The Hammer was a home of sorts, for all of its complicated associations. She looked at the rigging and tried to figure out what needed to be done to get it sailing. Then she realized there was no wind to drive the sails. How were they going to get out of here? Emmaline wracked her brain for a minute trying to think of a solution. There was a sudden hissing at her wrist and she looked down to see that the snake bracelet she had aquired in Tobaro had roused itself. It slithered down onto the table and turned to look up at Emmaline with its emerald eyes, hissing in a complicated cadence.

"Huh, that is a good idea," she agreed, "but how would I..." She was interupted by more hissing. Emmaline nodded her head as the snake made a guesture with its tail. She opened the draw and drew out Markus' navigational instruments and hurried up onto the deck. She retreated to the poop deck and knelt down behind the wheel, pulling a set of brass dividers from the leather case she started scratching at the deck, marking out arcane sigils on the dark timber. It was difficult to know whether Markus would be angrier about the defacing of his deck of the damage to his instruments, but she figured she could worry about that later.

Tricksters and Theives: A Warhammer RP

"My family has thousands of Gelt invested in your company! How dare you refuse to allow me to retrieve my goods!" Emmaline raged, thumping a small balled fist against the top of the table. The clerk was fully awake now, and possesed of the panic of any low level official who suddenly found himself in well over his head.

"Your family...frauline... who is your family?" he stammered, knocking over his ink bottle in a panic and making a desperate grab to contain the mess.

"Who are they?! WHO ARE THEY?! Who in Sigmar's name do you think they are?!" Emmaline demanded all but shaking in simulated rage.

"The.. the Van Gelders?" the clerk stammered.

"The Van Gelders!" Emmaline agreed, seizing on the information provided with an actors fluidity.

"I am Margaritte Van Gelder and I demand you turn over my family's property to me immediately," she snapped. The clerk picked up his ink stained ledger and brushed at it, flipping pages desperately. Emmaline made a face and took a step back to avoid flying droplets of ink. The clerk peered owlishly down at the page.

"What property are you talking about, our records show you as investors in coin and in lumber," the clerk read. Emmaline narrowed her eyes as though she were just about to begin shouting once again.

"Do you think I cam here looking for lumber?!" Emmaline demanded. The clerk gave her a panicked look and frantically turned a few more pages.

"Are you refering to the 'special' order," he asked quickly, brightening considerabley.

"Of course I am," Emmaline snapped, stamping her foot pettishly, relived that she wasn't going to be forced to walk out of here with a few tons of lumber. The clerk relaxed, obviously pleased to have found a solution to what a moment ago had been an insuperable problem. Unfortuantely that newfound confidence made his officiousness return.

"Frauline, it isn't our policy to simply release goods without..."

"Policy? It is your Policy?!" she stomped to the window and threw up the window. It didn't actually look out at the walls, but it served as a good reminder about what was going on beyond the compound.

"Do you see what is going on out there?! There are hordes of beastmen at the gates! I demand you release my family property to me now. At any moment the Countess might demand these storehouses might be emptied for the war effort. Where will my property be then, pawed at by soldiers!"

"Ummm..." the clerk temporized, a look of panic entering his eyes at the idea that the Countess might seize the contents of the compound. Such a calamity would be ruinous to the company, even if the Elector Countess reimbursed them, that would be months or years from now and probably for coppers to the gelt.

"One word to my father..." Emmaline threatened, feeling victory beckoning. It was a mistake, the clerk frowned, his eyes losing a little of their panic.

"Your father... but he passed away..." the clerk interjected. Emmaline cursed internally, but was too practiced to simply give up. That would have been more dangeous than pressing on.

"My grandfather dumpkoft!" she snapped in exasperation. "who is as close to me as my dear father. How dare you bring up my families tragedy!" The clerk threw up his hands, to the snickering of the guards behind her. He pulled open his desk and retrieved a pair of brass keys. Then stood up and lead her through the door and into the nearest of the warehourses. It was dark and cool and smelled sharply of spices and teak. They passed bales of wood and indigo stacked on shelves, and barrels of preserved meat, currants, and spices laid out on wooden palettes marked with chalk and parchment notations. The rear of the warehouse was a stone structure with a large door of metal banded wood. A pair of guards stood dicing on a barrel, but they swept up their dice and coins as the clerk approached. The clerk either didn't see it or ignored it, taking the key he unlocked the door and swung it open. The guards on the inside, warned by the noise outside, were standing at their proper stations, heavy clubs and pistols thrust into their belts.

"One moment," the clerk told her, and opened a cabinet to retrieve a heavy ledger. He pulled it open and turned the pages till he found what he was looking for, then retrieved an inkbottle and quill and made a notation. He turned the book so she could read it. An entry said 'special order' Van Gelder. The clerks signature, Heinkrick Sclemov, was beside it with a place for a second signature beneath it. Emmaline picked up the quill and signed Margaritte Van Gelder. The clerk scrutinized it for a moment, perhaps expecting to find some error in the script, but Emmaline wrote letter perfect in the Altdorf style, down to the exaggerated flourishes that were in fashion. He grunted, then opened the rear door with the second key, leading her into the strong room. Three walls of the windowless room were lined with shelves, piled with boxes. Some were simple wooden affairs, others carved and ornate. A few were wrapped packages to oddly shaped to be easily boxed. Each was tagged with a name and a date. The clerk took a large cherrywood box a shelf and passed it to Emmaline.

"I acknowledge the release of goods to you Frauline Van Gelders," he said formally. Emmaline flared her nostrils.

"Do you expect me to carry it like a servant sir?" she demanded. The clerk sighed and hefted the case.

"I will take it to the gate for you Frauline," he admitted in a broken tone.

The Elder Scrolls: Endless Night

There was a fell taste to the air, the way it sometimes did when the wind came off Illiac Bay. It made Graunille an odd combination of twitchy and nostalgic. It swirled around Graunille's feet as she tread the flagstones towards the Dancing Donkey, reminding her again of the dark gray seas of her youth. She thought of the murders in the city and was momentarily excited by the thought of a killer stalking through the mists, knife in hand. Her fingers flexed invoulntarily, tingling with magicka held in check by the narrowest margin. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grin that would not have been out of place Lamia, partaking of nothing so begnin as humor or good cheer. Wild light flickered in her eyes as her breath swirled the rising mist. Just for a moment she felt like Merceda again, wild, reckless and intoxicated by the night.

The moment crumbled as the door of the Dancing Donkey banged open. A nord stood there, muscle bound and square jawed like most of his race. Graunille's nostrils flared involuntarily with memories of the old smell of burned pork. She shivered slightly and forced the magicka down. Suddenly chilled, she pulled her cloak around her shoulders. Judging by the old burn scars and the overdeveloped musculature, this one was a smith. She had seen him before she thought, Haskin?

"Something is wrong out here," she agreed, turning to watch the fog rather than moving through the door.

"Something unnatural about the fog... like Baliera," she elaborated. Thinking of the wind blowing the scent of the island onto the rocky shores of Wayrest.
@POOHEAD189

Tricksters and Theives: A Warhammer RP

The compound of the Golden Kettle Company of Altdorf was impressive. It was fronted by a handsome gatehouse built on a stone arch and topped with half timber and plaster construction. It was surrounded by a wrought iron fence, black and shiny with new paint and taller than a man. Piers and jetties reached out into the Reik like fingers, summounted by cranes and masts hung with limp cordage. Two beamy barges swung idly, bumping against their painters in the sluggish current. Three long warehouses fronted the water, behing which were silos, a stable and a large counting house that served as the main offices. There were no guards visible, but a number of suspiciously fit 'clerks' were lounging about with sack wrapped bundles. Whoever was in charge was clearly no idiot, having realised that any fighting men were liable to be pressed to the walls. As Neil had suspected, the guards were clustered around the counting house and one of the warehouses.

"Well this looting is kind of new to me," Emmaline said, "do you have a plan?" Neil shrugged eloquently.

"First step, reconioter," Neil suggested.

"So no plan, got it," Emmaline concluded. She hiked up her skirts and marched down the street with Neil following in her wake. She stomped into the archway and into the compound with her nose held high. One of the 'clerks' started at her arrival and moved to intercept, but she marched straight past him and into the office.

"What is the meaning of this!" Emmaline demanded in an outraged Altdorf accent. The ink spotted clerk, a real one by his stained fingers, started wake from where he had been dozing. He spluttered for a minute eyes wide with panic.

"Ma'am?" he asked blearily. One of the guards stepped in, saw that someone one in authority was dealing with the issue and leaned against the door jam. Neil had already vanished, though Emmaline had no doubt he was usefully occupied somewhere.

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