POOHEAD189

Maverick Malediction

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Music

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The marketplace was bustling with activity. Even under the torrid heat, fish vendors waved palms to grab the attention of passersby and men called out to the dozens of men and women to offer samples of fresh fruit from the Heblenon. Laughter rose from one corner of the bazaar, but it was hushed as the crowd parted to make way for a dozen Mamluks, helms with points like pikes gleaming in the sunlight, scale mail glittering as they marched, passing the stalls of cramped wood and colorful fabric.

"Come on," Neil whispered to his companion, placing the cloth back over his lower face and slipping back into the shadows. Calliope followed, her form lithe but not used to the ducking and dodging of a practice thief. She followed him under a shadowed alcove, up a small set of stairs into an alleyway, entering the less reputable part of the merchant quarter of the fabulous city of Ragba Shahir.

The cloying scent of fresh baked bread pierced even their swathed faces, and Calliope's mouth had only just begun to water before Neil presented her with a freshly baked cake, his dark eye winking at her before moving along. The next scent was unfortunately less pleasant, a manure farmer shoveling what could only be described as brown gloop into a carriage wagon, his nose pinned and his eyes red. Neil and the black witch hurried past, leaping over a small wall and traversing past a quaint garden before turning a corner down another alley, this one more shadowed and filled with the eyes of watchers, from the windows and the trash heaps. Doors closed and whispers to Hayashim drifted past lips, but Neil paid them no mind.

He stepped down another corner, passing a man swathed in a cloak with two wicked daggers at his belt in comfortable reach. Neil only gave him a wave, stopping at the cusp of an opening, veiled by a heavy curtain. Neil pulled it aside and held it up for Calliope to enter through. Once she stepped past the unremarkable sandstone wall, she was met with a well-lit room of, if not opulence, then a merchant's luxury. The torches revealed a room with soft carpets and lush lounge sofas arrayed around a small, mahogany table. A painting of a large breasted bedouin girl was hung above a foyer table, and cups of brass were arrayed on the table at the center. Past that, two steps up led to a small counter and a large, comfortable armchair.

Out of a small door to the northern end of the abode stepped a short man, with thin limbs and a sizeable paunch. He bore a large nose and a cloth was swaddled around his head, almost with the shape and likeness of a beehive. He yelped when he saw Neil and Calliope in the middle of his great chamber, the strong young thief pulling the veil from his face, tipping the brass cup back and downing some of his expensive wine.

"Who the- It's you!" The small man cried. "How did you find me!? I told you-"

"I followed you," Neil said before finishing his cup. The small man was flabbergasted and offended at that, but he did not seem overly enthusiastic on kicking both of them out, considering they were already here and he was unarmed. Any weapons could be hiding within the thieves clothes the two had procured for themselves over the past day.

"Why are we here, exactly?" The witch asked, lips pursed in thought and sharp eyes boring into the little man, before flicking to her mischievous lover. "You still have yet to tell me where you went yesterday. I assume this is apart of it?"

Neil took the brass cup and used it to gesticulate to Calliope. "Calli, this is the man that is going to get us into the palace of Maza-dan Sheref. He has a few connections that can get us past a bit of the security, if we make it worth his while. Allow me the pleasure of introducing you to Muk Al-matuk."

Swords and Silver: The Southern Contracts

"Move! Move!"

Torm's two-handed sword clove through the haft of a makeshift flail, opening the skull of a zealot even as he wailed to his god. The lieutenant shoved the corpse aside as it fell, having no time to catch his breath or celebrate the victory. Behind him, his men had dismounted to clamber over the trenches at the base of the pyre, the near 3 score knights now moving uphill, faces covered and brutal weapons in their hands. Even on foot, they moved in a rough wedge formation, Torm at the front, leading them ever forward through the throng. The zealots at the base of the pyre outnumbered them by a factor of four, maybe five, but they hadn't the skill or the arms to thwart them.

What they had was time, however. Something Torm and the dwarves had precious little of.

Sparks flew as a thick bladed axe banged into Torm's pauldron, eliciting a grunt from him. Torm elbowed the zealot in the face, splitting his lip and leaving him to get cut down by his fellows. Sir Robert Longfellow let out a warcry, impaling the fallen zealot with the spike of his poleaxe, blood gurgling out of the wound as he yanked it out, stepping past the still warm corpse.

"To the death!" Gregor the Bold yelled as he fought alongside Malakum the Mamluk against a rearguard assault of flagellants and militiamen, side by side with two Cataphracti Torm could not quite identify in the din. Turning back to the fore, he saw a parting in the sea of foes as their numbers dwindled to but a few score, and past them, dwarves now aflame. Many struggled in their bonds, their beards alight. Some of them cried to their gods as the flames slowly but surely consumed them. Torm had been their enemy, but he appreciated dwarven honor and did not even wish this death on his enemies, though he now felt he would make an exception for the Priest-Queen and her bastard spawn.

Torm wrestled his way to the top, shoving a zealot off the platform as his men-at-arms climbed up with him. He did not know how many dead or wounded on his side, hurrying to the pyres. Even in his armor, he felt the intense heat. Squinting, his eyes beginning to water, he rushed across the wooden platforms that were now catching fire along with the straw and their dwarven captives. He found burnt corpse after burnt corpse, one or two dwarves still moved their mouths even as their skin was charred black. The willpower of the stout folk was an impossible thing, he marveled.

He only found one dwarf still relatively unharmed, at the edge of the flames and gritting his teeth, his hands burnt and his brow sweating profusely. He cut the dwarf's bonds and let him fall into his grasp, pulling him from the flames even as the dwarf cursed from the pain.

"Sir Draufkrieg!" Sir Castor cried, running to him. Every knight was trained to live and sleep in their armor if need be. A man couldn't join their ranks if they could not sprint in their full wargear. Past him, the huge army still moved like a flood. Some tendrils of the vast army swept towards their position, deceptively slowly as an avalanche viewed from far away. "We have five survivors, six with yours."

"Put them on the horses!" Torm called to him, helping his blonde bearded dwarf up. They had to move before they were stuck here, an island in a sea of enemies. "We must get back into the city!"

Bodacious Bounties: Bounty Hunter AU

There was a grinding noise, accompanied by a loud PING.

Neil withdrew the dataslate and looked at the account, the transferred funds now erected on the screen. It wasn't quite physical currency, but he had a look in his eyes that could be described as money signs by anyone apt enough to notice. Jocasta did, swiping the dataslate out of his hands.

"Ah ah ah," She said, wagging a finger at him. She began to move the funds from their temporary, joint mech team account to her own. "This is a step in the right direction, but it's just a small step in the path to you paying me back."

"You mean paying you back for wanting the bounty on me, and your forceful abduction of me causing you to getting boarded by men in your line of work while I merely defended myself?"

"That's the one, yep." She said, handing his dataslate back to him, a satisfied smile on her lips. Neil deflated, but really, he couldn't even be mad. Her dogged determination to squeeze him for all he was worth was almost admirable, in a way.

"Ok, now these funds are going to my bird," She said, and then whipped her hair back, her blonde lockes turning brown even as her thick ponytail whipped him in the face in a tease. Neil blinked from the blow, crinkling his nose as she continued. "And some nice hair products. It's rough out there, ya know."

"And you don't like it, rough?" He teased, grinning.

She snickered, crossing her arms under her chest. "You got nerve, hotshot, I'll give you that."

"Look, Jocasta. Wait, just wait," He said, stepping in front of her, hands out to gesture she slow down. "We have two days until the next fight. I know you want to spend it all on your ship, and I get why because it's a pretty ship. But let me request something, from one ten to another."

"I'm an eleven, but continue." She said.

"Look, we got all this money, and we have a hunk of junk APC. We just fucking won in a big way. Like the crowd was just..." He made some strange gesture with his hand that could be construed as sexual, but it was hard to ascertain. He realized it wasn't working and stopped, waving his hands as if to erase a whiteboard. "Why don't we celebrate? We'll get drunk as fuck tonight, nurse a hangover until mid-afternoon tomorrow, then we go and grab some parts for the mech, then spend the whole next day fixing him up. Come on, let's get some drinks and chill, right? I know I'm a mark but like...you still remember how to party, right?"

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Beren placed the collar of his jacket close to his face so the dust now flying freely through the air wouldn't get sucked up into his nostrils. He had taken a small torch from a sconce in the hallway, and now strode down the length of the catacomb, trying to discern anything that stood out. Anything that could help them find some door that led further into the deep.

"Aye, dwarf work, or I'm a bearded gnome." Gurin said, nodding. He stroked his dark beard, leaning in and running his thick fingers almost delicately over one of the tombs shaped slabs. "Manlings must have paid a pretty penny." He pinched some small, minuscule bit of sediment in his fingers and tasted it on his tongue.

Beren turned when he heard an intake of breath, more than a dozen eyes went to see Martinus Morelocke standing before one of the stone caskets. Upon its foot was a bust of a hale man in knightly garb and the crown of a king, holding up a banner, and though it was small, anyone with keen eyes could see the intricate designs etched upon it with a meticulous, almost impossible detail. Martinus exhaled the breath he was holding, the small candle in his left hand shaking from emotion.

"Who is that, manling?" Varin asked quizzically, always the most curious of the troupe. The beardling stepped up beside the elderly lord, bushy eyebrow raised. It was hard to see, but it was entirely possible Varin was very close to the decrepit old man in age.

"My thrice great grandfather." Martinus replied, speaking in slow reverence. "Herod Morelocke, Herod Wyrmslayer. The patriarch of my house." He spoke in a whisper, as if afraid he would disturb the slumber of his ancestor. "I should have remembered he was buried down here amongst my more immediate kin. I... when I think of what I have never accomplished. I am ashamed."

Beren nor the dwarves had the heart to add context to his story. The War of the Wyrms was a recent (by dwarvish estimation) conflict in history, when the northern frost wyrms, flightless but large intelligent creatures, moved south, leading an army of northmen as slave soldiers. For thirty eight years they fought the dwarves of the Frostfell mountains, and only the smallest vanguard made it to the Grey Marches, where the men of the region essentially 'cleaned up' what was left. No doubt this Herod was a captain among men, but as usual, the dwarves had shouldered the threat so that men may live.

"Is that old Anduic engraved on the tomb?" Jocasta asked, her head popping up from behind one of the sarcophagi. She hurried over, eyes wide with curiosity. Suddenly, her foot touched something in the ground that led to a sudden shift, dust and kindling falling from the ceiling as something rumbled. It was as loud and low as the rumbling of a dragon's belly. A small statue in the corner fell, shattering on the ground. Fortunately, it did not add to the lack of integrity of the superstructure, but it was a portent of what might come if they weren't careful.

"Hold!" Gunir called even as the rumbling began, holding his meaty hand out to her. Jocasta was not alone. Everyone froze. Beren was the furthest down the line, his normally youthful, pleasant visage almost grim in the light of the torch. Even Otar held his breath for a long moment, his white beard obscuring his buttoned lip.

"Everyone start to move out," Beren said to cut through the silence. He could tell he had the longest to go, but out of everyone he had the longest legs. "Muragrim, pick Jocasta up and carry her out of here. Varin, help the lord. We need to move before it-"

A large crack erupted between Beren's feet, and the edge of the corridor cracked open without warning. The rumbling slowed to a pause, Beren's entire form rigid. He glared at them. "Move!"

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Beren held out his hands to take the parchment, Jocasta handing it to him, the warrior monk scratching his chin before tracing his hand along the rune. It was almost hexagonal in shape, save for 4 indents and a multitude of facets, carved meticulously but with a clear goal in its make. "I could be wrong, but this looks to be an old symbol for nobility. No, one of the 12 great noble clans of ancient dwarven past. I remember something about another symbol much like this in Thundrim Kadrin." Beren looked up at the old man. "Your family could have taken artistic liberty, or perhaps they had once been gifted your sigil as a sign of honor, long ago."

The dwarves seemed to take this with solemnity, Otar getting back to his feet and walking over to inspect the scroll. Beren passed it to him, and after examining it, he started to speak in hushed tones to himself, using his native tongue. Radsvir had gotten to his feet and grabbed what he could of the bread and cheese.

"Hope you don't mind me taking a bit," He said to the elder with cheer and raising his hand in thanks. If Martinus took offense, he didn't show it, giving a nod and a 'help yourself' to the dwarf. Gurin took some from Radsvir's grasp, just as Muragrim was digging into his own bag of jerky. Buri seemed to be inspecting the room itself with a professional air, before his eyes fell back to the helmet Otar had put down. Eventually he gave in and picked up the old piece, appraising it. Varin had become busy himself when the unexpected arrival of a wolfhound materialized, the hound lean but hale, though clearly it had not bathed in many months. The beast panted, making small curious growls at the newcomers. Varin scratched its shaggy head, asking Radsvir for a bit of cheese so he could feed the hound something small.

"All of this talk reminds me of a story my father told me as a child. When my families future was promising, before the ice wyrms moved south." Martinus said, taking what whisp of a beard he had and stroking it. "He told me our ancestors once used these old tunnels beneath the house to bury our dead, and that our sigil was placed on the door to ward off spirits of ill intent. He said my uncle once went below, and was lost for two days before he crawled out of the waterfall a mile to the west of here."

"The same with the sigil of your house?" Beren asked, sharing a look with Jocasta.

"Indeed, but..." He stopped, as if he had lost himself in the time of his youth. Beren cleared his throat, and he drew himself back to the present. Beren saw some small movement to the left, and it seemed Varin had convinced Muragrim to hand him a bit of jerky to him for the hound. Muragrim could intimidate most anyone, and Varin was as meek as a dwarf could be. Beren gave a small smile at the interaction. "Yes, the door has been barred for ages. I don't even know if it's still down there."

"Where have you buried your dead then?" Jocasta asked, ever inquisitive.

"In the gardens," He said, though it just led to further questions. What gardens there had been weren't there any longer. "At least, for those that passed here, and did not flee or die in the wars."

"Could the door or your crypts me of dwarf-make?" Beren wondered aloud, his cheeks still red from the cold. Otar lifted his head at that, his mind racing and analyzing every word that was said the entire conversation. Beren could see the words passing by the movement of the old dwarf cleric's eyes. There was reason dwarves had the distinction of being the oldest peoples in the world. They weren't necessarily the most scholarly race, but their minds had a knack for calculations, and they could 'rewind' their mind to listen to things, sometimes, that they might not have heard earlier. Even Beren did not completely understand it. Just as often, if a dwarf wasn't listening, they would be none-the-wiser. However, it seemed the older a dwarf was, the better he would be at it.

"We will inspect them," Otar said as any commander might, closing the scroll and handing it back to Jocasta. He picked up his pack and grabbed his warhammer, the weapon faintly glowing as soon as his burly fist closed around the haft. "With your leave, of course." He said to Martinus.

"Hmm, now? I suppose..."

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Beren regarded the man solemnly, the smallest bit of rain sprinkling on his clothing and skin. The water was frigid, scattering the light frost that clung to Beren's jacket and cloak, clinging to his thick head of dark hair. The dwarves similarly stood there for a brief moment, sharing in Beren's melancholic sense of respect for the lost elder. It was a cultural sense for dwarves to treat older dwarves with respect, and it somewhat extended to other peoples as well. Beren wasn't sure if it was his dwarvish upbringing or his sense of empathy that had him take a moment in pause, but either way, Jocasta stepped forward as the wind picked up again. Beren almost felt he heard a wail of anguish in the wind, but his thoughts were muddled and pushed aside when Jocasta cleared her throat.

"Master Morelocke, might we come in? It's erm, dreadfully cold out here." She temporized, trying not to sound too rude stating the obvious. Even the dwarves seemed ready to come in out the wind, though they hid it well with typical stoicism. Beren glanced behind him, but even with his sharp eyes all he saw was the road fading into greyness, and what might be the obscured shapes of distant mountains miles into the wilderness.

"Hrm? Yes, yes," Martinus Morelocke said, slowly coming back to reality. His arm shook as he pushed the door further ajar, glazed eyes gazing at them past overly bushy brows. He sounded exceedingly weak and quiet in comparison to the weather just beyond his doorstep. "I have forgotten my manners, forgive me. Yes, come in."

The decrepit master Morelocke took a few long moments to step back, and Otar strode in first, followed by Buri, Muragrim, Gurin, Radsvir, and Varin, and Beren stepped aside for Jocasta to enter. She cocked an eyebrow at the dwarves, as they had almost run into her like a rolling boulder. Beren gave a helpless smile. "They go by age," He said, shrugging. She began to nod in understanding, then her eyes whipped back to Beren, sharp as arrows.

"Oh and you think I'm that much older than you?" She asked, and though it was clear she was having a bit of fun with Beren due to the barely suppressed smile and the cheek in her words, he could tell the wrong answer would still give her an excuse to get him into a bit of trouble.

"No!" He said quickly, his face screwing up incredulously. "I'm just trying to be, ya know, chivalrous. What?"

"This is why I get the hat," She said as if it was the most obvious thing in the word, ruffling Beren's thick head of moistened and cold hair. He batted her hand away, and she laughed as she walked in.

"Yeah yeah, I'm onto you witchy woman." Beren retorted playfully, following her and closing the door for the old master, who did not seem to understand Beren's motives first and stood there a long moment, unwilling or unable to let go of the door until he abruptly turned, mumbling something incoherent to himself. Beren closed the door gently, and locked it. Inside wasn't very warm, but compared to the road it was lovely. Down the corridor, a light glowed and wavered against the hallway wall, showing the way to the great chamber of the manor, where a great fire was lit. The paint on the walls looked old, much of the pillars and corners were partially peeled, bare from misuse and years of wear.

Ahead of him, Martinus continued to mumble. At times Beren thought he heard the name 'Marelda,' but he couldn't be sure, and he decided it was none of his business. He carefully passed the elder before making it to the room. The dwarves sat on the floor, a bit too short for the old, cushioned chairs. Jocasta had found a seat on what was once a nice couch, warming her hands by the fire. Beren sat beside her, clearing his throat.

"So," the elder asked as he stepped into the room. "Why have you come so far out here? It's been....it's been...the roads have not been with talk or movement since last year, I think."

esarus thar no'darador | a warcraft-based roleplay

I'll make a human mage, I believe.

esarus thar no'darador | a warcraft-based roleplay

WOOO

Bodacious Bounties: Bounty Hunter AU

"Have you done this before!?" Neil called back at her, but all she did in response was lift an arm out of hiding and wave him off.

Well, if he had been in the crowd she would have gotten his attention too, so she did her job. He turned and set his eyes on the mech to his front. Neil cleared his throat, checking the integrity of the gears. Before him was a decidedly simple, haul operator's console, with six levers, a load indicator display, which also listed his power level. To the left of the display and levers were five knobs and a large red button. These had been added to improve its combat capacity. It gave him extra control of his limbs, allowing them to move vertically and not just horizontally, and granted him use of the mounted weapon, as well as various applications in the utensil movements of the fingers.

It was pretty shit in Neil's estimation. The 189 was a far better war machine from within and without, and that was not even accounting the size and power difference. His opponent's APC was a foot taller in height, sleek white with gold filigree and a red emblem straight center on its chest. Within, a man about ten years Neil's senior sneered at him, clearly amused at his first match being against a no-name in a machine that was about eighty years too old to be in operation. Despite Jocasta's showmanship, Neil couldn't blame him. He would feel the same in that dude's shoes.

Apparently his mascot had already performed before Neil and Jo had even arrived, as the headlights from above suddenly erupted in brightness, all lights staged around the stadium zooming in on the arena. Neil saw the word 'Varkin' splayed on the left limb of his opponent. A telltale ringing banged against their senses just after the lights honed in, reverberating across the battlescape. Neil shoved his pinky into his ear, surprised.

"Begin!"

The voice came from all around, Varkin so used to the sound Neil blinked and he was already six meters closer. Neil pulled the L4 lever and grabbed the operating controls, setting his clunker's legs into motion. 'Hunk' staggered forward, every two steps a jumbled mess from the bow-legged lack of design. Neil's head bobbed up and down, and while he knew how silly his situation was, it was at that moment he truly realized it. Neil started to laugh, and he seemed to find it funnier as time went on. It rang in Jocasta's comm piece, sounding for all the world like someone just told him the most hilarious joke.

Even moving at likely half his APC's normal speed, the two APC's stepped almost 3 meters every footfall, and five seconds after the battle had begun, Varkin was close enough to see Neil's dimple past two plates of plexiglass. His opponent lifted its right limb, a twin autocannon mounted atop it, replacing a hand for firepower. The barrels erupted in fire as bullets punched into Hunk's armor. Funnily enough, due to the up and down motion, the aim was off, and no two bullets hit the same space on the APC to better pierce the armor. Neil closed the distance, arm up before his cockpit, eschewing vision for protection on the plexiglass in front of him. The massive limb craned before him, the bullets bouncing off the steel telling him the gun was still firing. Above, he saw the lightest bit of movement past his field of vision, and just as he thought, Varkin sent his melee hand crashing downwards to batter Hunk's arm aside to better cut a swathe through the plexiglass and end Neil's life.

Neil stepped forward, his bow-leg sending his mech leaning to the right, exposing the largest piece of armor on his APC to tank the melee blow, just as his arm battered the gun aside. The force of ten thousand pounds crashed into Neil, but the gun went wide, spraying bullets across the arena, bouncing around the glass in endless ricochets. Neil moved Hunk's free arm, accompanied by a mounted flamer, over the fallen limb of his opponent and shoved it forward with all power, fist crunching into the plexiglass of Varkin. It didn't end the fight, or even end the integrity of the glass, but cracks ripped across it. Neil saw Varkin's eyes bugged out, and with the flip of a switch and the press of a button, promethium roared out of the limb and cascaded across the mech, finding any crevasse as if it had a mind.

Varkin's screams were barely audible from Neil's end, but when he removed his arm, his face twisted in disgust as he saw the man's clothing and half his limbs aflame. His mech shuddered as his hands slapped the controls, and all Neil had to do was block whatever haphazard blows went his way, and push Varkin over. It teetered on the 'heels' of its feet and hit its back onto the ground with an audible crack. Neil watched as he desperately tried to bat the flames out, and he decided he couldn't watch this. He raised Hunk's fist high into the air, before letting it fall atop the cockpit of Varkin. Instead of crushing him, however, Neil gave just the pressure needed to break the glass.

Swiftly, Neil opened his cockpit and stripped his shirt off, hopping out of Hunk nimbly and climbing up the fallen body of Varkin to get to its pilot, slapping the flames out of the screaming man with his shirt. It was another minute before paramedics could arrive and the flames could truly be doused, and he would likely lose an arm and a leg, but bio-modifications were common and while Neil felt a touch bad, he knew the victor was clear.

As the pilot was carried away, Neil draped his shirt over his shoulder as the crowd roared, voices so loud he doubted even the vacuum of space could quell them. Neil waved, giving bows. He blew a few kisses randomly, and then turned around, cupping his hands for Jocasta.

"YO! IT'S SAFE NOW! COME ENJOY THIS WITH ME!"