POOHEAD189

Darkhearts: A Forgotten Realms RP

Amal laughed, though not loudly. He admired her carefree attitude in such a dangerous situation. He was used to being cavalier in dire circumstances, but as a thief he was also someone who appreciated the act of taking an escape route while it was available to them. Still, he managed to rummage for a few more choice cuts of beef jerky before he took her hand and helped her forward.

"You'll see better at the trees, and night is not far off." He temporized to her. Despite himself, he found her discomfort something he wanted to alleviate. When she was annoyed it reminded him of a pit viper, and somehow that was not off-putting. And truth be told, if he was smart he would simply kill her now, as they had made it out of the caverns and into freedom. But he found he did not do the smart thing, and somehow he felt neither would she.

---

Chapter 1: The Bloodstone Lands

---

Amal whistled appreciatively, and for once it wasn't at Charynrae's backside.

On the small hill at the cusp of a miserable little dell, they had finally spied civilization past a copse of trees. It wasn't a hut or a cabin, or a guard tower to watch over the ruined lands of Vaasa. Instead, it was a massive wall that had dammed a pass between the Galena mountains that had loomed over the horizon for most of their trek. From southwest to northeast, the wall stood like an impenatrable bulwark, and Amal honestly did not know how an army could conceivable assail it.

"It looks a half a mile wide, and sixty feet in height." He breathed, for once putting on a professional air. Amal was quite good at ascertaining the length and breadth of structures, as he had been required to scale them more often than not. His sharp eyes could only see a handful of men, however. Well-armed men, but still. If he had to guess there was less than a thousand to guard the entirety of the vast structure.

The white wind of Vaasa suddenly picked up, ruffling his dark locks and sending another chill down his spine, as if to tell him he and his companion had overstayed their welcome in the inhospitable land. It had been rough going, rationing their food and finding little water to drink save for the brackish or muddied bogs and moors that dotted the landscape. Once they had spotted a troll and had kept hidden, the long-limbed monster loping across the murky, wet landscape to disappear into the gloom. Amal had swore he had seen a dragon in the distance as well, once as he had kept watch, but by the time Charynrae had awakened, it was gone.

He was ready for a warm bed and some food that someone had actually cooked. Even living off scraps on the streets as a boy wasn't as loathesome as trekking through that gods forsaken wilderness.

"You may want to keep yourself cloaked until we find a room," He surmised, his cloak hanging about his shoulders, almost making him look the part of an exiled prince. Amal then shrugged. "Or not, and let them take you as they will. I've gone this far with you, I won't abandon you now."

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

"You! How dare you cut in line, and doing so in the presence of such a lady?" The courtier sneered ostentatiously. A light rain garnished the scene, the clouds bloated and picturesque above the Great Temple of Ulric. The aristocrats and their servants scattered as well-to-do merchants and squires moved to the edge of the street, revealing the belligerents in question. On one end stood a stately, albeit squat man, with muttonchops the envy of a fellow twice his age. He stood protectively before a golden haired lady of the court. On the other end stood a lean, stern man with a wolf pelt upon his shoulders and traveling clothes, his boots still stained with mud.

Clausewitz was a drunkard, but he was a fiend with a sword. He had reason to be arrogant, beyond his favor of Hausmeister Brugal, the Graf's tall and stately Chamberlain. The lady's honor meant little to him, it was clear. She was beautiful, but there was little in her Clausewitz saw as valuable save as an excuse. Kasimir did not even look at her, stepping away and clearing room to draw his sword. He knew he was the perfect target. He had the prestige of favor without the favor itself. The bastard's death, given in a legitimate duel, would grant Claueswitz fame without really offending anyone.

"I did not cut in line, Herr Heilwig. I was merely trying to enter the door of the esteemed temple. Let me buy you a drink after the service." Kasimir offered cooly, his calm words not quite reaching his wintry eyes.

"So not only do you call me a liar, but you do not even apologize to the lady!? What, you wish to placate me to save your own skin?" Clausewitz Heilwig laughed with an ironic wickedness. He drew his slim rapier, the freshly sharpened blade whistling through the air, its cup hilt gleaming in the soft light of the overcast sky. "Draw your sword, bastard! You will answer for this insult, and even Graf Todbringer will not be able to protect you from my blade."

The crowd gasped as Clausewitz lunged across the flagstones at Kasimir, aiming for his heart.

---

Thirty minutes later...

The Councilman's study was warm and comfortable, but spacious enough to play the part of a small library. The works of Detlef Sierck and Tarradasch were lined next to medical books from far araby and navigator's tales west of the Westerlands. Kasimir stared at one of the shelves, not deigning to look at the good councilmen as he aired what he felt were his more than minor grievances.

"What were you thinking!? Getting into a duel, and on the steps of the Temple, by Ulric's sake!?" Ulf Von Hammershaldt exclaimed. His mug of ale knocked to the floor and his hair disheveled. Kasimir imagined a better man than himself would feel guilt over the debacle, but he merely wanted to find a place he could rest from the road. Unfortunately he had been escorted straight to Von Hammershaldt's study as soon as the duel had ended. Apparently the good councilman was to be his 'handler' for the time being, which meant they sank or swam together. Kasimir had known the councilman as a small boy, and he remembered how kindly the man had been despite his prowess on the field. It seemed the stress of the high court of middenheim had prematurely greyed his hair and left him distraught over the smallest things. Granted, a dead courtier was not unimportant news.

"I had assumed the god of battle did not fret over such things." Kasimir remarked without passion.

"He might not, but anyone can spin this into a scandal!" Von Hammershardt warned, slamming his hands on his desk. A bottle of ink rolled off the well carved wood and fell to the floor. Luckily for the carpet, it did not spill open.

"A scandal for defending myself?" The bastard asked, finally turning to regard the man. Kasimir was not an unintimidating sight. As lean as a blade and fierce as a winter wolf.

"What matters in a scandal is how others perceive it." He reminded him, doing his best to calm down and play the part of a teacher. Kasimir was half his age, and the old soldier turned politician to realize that. He walked round the table, the firelight igniting the gold regalia cascading down his surcoat. "Whether you had cause or not will not make it less so, if everyone is already against you! I would have thought you would have learned of such things in your studies at Altdorf."

"I was not aware Middenheim was Altdorf's lesser twin."

Von Hammershardt's eyes widened in bewilderment and offense. "Careful boy! The fact of the matter is, you have been here one day and a prized courtier is dead, and witnesses are saying you attacked without warning and broke the rules of engagement! Even if it's not true, you must behave yourself. Your position is-"

Kasimir had finally had enough, cutting him off with a slice of his hand. "My position is what Graf Todbringer says it is. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Very true," The councilman temporized, but he grew notably quieter as he spoke his next words. "-but Graf Todbringer is not the one whom you should worry about. Not even he rules absolutely here."

Kasimir understood his meaning, of course. Every imperial court, no matter how strong, ruled by the consent of the nobles and wealthy merchants, just as the emperor ruled by the will of the elector counts. Boris Todbringer was an exceptionally powerful count, second only to Karl Franz many claimed, but he could not be everywhere at once. Kasimir knew the advice was sound, but he would not apologize for defending himself. "I am here to faithfully serve my count, and if anyone gets in mine or his way, I will go through them. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a few hours of rest before the grand ball tonight, and I plan on sleeping as soon as possible."

"Clothes will be brought to your quarters." The councilman said, and added as an afterthought. "And an armed guard."
@Penny

Darkhearts: A Forgotten Realms RP

Amal rolled into the room, knowing even if he were to attempt to lurk in silently, the orcs face one another and one would always have its peripheral vision on their entrance. Instead, Amal made sure the one who saw him would have only a split second to warn his comrade. It was too quick for the bewildered orc, but not for the cutthroat. Orcs were tough and brutally strong, but Amal was as swift as a zephyr. His dagger planted into the back of the orc's neck just as it had started to turn from its companion's warning.

A crossbow bolt bloomed in the eye of the remaining orc, and Amal whistled quietly at the marksmanship. The two brutes were dead, but the shadow of the ogre still lingered as it strode down the hallway, angrily searching for prey that did not exist.

"Quickly!" He whispered as loudly as he dared, rushing to the barrels and leaving Charynrae to the crates. Amal pried one open, and then another. There were dates and dried, salted meats used for travel, likely meant for whatever army this necromancer was cooking up. Amal grabbed what he could and shoved it in his pack, taking the tarp and wrapping it around his shoulders to serve as a cloak. If Charynrae grabbed the other, they might be able to cut the two and make some more insulated garments.

Pity, he had been looking forward to seeing her in her priestly robes under daylight.

He kicked the door open, sunlight flooding in and making the small torchlight seem bland and gloomy. "Come on, let's get to the treeline so we can make a fire!"

Darkhearts: A Forgotten Realms RP

Amal's eyes scanned the room, lingering on the chamber another few moments before silently and swiftly, he slipped back into the shadows and approached Charynrae so they could talk in whispers. He had good ears, but hers were far better, and it was his human hearing that couldn't handle breathing small sounds across the long tunnel. He also knew the numbers one and two in her sign, but she moved so quickly with it, best to talk it out.

"There's two other directions. One to the left and one to the right. I don't know where left leads, but the right goes further down into the mountain I think." He said, stroking his fine chin. He wasn't aware at how close they were, but their body heat made the two of them marginally warming as they conspired. "If we can just get the big one out, we can handle the orcs. You can shoot one and I can take the other by surprise. Do you have magic that might help get the ogre off his ass?"

Once she answered, he would nod. "If we have time, there are barrels and crates out there, and a blanket covering the crates we could take if nothing else. But we will need to move quickly. We can always sneak back in if the elements are too much and steal more. But hopefully we'll be long gone before that happens." He tried not to think about it, but it felt very nice being so close to such a beautiful woman. He had to quell a more carnal thought from his mind to complete the task at hand.

"I'll follow your lead. Give me the signal and we'll move." He said, giving her a wink. Idly he wondered if drow even knew the concept of a wink. If not, he could fill her in later.

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Beren had dreamed, but what he had dreamed he couldn't remember. There was something elusive in his thoughts, something he couldn't quite grasp, and as he opened his eyes, it faded away into nothingness. He was suddenly aware he was covered up by rough blankets, his shirt having been stripped off and his axe and staff were lain beside him. His head was propped on the soft end of his pack, and the ceiling above was so tall, he almost could not see it from the dim lighting. A fire crackled noisily, and he turned his head slightly to watch small embers leaping onto the cold, stone floor as Jocasta placed another piece of kindling in the fire. The dwarves had brought a few wooden logs for just such an occasion, and they were known the world over for making a fire in even the worst conditions. Across the fire, the fat merchant Buri slept, snoring loudly.

"I thought I was dead," Beren chuckled. Jocasta sprang up and turned, lips parted as she scampered to him. Immediately her hand moved his hair and felt his forehead, and the other pulled the blankets up further.

"You call me crazy? Don't ever do something like that again." She lectured.

"Waking up a draugr king for research purposes is kind of crazy," He pointed out, raising his brows.

"I did not know that was going to happen!" She responded, a bit sulkily. "Anyway, the dwarves went deeper into the city. I thought it was for some honor thing, but Otar thinks he can heal Varin by finding some shrine. He was pretty injured..."

"I should help," Beren said, duty immediately coming into his mind. He started to rise, the blanket falling off his muscled shoulders. Jocasta protested, trying to push him down with her hands before giving an exasperated sigh and dropping atop his chest, rump first. Beren immediately fell back to the floor, Jocasta now sitting on him, arms crossed. "Your butt hits harder than the building." He said, and she burst out laughing. He groaned and still tried to lift himself. "At least let me sit up!"

She acquiesced and scooted over, which meant she was now on his lap again. He braced himself with his hands and sat up fully. His pendant hanging from his bare chest glinted in the firelight. He might have been a warrior monk, from a secret order originating high in the mountains across the sea, but with his tanned skin with wan scars and his unruly mane of dark hair, he looked more like a barbarian from the fringes of civilization. Except for his lopsided smile.

"You did good with the beast." He complimented her. "Those earrings are badass. Who got those for you, by the way?"

Bodacious Bounties: Bounty Hunter AU

Neil showed his teeth in the grin, and he pushed the bottle up off his palm to catch with a quick grab. His stomach grumbled loudly, and the smell of the cheese was overwhelming. Meatlovers was his favorite, and he hadn't had pizza in a hot minute. He plopped down on the couch, leaning forward and grabbing a slice for himself. With his cold bottle beside him, he scarfed down a slice, too hungry to initially savor the taste. His second slice he took his time with, rolling his shoulders so they loosened up from all the leaning they had been doing a mere minute ago.

"I win in the ring, I win in the game." He shook his head, as if lamenting a sincere tragedy. "I'm just too good." She raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, but it only caused him to break out a smile. He remembered when the two of them had first met, back on Hyperion. It was true, she had played him from the start, and admittedly they had some subsequent bumps. But when he had first flirted with her, he saw genuine interest in her eyes. Maybe he had knocked that out from his silliness, but a part of him wondered.

"You got some right..." He began, pointing to his left cheek. She gave an 'mmm' and grabbed a napkin, dabbing at it.

"Usually my drones tell me, but I guess they're lazy tonight." She remarked, the latter half of her statement rising an octave so the little machines could hear. There was a light buzzing in response.

Neil had finished his second piece and reclined in the sofa, taking his cold beverage and idly sipping it. "Where'd you learn to play like that?" He asked curiously. "I know it's a cliche that bounty hunters are slick and cool, but you're pulling it off well." Next she'll tell him she drive a grav-bike and wears a black leather jacket.

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Beren blinked dust out of his vision, gripping his axe hard as the leviathan came back into view. Jocasta's tricks had harmed it, but unless they moved quickly while it was down, it was still immensely dangerous, and now enraged. It brushed aside debris and shoved away stones larger than Beren with its colossal sinews, raising its grotesque head high to bellow. Beren and the dwarves clamped their hands over their ears to keep their ear drums from shattering. Even shielded, Beren heard something deep in its throat burr, giving the monk the image of a shoddy tank engine sputtering to retain life. Unfortunately, that seemed to be a unique aspect of its mutated anatomy rather than any sign of ill-health.

Beren picked his axe back up again, taking a deep breath before he played his part. Just as he was about to step out into the open, a strong hand clamped on his forearm. It was Otar, eyes closed and his beard shifting as he whispered, laying a blessing on the tanned younger warrior. Beren felt a thrum of something indescribable pass between the two of them, and the pendant under his shirt lit up like a flaring torch.

"May Runar go with you," He remarked solemnly.

"Fucking run, long legs!" Radsvir hooted. Beren gave the two dwarves a thumbs-up, a small sign of assurance or agreement the dwarves had developed millennia ago. Then he turned and sprung out of the archway, skidding into the street right before the thrashing behemoth. The spined fins framing its ugly head fluttered, sensing movement, and it turned to gaze its two remaining eyes at Beren. They looked lifeless, like a fish's, and yet he could somehow see a malign web of cruel thought behind the uncaring orbs.

Beren glanced at Jocasta's hiding spot, knowing she likely saw him. He gave a wink, before turning tail and running up the central street. It took less than the time to blink before a reverberating growl erupted behind him, followed by the sound of crashing stones as the gargantuan serpent gave chase, it's immense shape moving side to side like molasses to the untrained eye, and yet even damaged, it was gaining on Beren in a straight run. The nimble warrior made it to the turn, spinning into a leap and planting his foot against the opposite wall, redirecting his momentum and landing in full sprint, now heading down the left street. Moments later, the immense beast crashed into the building Beren had used to spring board his run, breaking its foundations, causing it to fall into itself, crumbling and sending up further waves of dust. The beast was not deterred, its scales blocking most of the debris as it continued its pursuit.

Feet pumping, Beren leaped over ancient rubble from a previously felled structure, and then slid beneath a long, three foot thick arch of stone set above the street, a picture of the daily life of the ancient dwarves, sculpted along its length in a mosiac, likely built by ancient dwarf artisans to give the street more grandeur. Beren looked back over his shoulder, watching the leviathan slam into the arch he had just passed under like a flood, shattering the stone. It bellowed again, this time in rage, but rather than continue his forward pace, Beren saw a light ahead, and skidded to a halt, leaping to the right down a small space between two massive structures and landing on his side. He had leaped, and just before he had thrown himself out of the street, he had seen a terrific flash.

There was a crack and a resounding boom that rivaled the beast's horrific screams, and blacksmoke rose out of the din as Beren collected himself. For a moment there was a deafening silence, and the warrior monk, now on his feet, crept to the edge of the alley, peering down. To his right, Gurin with his broken arm, and fat Buri, stood atop a broad flight of steps at the edge of the street, just under the grand pillars of one of the outer citadels. Before them, a huge cannon engraved with imperial dwarven regalia in brass smoked from a fresh shot. Beren looked left, and he saw the beast down, the vast bulk of its serpentine center opened by a huge gash. It looked small, but Beren felt it was equivalent to being shot with a blunderbuss in his abdomen.

"Wishful thinking," he breathed as he watched in growing alarm.

The monstrous mutant began to writhe, and gave a hiss that was louder than a steam train's whistle. Fangs as large as Beren's legs glinted in the sallow light, and for a moment he was frozen, wondering if the thing was simply in its death throes. The dwarves held no such fascination or curiosity, however. Out of the buildings they came, axes and mattocks in their brawny hands. Radsvir and Varin came from the opposite street, huge picks with armor piercing heads made for wartime held aloft as they charged. Muragrim came out of the building next to Beren like a vengeful ghost, double-headed axe reared back as the black bearded mercenary went straight for the thing's head. Electrocuted, crushed by rocks, and shot dead center by a large cannon, and it was still ready to fight. Beren had to admit the monster was tenacious, and though he was usually loathe to kill beasts, he had looked into its eyes and had seen wickedness. Grimly, he strapped his axe onto his back, turned to the intricate designs carved on the wall on the massive apartment next to him, using them as handholds to climb.

Varin and Radsvir, the latter who must have followed immediately and made it to position with his long legs, found what could pass for the thing's 'neck' and impaled it with their mattocks, piercing scale and sinking into the softer flesh beneath. Muragrim reached its bat-like face, rolling under a sudden snap of its jaws and planting his axe into the fish-like vestige on the side of its great head. It shrieked and wriggled with unyielding strength, knocking Radsvir back while Varin clung to his weapon desperately. The beast flung its head, ripping Muragrim's axe out of his hand. The burly dwarf tore out a thick knife from his boot and followed, leaping as the head swung back and, grabbing onto the spines along its head, stabbing into any weak spot he could find. Beyond them all, a voice rang in the air. An sonorous voice, brimming with wisdom and speaking in the ancient tongue of their forefathers. The voice found itself in every door, ever corner, and could be heard across the city as it intoned a dirge. Suddenly, the weapons of the dwarves burst into flame, their steel heads turning dark from the immense heat. Even Muragrim's axe, embedded in the thing's skull, began to sear the skin around it.

Radsvir, having hit the wall and fallen on his rump, managed to dust himself off and take out his short sword. The blade symmetrical with hard edges like most dwarven weapons, wrought in the mountains of Gradlock in the far off east. The steel bled with flame, and he smiled wickedly as he ran forward back into the fray. He leaped over flung rubble, and on the downswing, took off one of the small vestigial fins on the side of the massive mutant's body. He landed, and his first act now he was on his two feet was to shove the blade into the huge body up to its hilt. Thanks to Otar's incantation, the blade slid in easier than the mattocks. At this point, the entirety of the colossal thing's body frozen up and bristled, before slowly but surely, it began to roll. The beast had changed tactics. Radsvir yelped and leaped to the left, scrambling free of the path of its bulk. Muragrim was flung from the head, hitting the ground in a roll. Of Varin there was no sign, having last been seen hanging on to the mattock. Inexorably, the roll brought the vast serpent's form to slam into the buildings opposite. Pottery and loose stones fell from above, crashing and clattering into the stone of the street. At that, finally free of the dwarves and their wicked weapons, it used what strength it had left to rear its head high, maw open to cry out in defiance.

"Woegrim's arse!" Gurin cried when he saw what happened next, pointing in the air. Buri gasped.

A muscled, lean form almost seemed to glide from the rooftops of the left apartments. In its hands was a large handaxe, flame waving madly in the rushing air as it was lifted above its head. Beren let out a warcry that echoed across the street, and with the arc of his axe carried by the momentum of his leap and his powerful arms, the enchanted head sliced through bone and muscle into the beast's brain, ending its life without the monstrous behemoth even realizing it. Its maw gave a strangled, almost pitiful gasp as its still form held for a breif moment, a great pillar of muscle and bone, before it slowly started to sway. Beren held onto his axe, shaking from the adrenaline. He grabbed whatever he could, his free right hand gripping one of its massive fangs. Everyone watching saw the monumental head inexorably topple, falling like one might see a huge tree be felled, or a large keep hit by a warwolf trebuchet. Both Beren and the head fell headlong, and the next moment, crashed into a stone building, disappearing behind a veritable explosion of debris as tons of stone crumbling upon the both of them.

The silence that followed sounded much like that of the grave.

Darkhearts: A Forgotten Realms RP

Amal gave a wide grin that showed his white teeth. "The important cities? Depends on who you ask." He said, though he understood her point. His point, however, was that even the lesser cities did their best to emulate the bigger ones like Calimport and Baldur's Gate, and whatever city they came across in the frozen north likely tried to treat itself as the pinnacle of civilization. Easy to look good when next to a frozen moor or a burning farm, ravaged from an orc raid.

The two skulked along in silence, until Charynrae halted her thoughtful musings to pose a question to him.

He stopped, and his smile slipped away when she had used his name, and what's more asked how he felt. It was unexpected, even after they had introduced themselves to one another. It almost seemed familiar, and it caught him off guard. He shrugged his broad shoulders. "A bit. I usually can handle bad conditions, even cold ones. But I think before we leave I'll need something more than my vest to keep me well for a few days. You likely might as well, I think." He reminded her.

His words were suddenly caught off, when they heard a low, heaving growl down the tunnel. Instantly Amal had his knives out, swinging around Charynrae to land in a crouch, ready to spring at the slightest hint of danger. But nothing appeared. Instead, they saw a faint light, and a vast shadow gliding across it, along the tunnel wall. Amal crept forward quietly, one dagger flipping into a back-handed grip, and he peered around the corner.

The next chamber was larger than the last, and far colder. Amal first noticed barrels upon barrels stacked in the far right corner, with blankets haphazardly draped over them in a mockery of concealment. Closer, he saw another tunnel leading back into the cavernous underground at his right, and a few crates placed there, with a few coins and a dagger atop them. To the left were two orcs, both arm wrestling for a slab of meat they had between them, grunting and showing their tusk-like teeth, porcine yellow eyes narrowed in effort. They weren't the gravest concern, however. Beside them, just settling down to take a load off, was a massive ogre. It squatted on the ground and picked at its teeth, huge club now resting on the ground beside it.

But the most important detail of the room? The large oaken door, half opened directly across from the tunnel Amal and Charynrae hid themselves in, and the light of day poured into the room.