POOHEAD189

Pirates - Ye Be Warned

Galt had no idea if he had been awake. One minute he had been standing there, and the next a wave of multicolored phosphorescent water hit him and bowled him over, and then light... or had there been light? He didn't know, and honestly his caring for the mystery swiftly fled him when he realized they had made it through. But he was surprised again when he came to with the pirate lord atop him. His heart began to thunder in his chest, not out of embarrassment or shyness, but he was afraid any disapproval on her part would send her small sword into his gullet.

Thankfully, she merely got up and checked their surroundings. The thief did too, rising to his feet and brushing himself off. His hair was no longer soaked, and he shook his head to get out whatever debris might have collected in it. The maelstrom they had endured was now pristine, almost picturesque. It was a small comfort, considering the ship looked to be a wreck. He ran his hands over his face to kindle his senses.

"Yeah, thought we were burnin' the ken there for a second." He admitted, drawing a curious look from Jesse. He grinned at her in spite of himself, not meaning to use the thieves cant. "Thanks, by the way. For keeping me onboard."

"Yer no good to me dead," She told him, leaning over the rail to check the waters below. The sea was as clear as glass, small fish meandering lazily beneath the Weather Witch. Seaweed billowing with every small current. She hopped off the rail as he replied.

"To think I was just starting to like you." Galt joked, peering at the island. "I'm not a sailor, but you're not bad at this." Her gambit through the portal reminded him very much like his mad dash to freedom and leap through the window, just before he had been taken by her. It brought back memories of Bonnie for a small, uncomfortable second. They had not even liked each other, but he still knew she was dead and he wasn't. Such was the life.

Jess chuckled, stepping across the deck to collect her sword. She gave him a fierce smile as she lifted herself back up, and this time his heart began to race again, for more traditional male reasons. Suddenly Bonnie was in the past. "You haven't seen nothing yet." She promised as she sheathed her sword.

Across the deck, Branch groaned. He lifted one scarred arm and grabbed at the railing above him. He missed it and hit the deck again. Galt looked around and noticed a few more crewmen coming to. He felt a small chill crawl up his spine when he realized half of the men on the rigging was now gone, as if the rift itself claimed a toll for their passage.

"Almost thought I was cleaved to the brisket!" One younger pirate complained, sitting up and rubbing his chest, blonde hair matted to his face.

Jess began to order men about, telling them to clean and repair the ship as best they could without taking it on shore. She then called for volunteers for a scout party on the island, and said by no uncertain terms Galt was coming. He was not going to argue, but at his incredulity she said: "First you can't wait to leave the ship and now you're wanting to stay?"

"Not at all, just figured you'd want to keep an eye on me."

"I am." She clarified with a glint as dangerous as it was amused, one hand on her hip. "I'm going too."

Darkhearts: A Forgotten Realms RP

Up close, the walls were even more impressive. Amal wondered if djinn had helped create them, despite their northerly aesthetic. The ballista and catapults stations atop the walls looked well maintained, and though the men were spread thin, they seemed well trained and carefully drilled. Voices from their captains and the men returning filtered out from the parapets as the two approached. Luckily for them, the large iron gate was open. It took them a number of minutes walking on open ground to make it, but the shadow of the wall was a comforting weight after being exposed to the elements for nearly a week.

Small bands of adventurers and lowly travelers trickled out of the gate as they approached, and though Amal was curious, the two of them steered clear so Charynrae was not discovered. Amal himself would probably draw an eye or two, and not just for his good looks.

With his keen eyes, he saw the guards questioning travelers every now and then, but Amal got a beat on the flow of the questioning, and with some small guidance to Charynrae with his hand gingerly taking the silhouette of her forearm, they managed to infiltrate a small number of peasants entering the gate, keeping to the middle and staying out of sight. The two entered under the tunnel of the gate, and a darkness cloaked them. Before them, the white of day illuminated the exit into Bloodstone pass, but Amal knew Charynrae likely felt more relaxed now than anytime the past week.

Likely, being the keyword. She was still surrounded by surfacers. And none likely as charming as he.

Closer and closer the light came, the two passing by large doors embedded in the stone, likely leading to more guard quarters. Seconds passed, and Amal then stepped into the light and blinked, taking the hood off his head and gazing about. To the left and right, there were shops and taverns and entertainment hugging the wall, some even carved into it. Men and women gambled and sang and mingled, some looking around aimlessly and others stalking with a purpose. Most were human, but Amal saw no shortage of doughty dwarves, and even a few halflings and surface elves. Beyond the wall was a small plain filled with makeshift shacks and tents, forming a shantytown almost two miles long. The populations were much the same, but many were mercenaries or thrill seekers, Amal guessed. He saw bards stringing their harps and tough men setting fires under cooking pots. Men in wizard robes held up maps and spoke in hushed tones to fighters or armored men with holy symbols. But of course, the largest portion of the men looked to be workers. Squires, curvasceous dancers, repairmen, true cooks, and the like. He grinned when he saw a few skulking figures from his vantage point, his trained eyes knowing the shadows of thieves when he saw them.

"Almost reminds me of home," He said to himself, though he did not doubt Charynrae heard him. He nudged her. "Come, let's see about getting a drink and finding a place to stay. Maybe I can even find some dice. Do you gamble, Lady Char?"

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Kasimir stalked down the hall, having left the party late. He had wished to linger, smiling as best he could and making small talk with whoever seemed receptive to it. He knew Hargulf was right. Tonight was the time he could repair his tarnished reputation, and then he would keep out of sight for a number of days, serving the Graf wherever the old Codger wished. He doubted Todbringer would make him do administrative work, nor anything social by nature. Bookkeeping was the most likely sentence, unless he had a shortage of swords in the drakwald. He had known him since childhood, but he had never been a direct vassal until now, or at least he had never been an adult vassal.

He turned a corner, passing by a resplendent painting of the Middenheim forces repelling the putrid goblin hordes of Grom the Paunch. Kasimir had read the histories extensively on that seige, being the closest the capital city had ever come to having its defenses shattered. Luckily for Middenheim, it had been the cunning but otherwise diminutive Goblins rather than a more ferocious enemy, and they did Middenland the favor of showing its prior weakness of not expecting an assault from under the very mountain the city stood upon. Now, after shoring up that veritable chink in its armor, the city truly was impregnable.

The moral of the story the scholars had often flouted was that if an enemy wishes to attack, let them. They will betray their greatest strength in the initial attack, and from there the defender could only get stronger armed with this new knowledge. Kasimir wished that were true in court politics, he thought derisively.

Utilizing his impressive memory and sense of direction, the bastard found his way back to the door of his room without needing an escort a second time. That was another reason he remained at the party longer than necessary. The guards had either been switched or had partaken a few drinks as well. He could slip out of the event easy enough once the moons were high above the city.

Kasimir passed by the small, marble statue of Ulric holding an axe in his left and a sword in his right, and unlocked his door with a sigh. Truth be told, he needed sleep. The door lock did not retreat, and he lowered his brow in slight confusion. He turned the key back, and then forward. The bolt fell into place, and then he undid it once more.

"Strange..." He said softly, and opened the door.

The room looked much the same as it had been, but his grey eyes flicked back and forth, his instincts telling him something was amiss. Finally they fell on the chair beside the door, where he had left his sword. The blade and sheath were gone! It took him only a moment of hesitation before he cursed, feeling warm anger slowly flow into his body.

"Bastards," He swore, fully convinced his blade had been confiscated while he was away. He would first go to Von Hammershaldt, and if the old soldier did not order it taken, he would go to the Graf himself. At the moment, he could not give two shits if that was a bad first impression after being gone for years. If the old bastard could not understand the duel had not been his fault, he might as well take his sword and leave the fucking city. A calmer side of him knew it was likely petulant, but he had done nothing wrong and everyone had shamed him for it.

He growled and turned out into the dim hallway, closing the door and striding determinedly back into the corridor, only to collide with the sudden appearance of a hurried figure. Immediately he knew it was a woman from the impact, but just as he was about to apologize, the light of the torch caught her face. It was the supposed Lady d’Aberville.

"You!" He remarked, his face two parts surprise, one part hostility.

Tricksters and Theives: A Warhammer RP

"I want the biggest house..."

"Babe, you know if someone comes back that'll be the place they go to first, right? Shouldn't we be more covert?" Neil cautioned.

Well, caution was a strong word. He wasn't entirely against the idea, feeling the same sense of greed and desire for luxury and comfort as his girlfriend. Well, maybe not the same, mostly wanted her to be happy. But he did want to voice what might tip the balance in her decision making. He also should probably mention any war party, Imperial or Chaos, would want to use the big house as a main base. He doubted either would be welcoming to thieves.

Emmaline crossed her arms under her sizeable chest and gave Neil a pleading look, her eyes big and blue. Neil turned and looked at the reader, before shaking his head.

Neil picked the lock on the large oaken doors, using his shoulder to shove the stubborn portal open. Both scoundrels hurried under the ostentatious archway and into the foyer, eager to be out of the elements.

The foyer had still-clean tables with busts of various men, evidently a family line known as the Krumppers, as evident on the names beneath each, owning this manor for eight generations. Above them was a dome with an impressive quadratura, depicting Sigmar's retreat from the Empire during the latter years of his life, flanked by a massive wolf and a great boar as the myths often portrayed.

"Damn," Neil said after he whistled appreciatively.

"It's so overt it's covert." Emmaline said, smiling like the cat that got the cream as she walked past him into the wider atrium. To the right was a sitting room with soft, cushioned seats and couches where one could lounge with a beverage and overlook the small, wealthy village. To the left looked to be the dining area and the kitchens. Straight ahead, there was a well fashioned stairway, with a seaswept railing of dark polished wood. Past it on the first floor looked to be the gardens.

"Hey, check what they got in the larder." Neil called after her when she turned the corner. Then his mind caught up with him. He leaned out of the foyer to call down the corridor. "And don't drink all the booze yourself!"

Emmaline poked her head out and waved at him, a cork in her mouth already. She slipped back in as quickly as she appeared. Contented, Neil decided to check the perimeter to make sure there were no lurking ungors or thieves. Or, more dangerous thieves, at least. He stretched his arms for a moment, and then stepped into the sitting room. A wide bookshelf loomed above the biggest couch, filled with various tomes from alchemical treatises to playwrights, to the classics of ancient Tilea. Useful information, but merely novelties to be collected by the wealthy. The window, framed by the large chairs, showed the town as vacant as when they had entered. Still, he did not want to remain in front of it for long, and strode into the next room, turning his head from outside to a smaller dining room.

"Sigmar's flaccid balls!" Neil cursed, jerking back, stopping his foot from stepping right on a corpse. Blood congealed on the floor from a head wound obviously made by a pistol ball. The manservant lay sprawled, unmoved from the moment he was shot. The blood was dark and dry now, his stained, grey hair stiffened. Neil didn't need to touch his skin to know the corpse was cold.

"Well, that's awkward." He deadpanned, seeing no further sign of a struggle, save for the carpet being pulled a bit uneven. He stepped over the body into a smaller corridor, passing by a door that led to the outside, into a small room obviously meant for entertaining guests. Out in the back gardens, he saw no one. The flowers weren't in bloom yet, but from his cursory glance he saw it had been well maintained until recently.

He headed left, towards the kitchen, his voice echoing down the hall. "Hey babe? Babe, there's a dead person in there, but don't worry it's not contagious."

The colourful threads in a troubadour's vest

It was good fortune then, that he had been found by such a nice person. In life people often took things for granted. He almost had just there. Ali thought to himself 'of course I would not die there. Of course a pretty woman finds me and brings me back to health.' As if the stuff of dreams not only could but should happen. However, he intellectually understood that was silly to expect. He put on a congenial smile, though he did not look well enough to walk. Not yet at least. He still felt a bit dizzy, and the wounds had barely been tended to.

"Thank you," He said softly, taking the water she offered with both hands. He did his best to keep his hands from shaking, and he did a good job of it for the most part. He was aware of her eyes on him, and for some reason he felt self conscious. It was silly, considering she had seen most of his upper naked body and helped carry him here, bleeding.

He had never felt so good, quenching his thirst. The water was cold and pleasing, disappearing down his throat so quickly he almost didn't believe it was gone. A drop or two rolled down his chin and onto his well-formed chest, curling over the definition of his physique. Ali wasn't a laborer, but he was young and strong, often helping his family with chores and carrying heavy packages miles up the road.

He set the glass down, catching his breath. Wow, he really was fatigued. Still, Ali made sure he wouldn't immediately close his eyes. "I'm Ali. Alidren Baldyr, but just call me Ali." He said with a wan smile, shrugging. He regretted the action, pain shooting through his body, the bandages on him stretching a bit. His eyes widened and he grunted from the pain, but continued to talk with a strained voice. "It's lovely to meet you, miss...?"

He sounded like he had been smoking a pipe all his life. Smooth.

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

"The usual, Al?"

He lifted his hand from the countertop, the sticky residue of cooking grease and strawberry jam on the tip of his fingers. Barb hadn't cleaned the counter this morning. Big surprise. Tony dropped freshly cut onions on the grill, the sizzling deceptively satisfying to hear. If you could see past the smudged windows and the quaint sign at the front, you might think this was a nice diner. One need only eat the eggs to realize the enormity of the mistake. But the coffee was good, the people left you alone, and the food was deservedly cheap.

Alcander raised his other hand and pushed a wave of his tangled hair out of his face. He hadn't found the time for a haircut in months. One crackhead had creatively said he was LARPING as an apostle, which he guessed was not too outlandish. But it did get him to shave, at least. Before he opened his mouth, his phone vibrated audibly on the counter. He lifted it up and gave it a cursory glance. He took a moment and nodded.

"Yeah Barb, put it in a cup."

The weather had cleared, the sun peaking intermittently through the fleeing clouds, leaving the decrepit stink of the city wafting as clear to the senses as the food at the diner. He had grown used to it, passing the offices and apartments that littered the business sector of the city. He sipped his order, letting the coffee heat his belly as he walked the three blocks from the diner to the crime scene. He finished just before he found the alley, tossing the cup in a corner bin and clearing his throat.

"El," He said by say of greeting. Alcander was an unassuming figure, his lean greyhound frame hidden by the large overcoat he wore day by endless day. Passed his hair, his face was finely formed, but the bags under his eyes and the weathered look to his face betrayed the fact he hadn't slept six hours in two days. His eyes glanced down at the corpse, then flew upwards.

"Well, he didn't fall. At least..." He wrinkled his nose as the smell of refuse and piss finally hit him. The detective looked straight up at the sky, as if the clouds had answers. -not off the roof."

Alcander wasn't shaken easily. Not anymore, at least. He felt at home when looking at mangled corpses, which was a bit of therapy he would have looked into, in another life.

"His arms aren't aligned in the way one might try and shield themselves from a fall." He explained, taking a pen out of his jacket and dipping it into the black sludge that had accumulated along the uneven pavement the government so generously kept up to standard, as far as they told the taxpayers. Even a man committing suicide would instinctually try to block his head from striking the hard ground. He scooped up a bit of the alien liquid, fishing in his jacket with his free hand and producing a lighter. The small metallic click accompanied the flame, and he raised the coated pen, gingerly placing the flame beneath it.

The black sludge erupted in flame, which swiftly turned a sickly green, illuminating Alcander's face, his dark irises glowing with a muted forest color. "Could be wyvern bile, or maybe even cockatrice blood. I'll know better once Jo runs some tests."

He dropped the pen even as it dematerialized, the flame somehow spreading the ichor across its length, as if it made the flame hungry.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

The attack had been swift and well executed. Kian almost laughed when the arrows came whistling out of the trees and the screams erupted up the road. He had figured the Lord of Light would not have let him die so ignominiously at the ass end of the world. Though, admittedly, he had been a bit worried there for a moment.

The Red Priest did gape, however, when he saw the vanguard of his saviors.

"Dothraki!?" He echoed to himself. He had a comically bewildered look on his face as arrows arced past his vision and men and horses collided with the poorly equipped Faith Militant. Blood spurted and men screamed, accompanied by the whooping cries of the Dothraki and the more stoic warcries from the notably more armored Westerosi that followed them. Amid the chaos, Kian decided he would not question good fortune. His rescuers were curious, but that just made it all the more interesting. His thoughts were interrupted by a particularly girlish squeal, and he winced when he saw a Faith Militant being murdered in an exceptionally brutal fashion.

Still, he waited patiently for the one sided slaughter to finish, not saying another word and simply watching. Soon, the cries of pain and elation subsided, now replaced by the moaning of the dying and the laughter of the victorious. He felt the rope around his wrists begin to chaffe a bit, but otherwise he was not in too big of a hurry to speak to whoever led this warband. Of course, he swiftly changed his mind when a well armored and lovely woman approached him, leaving behind a still warm corpse she had just comforted. It seemed like there was going to be one surprise after another today, and it occurred to the itinerant priest that despite being saved, he was still in quite a precarious position.

"Yes, I've noticed." He replied to her. "I've watched as you Westerosi have shared your culture with each other all morning. I suppose it's a bit like the Dothraki, though a bit less bloody and far more talk of justification." At that last word, he chuckled. He found the woman had introduced herself well, at least. He visibly brightened when the maiden spoke so knowledgeably with the epitaphs of his deity. She sounded educated, and moved with an almost courtly etiquette. Kian did find it curious she was leading these men, a tale he was most interested in hearing. Her invitation arrived just after that thought, actually.

"I would be a madman to refuse after that introduction. To say it would be a delight would be a disservice, my lady." He responded, his voice as smooth as liquid gold. "And before you ask, yes, I do lay it on thick. Erm-" He looked at the corpses of the zealots on the ground, shrugging. "Perhaps a bit too thick, I admit."

He gestured to his hands, or that was to say, he sort of wriggled a bit and gesticulated with his head towards his back. "If you would do me the kindness of cutting me loose, I would be much obliged. I go by the name of Kian, and as you guessed, I am a priest of R'hllor, Defender of the Lord of Light, The Heart of Fire, God of Flame and Shadow. And truth be told, he's been a bit of a jokester as of late, it seems."

All this talk of fire had Kian wondering if the phrase 'out of the pot and into the fire' was apt here. Hopefully not.
@Ruby

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Beren and Jocasta suddenly heard something hard scraping against stone, which would not be too disconcerting if the sound was not occuring in two dozen places at once, all around them. Jocasta spun, trying to gauge if there were other entrances they might have missed, anxious even after getting confirmation from her drones to the contrary. Beren understood how she felt. Chitters and screeches echoed in the wide cavern, but chillingly, Beren realized were not the random, animal noises one might suspect.

There were words in those cries.

Buri looked nervous, but there was very little room for cowardice in the culture of the daurgrim. Even if he was shitting his pants, he would stand his ground or be sent to the halls of the dishonored at his death. Even Beren knew very little about that bit of dwarf theology, but whatever that involved, it was worse than anything a dwarf could rightly imagine. Beren made it to the stairway, but was nearly bludgeoned by a ball of dark glass. The object sailing past him, and were it not for his finely honed reflexes, there was little doubt it would have shattered near the center of the floor. Instead, Beren spun and caught it, completing the spin and sending it flying back down the stairs. Screams arose as a small VOOMPSH and a ripple of concussive force blew up the stairway. Whatever it had contained, it smelled like urine and dead fish.

"Acid flasks!" Buri cried with an accusatory tone. The dwarf had a handful of jagged stones in his arms, hustling to the lip of the barrier.

"Good catch," Jocasta said to Beren just after an appreciative whistle.

"No big deal," He replied with (fake) smugness, shrugging his big shoulders. Jo's eyes widened, and Beren caught her look, turning to see a Gundarog that had ascended the barricade quickly, launch itself from the top of the newly formed stone barrier, leaping at Jocasta with its spindly limbs out and hands aimed at her throat. Its grotesque face contorted in a scream of violence. Jocasta squealed and ducked even as Beren leaped, his foot snapping out to hit the thing in the side of the head, breaking its neck with an audible crack of bone. The thing landed in a tangled heap just as Beren himself landed, knees bent and feet shoulder width apart, his hands splayed in a curious stance of the far east.

"Ok, now you're just trying to impress me." Jocasta laughed, albeit a bit nervously.

"Yeah, I shouldn't press my luck," Beren responded curtly, still in a jocose fashion.

"Little help!?" Buri yelled, tossing large stones down at the horde now teaming on the stairway. Beren leaped forward, seeing a tide of ugly, malformed humanoids with sallow, mottled skin and covered in black, serrated armor pushing against one another and running up the stairs on all fours. A few, somehow, were even crawling along the walls. Behind them, the warband gave the central ground a wide berth, as acid still sizzled on the ancient stone. A few limbs still smoldered from the unfortunate creatures that had been hit by their own cruel device.

"You have any spells that can hit a bunch in a group!?" Beren called to Jocasta, ducking a spear thrust and yanking the weapon out of the hands of its user, tossing it to the floor. He grabbed his axe in time to block a sword cut with the haft, shoving the smaller creature back into its companions, pushing a number of them down for a moment. Buri did his best to pelt the wall climbers, too short to use his own axe with the barricade in front of him.

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

Hard Boiled Detective

Character Name: Alcander Mires

Concept: Scarred Paranormal Detective

Background: Alcander's upbringing was atypical, though notably not paranormal. His parents, Nestor and Candice, were both Greek, having moved to the United States for business, finding a home in western Florida. Alcander was taught both English and Greek by his father, and his mother gave him a love of the ancient classics. Not only of Greek origin, but the myths of many cultures, most notably Near Eastern and Norse. He was encouraged to pursue a career in law by his father, and Alcander notably excelled in school. By age 16 he had graduated highschool, and was sent to live with his cousins in Athens, pursuing an undegraduate in law. Unfortunately for his parent's expectations, the locale and historical sites rekindled his love of myth and history, and soon he changed his vocation to archaeology and the classics.

He found he wanted to remain in Greece, and even went so far as to advocate for his inclusion in the HAF for the compulsory military service, spending a full 12 months in the Hellenic Army. There he met his closest friends, Castor, Irakles, and Petros. All four were discharged by age 19, and they all went to university together. Alcander would never forget those three years he spent with them, laughing until they cried and even getting into a few fights downtown with rowdy louts on drunken nights.

Once they each graduated, the four went on several digs together. Six months later, they took a dig with a team a few miles outside of Argos.

The site was closed a day later, and save for a few locals swearing they heard a keening, animal wail in the wind, no one ever found out what exactly happened to the team.

Alcander still won't speak on that day. He emerged out of the ground bloodied and covered in dust, his friends gone. Even when he gets particularly drunk, one can only get the words 'Tartarus' and 'Hydra' out of him. Alcander spent a few weeks settling his affairs, and then he left Greece without a word on where he was going. Every now and then he would call his family, speaking in brief sentences on his whereabouts. Istanbul, Edinburgh, Stockholm, the Song Mountains, San Paulo... Five years off the map, only to return to the states, quieter and world weary, but otherwise healthy.

Physical Description: Alcander cuts a wiry but not unpleasant figure. His mane of wavy and unremarkable hair, along with his earthy brown eyes give him an unintimidating and approachable look, particularly before his travels. He has a fine nose that accentuates his youthful face nicely, and a cut chin to match. His eyes are cold or distant, however. The bags under them betray his frequent, invasive dreams.

He used to wear casual, but fashionable clothes. Button downs he would keep open and khakis or shorts, frequently going to the beach. Now, his shirts are wrinkled and his trousers are functional but unremarkable. He's almost never seen without a long duster-like coat, though he still wears the Greek orthodox bronze medallion his father gave him, hanging against his skin from a sturdy sterling silver necklace.

Powers and Skills:

Descendant of Apollo: The years lie lightly on him, and his ability to survive and endure harsh injuries are due to his lineage. One might call him a 'hero' in the Greek tradition, but he certainly would not.

Knowledge: A nymph claimed he was closer to Hermes than Apollo in spirit, and it was due to his knowledge of both mythology, language, and forensics.

Pacts: Has a number of otherworldly contacts, acquaintances, and bound entities to call upon when in need.

Minor Sorcery: Has no real talent for it, but has learned some occult arts to help him in his pursuits.

Military Training: Knows basic combat and has limited firearms training.