POOHEAD189

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

The afterbirth of rain? That is quite the metaphor :P

@Penny

Hey, a smelly rancid alleyway requires colorful description

Narrator: But he was, in fact, a medievalist.

Alcander wishes he was on my level

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

Alcander ran his hand over his head, moving the fringe out of his face. He gave Teajay a look and gestured for her to follow.

The alleyway was dirty, as one might expect. The afterbirth of yesterday's rain still clung in small puddles where the rancid liquids of whatever trash had been tossed casually away accumulated in a thick soup. Al idly kicked aside an old can of beer as they approached the dumpsters. He had not expected the heavy objects to be on wheels, but it would have been a welcome sight. Still, he stopped at the first one and leaned left to get a better view inside. Black trashbags and the occasional loose refuse were piled together, but no sign of the black sludge. He sniffed a small, sardonic laugh and rolled up his sleeves.

Alcander set his feet firmly on dry ground, planting his hands against the aluminum siding. The dumpster was not entirely full, so he had confidence he could move it himself. Alcander was wiry, but he had a lean strength to him. A moment passed, and then the deep scraping of metal on concrete screeched, and Alcander grunted as he pushed forward, until he nearly slipped. His foot slid along an strange substance and his knee almost struck the ground, but he caught himself. Al fully expected to look down and see a trail of wet chicken grease, but instead his eyes caught something unexpected.

A small stream of black sludge leading just under the dumpster. But its path stopped right at a small pool of the stuff, staining the hilt of a strange dagger. Alcander stepped away, waving Teajay over.

"Hey, come look at this." He bade her, wiping his lip with the back of his hand. "Ever seen a blade like this before?"

The dagger was a around a foot in length, the steel of the blade almost bluish in coloration. It looked incredibly sharp, wrought in a single edge that smoothly transitioned into a keen stabbing point. The hilt was abyssal black, so dark it was almost impossible to tell where it ended and the sludge began. A small fuller ran down the length of the blade, but it did not look like a modern KABAR or Bowie knife. Alcander was not a medievalist, but it had the look of a thick bladed, single edged rondel dagger.

back to sinning

Welcome to the guild!

Death's Edge: A Warhammer Story

"You're Imperial, are you not?"

The question was innocuous, but surprising to me nonetheless.

The alderman and I stood outside, drinking a small cup of wine as the sun set and the stars began to blanket the night sky in ubiquitous illumination. It was truly a wonderful sight when you were far away from a large city like Altdorf or one of the many Tilean city states. The few torches lit outside were set about as almost a fashion choice, lighting up the finery alongside buildings and keeping the main crossways alight. It seemed the guards set along the walls had to carry their own light source, some with torches and others with oil lamps. I wondered what utility a lack of structured light was, but no doubt it was for some purpose I had yet to ascertain. For his part, Gregor von Ludendorf had seen the inquisitive look on my face.

I gave him a smile. "Don't act so surprised. I can hear more than a hint of an imperial accent in you, herr Gregor."

His brow raised. The man chewed on something I did not catch him pop into his mouth. "You've got a good ear. I have not thought of myself as a citizen of the empire for years now. I've been in this land, oh... two decades? More? I came here as a refugee like many people."

"I'm certain there are many men and women born in these lands." I said, turning to look back at the greenery, now a deep blue from the long shadows over the land.

"You're right, but when someone is born here, they have a thirst for adventure and a wish to explore, to create! The settled folk are the ones that fled from somewhere else." He explained, and then gave a chuckle. "Unless you're a lord, of course."

"I hear this is the land of opportunity, is it not?" I pondered

"If you could have made your fortune where you came from, you would have. People only come here for a second chance, or to keep their heads on their shoulders. Which are you, herr priest?" He asked pointedly. I turned to regard him again, and not wishing to become too personal, I deflected. Though my mouth always ran away from me.

"Well, I'm always trying to keep my head on my shoulders." I quipped. "As for chances, I had mine and I squandered it, but that is a story for another time."

It would not do to tell him of Camilla and I were lovers. We had not introduced ourselves as such. That would draw too many questions, and we were still so close to Tilea. I doubted there were many itinerant priests who spat in the face of his liege and left the party he was duty bound to protect in order to elope with a beautiful Tilean dancer. The alderman and I shared a few more pleasantries, and he took his leave, wishing to check on his wife and the dinner they were preparing. I had to admit I was nearly famished. Ah! Yes, I needed to make my mark on the house. Tomorrow if someone asked how I quelled the daemonic spirits, I needed something to point to. I gulped down the last bit of my wine and set the cup on the porch, before taking up my staff and and knapsack.

I picked my way around the small garden out front easily enough, deigning to examine the house to sate what small guilt I had lying more than anything else. As I did so, I found I faced the near the back end of Zinoca, where the walls were thick and the traffic was little. Only a few storehouses and outhouses for the workers hugged the wall, with thick trees and foliage hugging the architecture. Even so, it seemed Sigmar was with me. As I looked, I saw a bit of movement. My eyes honed in, wondering why I believed I just saw something drop down the wall without a sound. I stopped, perfectly cloaked by the trees as what I imagined was the same figure flitted from one building to the other, dressed in dark clothing and moving like a serpent.

I found that quite suspicious.

I waited another moment, and then slunk out of the small bit of green between the houses and followed the figure, moving briskly but keeping back and to the shadows to keep my presence unknown. I held my staff like a spear, lower to the ground and ready to strike just in case. Seconds passed to a minute, and suddenly the figure rushed across the street, like a fox not wishing to be run down by an oncoming carriage. Luckily, they had traveled to my side of the street, and I awaited in the shadows. The figure, a man's size, stepped into the alleyway I hid within. Even veiled by dark cloth, I saw their eyes go wide when I stepped into the light.

"Evening," I said, or I tried to. The flash of steel against the light was the only warning I had, but fate had it that my weapon was longer. The head of my staff rammed into their head even as they ducked, but to their credit they recovered swiftly. I spun my weapon to keep him at bay, but they timed their dodge perfectly, ducking and dodging before taking a leap, knife point out to gut me. They had not counted on the butt of my weapon however, and I slid it under their legs like a martial artist from Cathay. The figure tripped, falling to the ground. Even as they spun to try and catch themself, my staff flipped and I helped gravity along, slamming the heavy head of the staff into the back of their head. They hid the street like a sack of potatoes.

Ugh, now I was even hungrier.

I knelt down and took the knife from their nerveless fingers as a precaution, but oddly enough, there was a message wrapped around the hilt. Gingerly I unrolled it, and I gasped.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Kasimir had been fairly certain he was going to die, for a lengthy stretch there. He did not think Eleanor was honest in all respects, but he did owe her for that, he begrudgingly had to tell himself. He felt the tension trickle out of him, and yet again he wished he had his sword with him. The weight was comforting and familiar, but it seemed to be occupied at the moment as 'evidence' so he would simply have to go without.

"Very well," Kasimir said, acquiescing. The men formed two columns around Kasimir and Eleanor, and marched them down the stairs and across the courtyard as men hustled forward to bring more news to the Graf. The palace was large, befitting a great city, but the inner nobility were far more curt in their dealings. Had this been altdorf, Kas would have expected to wait in the opulent lobby for some time, made to stand after a long day and night of socializing and nearly being killed twice. Thankfully, within minutes both he and the Brettonian were ushered into the lesser throne room of the Palace of Middenheim. The greater room was for services, knightings, honors, and holidays. The smaller one was more personal, for inquiries such as this. However, calling it 'small' was misleading. The inner sanctum was still larger than most sizeable residences in the city. A red carpet with purple hemlines stretched from the door to the stairs leading up to the robust chair. Marble statues of two wolves framed the entryway, and Ulrican mosiacs, armor stands, and depictions of battles against beastmen arrayed the walls between the stout pillars. Knights of the White Wolf stood with the Palace's elite soldiers, unmoving as if they were statues as well.

Boris Todbringer, Graf of Middenheim, the Grand Duke of Middenland, the Prince of Carroburg, known as the "Protector of the Drakwald," "Warden of the Middle Mountains" and "Beloved of Ulric" sat in his chair, staring at Kasimir and Eleanor as they were escorted into the room. His right eye was covered by a black patch, but his left eye gazed at them as an eagle might, penetrating and without mercy for those he deemed unworthy of it.

"Ever since I was given word you had walked under the great gates of Middenheim, I've heard scandal after story after complaint about you, boy." His powerful voice reverberated off the stone, yet he did not shout. Kasimir and Eleanor settled themselves a few strides from the foot of the stairway, gazing up at him as his voice carried. Boris narrowed his eye, gaze honing in on his estranged bastard. "One might have thought you would have learned the art of subtlety in Reikland. I am beginning to wonder why I sent you there at all, boy."

"I always imagined it was simply to get rid of me." Kasimir replied, as if he was bored of the lecture already. The men that had escorted them looked at Kasimir with a mixture of concern and outrage. Boris snorted.

"I had forgotten just how insolent you were." He said, as if he was weighing the option to order a late dinner or an execution.

Kasimir gazed up at him, a hardness in his eyes, as if they were fashioned out of steel. "Oh, I remembered exactly how insolent you are."

Hands went to sword sheathes as Graf Todbringer suddenly rose from his chair, one eye blazing. He looked like a wrathful spirit of Ulric, come to bring fire and sword to the world at large. But instead of ordering his men to attack or discipline his unruly bastard, he said one simple word: "Out!"

One of the palace guards approached, his greatsword still at his back. "But, my Graf-"

"I've never known you to need to hear an order twice, Hemmler." He said. "Out."

Men began to turn all at once, stepping out of their posts and exiting the throne room through the lobby. Hemmler glared at Kasimir before turning and leaving, obedient to his lord. Eleanor began to move away too, but Todbringer said: "Not you, girl."

When the doors closed with a resounding clang, Boris Todbringer stepped down from his throne, a threat of a smile on his lips. "You've still got the wolf in you." He said with a tone that held satisfaction in it, and he clapped Kasimir on the shoulder. The tension in the room dissipated like spring water in the summer time.

"I like to keep it hidden, but I take it out from time to time." Kasimir said, and for the first time, he seemed less rebellious and more like a son. Though it was still easy to see a small friction there, as if neither man knew if they should hug or not, or brush it off their first meeting in years so as not to appear weak.

"And who is this, your woman?" The Graf asked, nodding to Eleanor.

"No," Kasimir breathed, as if the very idea was humorous. "This is Dame Eleanor of Brettonia. She is...was, Oderick's lover. She is the one who found him as he was."

"Ah, my apologies fraulein. I imagine tonight must be intimidating to you." The Graf said with the smallest nod, before his eye fixed on Kasimir. "They tell me they found your sword there, bloodied. They say it is not possible for you to have done this, but they also say you slew Clauswitz in cold blood earlier as well. My spies tell me the latter is a lie, but I must ask about the former, boy. Dif you kill Oderick?"

"No," Kasimir replied.

"Hrm," Boris said simply, pursing his lips and nodding. It was hard to tell where his lips ended and his great red beard began. "Very well. Good. Now to you..." He stepped passed Kasimir and stood before Eleanor. Even at such a late hour, he wore his colors over a sturdy breastplate, as if he was on campaign for war. His gaze bore into her eyes. "Speak girl and speak true. Tell me exactly what happened when you entered the rooms. You've nothing to fear from me, fraulein. Not unless you lie."

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

I am ready and waiting for another post so I can have a good buffer between my last post and the next one.

Darkhearts: A Forgotten Realms RP

"Calimport. That is a bloody city too, though gambling does not always end in that. But it can."

Amal spoke with a fond smile on his face, as if to ask 'what can one do?' He gave a shrug and began to walk toward the establishment Charynrae indicated, letting her follow in his wake so he could grab what attention they might garner. It was a good thing she was slight of stature. An orc would be harder to conceal, and even a duergar would have its troubles. Drow were also much more nicer to look at, he decided. More interesting company too, though Amal had heard a strange tale of a Duergar assassin before. He would be interested in sharing a pint with that one, too.

"Calimport is far to the south. Maybe one day you'll see it. I'm sure I won't be as hunted in say, ten years." He said offhanded, and the two stepped into the common room.

It was fairly spacious, with men and women from all over Faerun carousing and conversing, drinking and laughing. To the left was a small section to sit down, but to the right, against the wall they had just walked into, was the bar, and further right was a larger room with more tables. Amal supposed it was a sturdy place, being built under the stone of the great wall guarding Vaasa.

"Excuse me sirs, but we'll need to confiscate your weapons." A broad fellow in a dark surcoast said, brown beard ensconcing his strong jaw. He looked congenial, but there was a hardness behind his eyes that showed he was not unused to forcing the issues. Amal pursed his lips and nodded, relinquishing his daggers and his saber. When he placed them in the hand of the fellow, the bouncer marveled at the make. "Magical?"

"No, but well forged. Keep an eye on them for me. Oh, and my chultan friend is quite shy. He'll hand his over, however." Amal remarked, turning back to give Charynrae a subtle wink. The island of Chult was even further south than Calimshan, and the men there were of even darker skin than Amal. He seriously doubted any Chultan had ever been so far north, not within decades, at least. Charynrae could extend her hand at least, and she would not be incriminated by the man if he thought she was from the steaming jungles in that far off land. Though if her eyes were seen, that was another story.

"Do you serve any arak here?" Amal asked to keep the man moderately distracted.

"Arak?"

"A drink from my homeland."

"I doubt it, stranger." The bouncer remarked, rubbing his thinning head of hair. "But we've got good mead, beer, ale, and a nice stout."

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

"If you touch me, one of us will die." Kasimir warned the closest guard, and he gave the man a look so hard, the armsman faltered. The men behind him egged him on, but Kasimir simply raised his hands to show he was not armed. Men and women, some in night gowns or in varying states of undress popped out of doors and hallways, all watching with fascination or confusion.

"You will need to come with us." One of the men said. Kasimir instead pointed at another guardsman, one he recognized.

"You there, you saw me leave my sword in my room as your captain bade me. Is that not the truth?" He said, and barked: "Speak!"

"It is," the guardsman said. He had a wide face and dark hair, looking somewhat unsure of himself, yet he seemed without ambition at the moment. "Herr Reinhardt left his sword in his room. It...It would have been hard for him to come back and then go after Sir Oderick. And the Graf's bastard stayed late at the party as well. It seems less than likely."

"Unlikely, but not impossible." A gruffer, more surly guard remarked. He seemed on the edge of just apprehending Kasimir, and the bastard would like to not have to make good on his promise. He looked around to see if any of his old acquaintences were near, but unmercifully there was no one he recognized. He felt bile gurgling from his throat at the thought, but he pulled himself together and stepped back, indicating the lady Eleanor.

"Ask her what she saw." He said simply, remaining as placid as possible. "If the lady Eleanor claims I did this, or that she believes I was close enough at hand, then I will go with you quietly."

No matter the answer, Kasimir would fight this. He knew the truth, even if everyone else seemed too stupid to see he was being framed. But he would at least allow himself to be manhandled and taken away in chains for the time being if the only witness condemned him. He would not necessarily blame the guards, after that. However, he probably would curse the Brettonian unto death. Ulric worked in strange ways, leaving his fate to this woman.

The men turned to the golden haired woman, a few looking just on the edge of violence, but they awaited their word, though out of a sense of chivalry or simple logic, it was hard to say.

Pax Astra

As the ion thrusters flared to life, Tiber released the locking level on the aft-turret. It was an old fashioned, rudimentary turret made for local planetary forces, but Tiber preferred it that way, in a strange conceit. The steel and oil made him feel as if he was fighting with his grandfather on the Xolidan campaign, where the planet had been so war ravaged, it took twenty years of terraforming to make the world sustainable for colonization again. The wheel was gas powered, and as Tiber activated it he heard the hydraulics kick in, swiveling the gun. The mount was push-button and moved by battery power, and it gave the gun an extreme range of view, despite the primitive technology.

As the ground fell away, the MAR flashed. Two objects half a kilometer to the west approached rapidly.

"Faex," Tiber cursed. He balled his hand into a fist and struck the back of the assault boat thrice, and then twice, indicating they were being pursued. A red indicator blinked just above him, affirming Sabatine received the message. They began to bank to the left, drawing their path over the sparsely wooded foothills and leaving the town and the valley in inhabited off to the south. It was then he got a good look at what pursued them.

They were API2's, autonomous pursuit interceptor drones, meant as safeguards against enemy assaults. Ideally, they would be used to harass fleeing enemies after a failed attack, driving the weakened foe away before they had a chance to lick their wounds. In the event a raid was successful, they would be used to track a foe back to whence they came from. But considering they made no secret of their approach, stealth was not a prerogative for their programming in this situation. They were robust, nearly as large as the soldier's vehicle, with two plasma guns mounted on a small column hanging below the main 'body,' giving it the look of a metallic hornet displaying its stinger threateningly.

Tiber got a lock on the drone at the fore, flipping the safety off and pulling on the trigger. 12.7mm rounds roared out of the turret, every twenty shells releasing a green tracer. The first API2 went down swiftly, more out of luck than anything. Tiber's well aimed volley hit it center mass, detonating the small engine and sending it flying into the bush, streaming flames. The next veered to the right, flipping end over it as it careened for their position. Moments later, wet green projectiles chased them, narrowly missing their assault car. Tiber switched tactics, aiming the gun to the right and just above the drone, but its algorithm realigned it, spinning it counterclockwise.

Fortunately, Tiber had dealt with these before.

As it performed its pre-generated maneuver, Tiber swiveled his gun and realigned the mount, placing the drone at the center of his reticle. He pulled the trigger again, bullets streaking past the API2, nicking it in the side. It wavered in the air, trying to keep itself upright. Tiber did not give it a chance, and even as it fired at him defiantly, he ended its flight with another burst from the mounted gun, sending it below as nothing but a memory.

Rise to The Top: Medieval Intrigue RP

Galt soaked in as much knowledge as he could, simply happy to be eating while the discussion was occurring. In some ways, this made him feel more aristocratic than he had ever felt. Eating fine food whilst learning things beyond his scope, as if he was attending a prestigious university. Of course, he would have been found wanting at times. There were occasions he was so focused on the excellently prepared food, he lost the track of the conversation. However, Galt was quick witted and he always managed to find a snag to pull back into, as he had done many a night with a grapple hook back before his life had turned upside down.

When one was a thief, they had the opportunity to learn many nifty things. Like how to scale a wall, pick a lock, how to lie, how to appear and disappear at a moments notice. But economics and manufacturing were foreign concepts, and the only logistics a thief needed to know was how to get stolen goods from point A to B. Somehow he doubted he would have much to add to any discussion, so he mostly stayed quiet and did his best to listen. It gave him further respect for Silke, however, and he thought he could not think more highly of her. Gods, she had a lot in her head when someone was willing to ask. He decided to keep a few things in his mind to inquire about later, just as much to learn as to show her he had been listening.

As the dinner wound down, Galt was having similar thoughts of Silke's sleep. He gave Vincent a subtle nod. "I shall turn in as well after this. I think we can all profit on some sleep." He said, though his eyes widened at the sight of the delectable cake. He greedily ate his, whilst still maintaining what manners he had been taught. It was an art form in and of itself, he thought. There were so little sweets available to the common class, he had forgotten how lovely they could be. Eating quickly while keeping his composure had seemed impossible, at first, but now he felt he had the trick of it. The fork, held just so, allowed one to savor the taste while still, seemingly idly, picking up the rest of the meal. As long as he did not stuff his mouth immediately, it was fine.

Once he ate his fill and the group gave what could be considered closing remarks, Galt made sure to dab his cheek in case there was any topping beside his lips, before he stood up. He helped Silke to her feet, insisting she follow suit with a look and an extended hand, so she could get some rest. "I think we have much to sleep on, after the lecture," he joked.

If Silke complied, Galt would turn to Vincent. "Would you be so kind as to help me find my room after I walk Silke to hers? I've only had the privilege of being in your home a short time and I don't want to assume on any direction."

He would have preferred to ask a Silke's father or a servant, but he doubted the Lord of the house was up to escorting anyone, and no servants were in the room at the current moment. At least he and Vincent had shared a few hours together today in weapon's training. He was actually looking forward to the next session. He would still rather run from a fight than stand his ground, but the martial arts were not boring.

"They do try to act modest, but this is a sizeable manor." Lord Byrne remarked, finishing up his cake before granted the table a sly smile. "Do go with them, Vincent. Not that I think any untoward would happen, but you would be useful if nothing else."