POOHEAD189

Death and Desire: A Warhammer Fantasy RP

The underground was filled with more beasts, but many slumbered or waited as clever scavengers, ready to attack weakened prey or to chew on the bones of those already dead. Already shadows began to appear against the walls of the forum as more cats approached. Bahadir and the woman made it to the wall, and the pit-fighter leaped, looping his shackles around a bronze jackal head, hauling himself up above the walls. He stuck his leg down, and after some hesitation, the woman grabbed his trousers and pulled herself up onto the low ledge for some much needed respite. Five feet above that were the other slaves.

"Infidel!" Satir shrieked in Arabyan, shaking his fist at Bahadir, his large, angular nose casting a shadow across the left half of his face. His breath stunk more than the maw of the great cat's. "Why do you cast such a shadow on my operation? You were a whoreson and a thief before you came here, and now you ruin even this!? And for a worthless woman of all things!"

Bahadir grabbed onto the ledge below Satir, and used his cable-like muscles to yank himself up, placing one knee on the ledge. Satir did not stop his tirade, and below, a dozen cats from across the world lumbered and shrieked, some gazing at their dead comrades for meat, but the others staring above hungrily. Satir continued: "Rogue! Dung! You are no more worthy of freedom than the growth on my foo-"

Bahadir grabbed the front of Satir's ruined shirt, and with a swift tug, yanked him forward. His insult became a scream, and his arms flailed above Calliope for a brief second before he fell headlong over the ledge, falling past her to hit the slope of the wall. The skinny man rolled into the derelict forum, coughing. He lifted his head, and horror dawned on his face as the cats moved in slowly. Calliope could hear his cries of utter terror as Bahadir lowered his chains, letting her take it in her hand. He easily lifted the slim woman up to the ledge as the screams were abruptly silenced, and bones snapped.

"Thank you," she said to the slave who saved her.

"Tasiruni musaeadatuk," the muscled slave said, shaking his head to free his face from his mane of hair. He spoke quickly, but to Calliope's ears, it roughly translated to 'happy to help.' The fighter cleared his throat, and gestured she follow with a nod of his head. She had little choice, considering most everyone else around her had bet on her death, and so the two walked out of the makeshift 'balcony' and into the slave chambers proper. They walked through a large corridor where men huddled along the walls, some sleeping, some speaking, and others likely dead.

The next chamber was large, and obviously made by the Arabyans rather than whatever civilization had been there before. Pillars of standard, sumptuous architecture with inlaid copper serpents held up the curved arches and obtuse shape of the ceiling, but save that and the stairs leading to the gates, everything else seemed squared or shaped for pure utilitarian purposes, from the unlit forges to the pit where they dropped the bones and corpses of the dead, to the area where men typically ate and drank what water was provided daily. Except for the crumbling rocks to the right, and the gaping cavernous wound in the side.

"Beautiful, yes?" He said sarcastically, knowing enough Reikspeil to make a sardonic joke. He gave Calliope a wink, before indicating the way. She looked up and breathed out a curse, more climbing. It was not so high, however, and after grabbing a few handholds, the two made it above the shattered wall and into a smaller cavern just above it. It was difficult to tell what caused the cavity in the stone, but it was not smooth like from water damage. Within, was a small cot and some earthenware jars of water, and a few unlit torches, as well as an axe, the haft sticking out from under the cot. A few shattered bones lay at the cusp of the space. Bahadir breathed a sigh of relief, and dropped to the ground, where a few worn out and weathered cushions lay. He had collected everything he could get his hands on, during his stay here.

"It's not much, but it's home." He said in Arabyan, hoping his inflection gave her the gist of what he was saying. He cleared his throat and opened one of the clay pots, grabbing it with both hands and taking a deep swig. A small stream of water tumbled down his neck and rolling over his large pectoral muscles. He placed the pot down and indicated she could take one. It was clear why he chose this space. One could see the entire chamber of up here, and no one could sneak up upon you. Once she took some water, he started speaking slowly. "What...did you...do... to anger.. the sultan?" He asked in Arabyan, and gestured to help her through it. He shook his hands gently when he said 'anger' and pointed at her and upwards when needed.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

@Frog Dog No it's a special discord server for this RP here.

Death and Desire: A Warhammer Fantasy RP

There were more than pits beneath the arena. Thousands of years of erosion and wind had buried forgotten tombs and palatial buildings not seen since the age of nehekara. Once, long ago, the city's first founders had stumbled upon these ruins and had built atop them. The enterprising arabyans had merely carved out around them and utilized them for their own purposes, and now, with the Arena above, they used the forsaken wonders of the ancient world to house their beasts.

One such chamber, now fallen into disarray, was shaped like a senatorial forum, or a council chamber made from unknown hands. Erected pillars shaped like desert wyrms, sinuous and coiling, stood in a ring around forum. Five wide steps in a full circle surrounded the round central floor, where a pale light shone from above. Beyond the light, the shadows grew increasingly darker in all save but a few nooks and crannies above in the rock, where men slept or spoke in hushed tones. None dared step foot off their ledges and onto the ground floor, they merely waited for the next show.

Most slaves slept in their pens, and the most problem ones were locked in there. But the guards had long since given up making such a practice mandatory for the majority. There was no way out, and to go further below only promised starvation or the awakening of deadly monstrosities even the arena fighters had never imagined before. And if violence ever did break out, as far as the masters were concerned, it made for better fighters.

At this time, most of the slaves were asleep. But a few stayed awake, speaking in hushed tones and playing bone dice. Bahadir could never sleep after a day of fighting, at least not early. He played the matches over in his head, thinking on where he could improve, and sometimes wondering who it was he had killed. He tried not to, but his mind inevitably asked the question. As he lay there, propped against the stone in the shadows, he noticed something. At first he didn't realize what exactly, but he sat forward and peered over the side, and realized the pale light at the center of the ruin was marred by a slim shadow from above, and suddenly coarse laughter followed that reverberated through the deep.

The shadow became a woman bound by a rope, slowly lowered in the very middle of the forum, until ten feet above the floor, the rope was cut. She fell heavily to the floor, and Bahadir heard the men below and around him begin to murmur excitedly. Satir the Gambler raised his voice, calling for bets on the newest victim. Bahadir loathed Satir, the crooked man with the sharp nose loved betting on men's lives, so much so that he became a broker for the other slaves. No one killed him because he provided much needed entertainment, and it was not even his callousness that had given Satir his ire. The gambler was dishonest, and lied on the winnings, pocketing more than his share.

"A woman this time! Shall we say the beasts will not even fill their bellies?" He mocked loudly. Bahadir ignored the taunt, and blinked when she woman lifted her head. He recognized her from the Sultan's court! The foreign woman he had been trying to impress. What could have brought her to lose favor so quickly? Even as he watched, a rolling growl carried over the floor, and large, lithe figures began to coalesce from the shadows around the prone woman. Impressively, she didn't even look. Instead, she rolled over, curled her legs up, and slipped her bound hands above her legs with an uncomfortable effort, before finding a fallen scimitar amongst the fallen items upon the ground, shoving her bonds against the iron blade to free her hands. Only then did she bother to glance at her situation.

A striped cat from the jungles of Ind, a dozen feet from nose to tail and heavier than five men, languidly moved into the light, the rippling muscles in its back causing the gorgeous stripes to dance. A maned cat from the lands south of the desert loped into view opposite the other, stalking back and forth, equally large and golden furred, its every breath audible even from the slaves watching. Four more cats of varying variety appeared, each pacing, wary of the other cats, each eager to fill their empty stomach. The Sultan only dropped in those who had truly angered him. Technically, if they were lucky, they would make it out alive and join the others in the arena, but Bahadir had never seen anyone survive the punishment. To her credit, the woman sliced through her bonds and lifted the scimitar, calling for the beasts to stride forward. Allah, she was brave.

And whoever had pissed off the Sultan and his vizier, Bahadir liked.

As she readied herself for battle with the striped beast, the maned one saw its opportunity and charged, moving off the upper steps and reaching her in the span of three seconds. It leaped to bowl her over, only for its powerful maw to be halted by the thick chains that still bound Bahadir's wrists, bronze meeting fangs as the large fighter stubbornly held his ground. Above, men gasped and hooted at the new turn of events, some laughing and others crying out the game was rigged. A claw drew a jagged line across Bahadir's chest, but he held the cat back with all his might, letting the woman keep her eyes on her front.

Death and Desire: A Warhammer Fantasy RP

The shadow under the walls of the arena merely muted the heat, it did not erase it. But to Bahadir, he felt his heart still pulsing, the realness one felt during a life and death struggle palpable, as if his senses were honed to a razor's edge. His eyes adjusted to the darkness swiftly, and mercilessly the tunnel ended in a large stairway that fed into the underbelly of the arena, where the temperature dropped a few precious degrees lower, and where slave-fighters were fed and given small respite, where the beasts lurked in cages ready to be unleashed. Bahadir heard the ringing of metal and the cracking of a whip, the echoes of a cry of pain reverberating off the ancient stone.

The central chamber was large, its immensity barely illuminated by torches, leaving large pockets of shadows where slaves in chains hid for privacy or sleep. Mamluks stood guard as slave masters patrolled the underways, the network of tunnels laced across the underground that led to different gates around the coliseum. The fighters were sequestered in different groups of large numbers, always coming out of the same gate.

At the bottom, a stout figure stood awaiting the survivor of this latest blood bath. He had one eye and a black beard, his burly arms scarred, one ensconced with brass rings. Moredek smiled, showing a mouth full of ivory and gold teeth. "Not bad up there, boy. You performed that right hook like I taught you." He gestured to the guards that had followed in Bahadir's wake. "But you didn't keep your eyes on the norseman. He nearly had your head."

"Can't be perfect all the time," Bahadir said, knowing where the Mamluks escorting him would stop. The silent figures turned about face, and walked back up the stairs. All save four, who noticed a signal from the dwarf and waited. Bahadir noticed it too. "What?"

"Sultan wants to see you." The Dwarf announced, raising his head up and waving over another slave. The lean, shaved man struggling to carry a collection of thick chains in his arms. "Now put yer shackles on, and don't speak unless spoken to. If you insult him, we both lose our heads."

---

The laughter of the Sultan and the simpering snickers of his courtiers were drowned out when the sound of weighty chains clanked against the marble floor. Two Palace Guards opened the doors that led into the upper floors proper, and into the Sultan's resplendent waiting area walked Moredek, who gave a bow at the doors, and then gave an even lower bow when presenting himself before the Sultan. The dawi had been training fighters and serving the sultans for close to a century. Muradi Al-Man clapped when he saw the dwarf, smiling widely.

"My old friend! Good it is to see you!" The Sultan exclaimed in accented reikspeil. "You have done your wonders again, I see."

"I've done me best to aid yer lordship in his wishes." The Dwarf remarked back, knowing they spoke in this manner so all foreign guests may understand. "I present ye with me prized fighter, Bahadir..."

The sound of clanking chains began again, and the pit fighter strode into the light. He wore simple tan trousers, his waist wrapped in a red sash. His legs were hidden, but his upper body looked like sculpted bronze, herculean, and yet marred by scars from swords and whips. His skin was baked and dark, and his mane of black hair reached his shoulders. He kept his eyes on the floor until he reached his trainer, and fell to a knee before the Sultan.

"Rise," the Vizier commanded in Arabyan, bumping the bottom of his oaken staff against the floor. Some spell caused his voice to sound more clearly, though he did not raise his voice.

"Rise, slave!" The Sultan prompted in the same tongue, before realizing he had forgotten his own theater and spoke again in reikspeil. "Rise and be proud. You have survived the first day of the games!"

Bahadir did not know the speech, but he rose all the same. The Sultan spoke again, but the slave did not understand. Luckily for him, he saw the Sultan speaking to everyone around him rather than to him. He elbowed the Vizier and said something, and the Vizier feigned a small laugh. It was then the Sultan pointed at one of the foreigners, a few of the courtiers moving out of the way to give them space. Bahadir saw it was a woman, darkly beautiful, but wearing the trousers and attire of a corsair, with calculating eyes. Her skin would have been fair if not for the kiss of the sun from long hours at sea. She seemed to entertain the Sultan, speaking back in the same tongue and giving a tight lipped smile. Bahadir had to keep a grin from his face. Tolerating the Sultan was something foreigners would have to get used to, not that he had ever been this close to the ruler of Copher. But as a child, running through the streets and nabbing pieces of bread and lamb to survive, everyone saw the Sultan every few months. The rulers liked to show everyone in Copher they were alive and ready to cast their eyes on the unworthy at their leisure. The Sultan raised his hands forward, indicating Bahadir, before he waved dismissively.

Bahadir and Moredek bowed again, their heads so low Moredek's beard brushed the floor and Bahadir almost felt the chains would make him fall forward, but the two were then escorted out, the doors of the room slowly closing behind them like a portcullis.

"That was not so bad," Moredek said. "Walk you around like a horse, let people look at the blood as if they got their hands dirty themselves! We'll put some food in you and send you to the hall of trials."

Death and Desire: A Warhammer Fantasy RP

Welcome wanderer, come rest your weary feet!
Come gather round, to hear news so very sweet.
The harsh road you have walked with no water or respite,
has given way to an oasis of pleasure and delight

You've arrived at a city with wonders to behold!
Wine, magic, love, and mountains of bejeweled gold!
Sultan Muradi Al-Man celebrates his ascension to the throne,
whiles slaves and commoners work themselves to the bone!

Thieves stalk the night and corsairs jealously guard their boats,
Keep your wits about you or they'll cut your pretty throat!
But smile, relax! You'll find luxuries that entice,
Welcome, Tilean, to Copher, The City of Spice!

WHOOMP

Flames leaped from the fire eater's mouth, igniting a slab of lamb upon a stick and casting light from under the shadow of the great gate. The meat cooked before the onlooker's very eyes, and the street performer handed it to his delighted customer. Children clapped and ran, laughing as they chased one another within the crowds. Music floated through the streets, seducing the mind with a caress of melody. Hard men languished in labor and women fussed over prices, but the very air was alight with celebration, a saturnalia of joy and reverence on this day of adulation. Undulating cries of priests lifted to the skies as sorcerers could be spotted overhead on their carpets of arcane flight. The sun, merciless in its power, smiled upon the land sought, it's light so penetrating it was as if it desired to kiss the skin of even the most sheltered scholar. As the road of the desert transmogrified into the bustling streets of Copher, the shantytown of the outercity was brushed aside by towering apartments and soaring spires of high learning and forbidden sorcery, overlaid with tapestries of every color imaginable.

The further one walked, the grander it became. Structures of timeless architecture dominated the streets, casting shadows that rivaled the World's Edge Mountains. Princes road horses of snowy white fur and bedecked in golden tress while others sat in canopies atop elephants, massive beasts from far to the south, lumbering through the streets without a care on where they stepped. No one of importance would be slinking through the ground on their feet, and those that got too close would be cut to pieces by the mamluk guards, swathed in cloth and mail of burnished steel. In the alleys, men begged and dealt in trades so illicit, even the pirates would curl their lips in disgust. One cloaked figure looked to be helping another leaning against the wall of a shop, only for the slice of meat to be heard, and blood pooling at the prostrate man's feet as the other hurried away. In the distance trumpets sounded, erupting with rapturous echoes that could be heard from the shark-infested sea. A call from the heart of the city itself, beckoning to be heard as if enchanted by witchery.

The plaza before the gates of the palace had not seen so many men and women since the city's founding in a bygone age. Arabyans cried out in their native tongue, their bodies, so tightly packed together, looked as if they formed a sea of shimmering sand. Immigrants from Ind, Nippon, Cathay, Corsairs from Sartosa, men from across the Old World, and even the rare elf or dwarf, were gathered in the crowd that seeped into the side streets and rooftops as if Allah had sprinkled them from the heavens. But at the center of the crowd, a large space was cordoned off as the princes of the tower and emirs of the provinces approached in their finery and golden livery, resplendent in robes and fine jewels, their caravans stuffed with drink, succulent food, and caches of gold to present to their liege. Beside them, dancing women and dervishes with their whirling swords spun like woven spells. Drums thumped and lyres sang, chimes rung and mamluks lifted their voices in rhythmic, roaring unison as they walked, holding standards of coiled serpents and hawks of copper and gold.

It was then, at the crescendo of their chanting, that a keen, clear voice passed over the crowd like a gentle shower of rain. All eyes turned to the balcony, built of marbel and gold high above the walls, overlooking the city, its stones cleverly shaped to amplify any voice that spoke upon it. Out of the silk drapes strode Sultan Muradi Al-Man the Munificent, his full beard as dark as a black opal and his features weathered but sculpted from thorough breeding. He held his hands up, and the murmurs of the crowd went silent as the procession in the streets halted. No one breathed, no one whispered, not even infants dared wail. He watched from his perch, as if daring anyone to break the silence before his consent. The Palace itself was as large as an awakened god, and only one a step below the gods could reside in something so splendid.

"Dae Al'aleab Tabda!" He called to them all. 'Let the games begin.'

And so they did.

---

The blunt force of the punch sent flashes of light through his eyes, he lost his sense of smell and nearly the good sense to duck. The slave moved on impulse, feeling the wind from the next blow brushing his dark locks as it passed over him. He balled his fist and buried it between his opponent's ribs. The twitch from his adversary's upper leg announced his intended knee strike as if he had told him over arak, and Bahadir kicked his shin before the move transpired, cracking the tiny bones in his foot like a blackpowder bomb. The other slave screamed like a caged ape, but even as he fell, he wrapped his powerful arms around Bahadir's shoulders to pull him down to a fight on the arena sands. Bahadir planted his feet to keep himself up and drove fist after fist into the man's stomach, pummeling him until his abdoman was bruised and his ribs were shattered like glass. His opponent let go of him, and when he breathed, blood flecked his lips and stained the dirt like thousands upon thousands of those who died before him. Bahadir stumbled back, glad to breathe air not rank with sweat, to not taste the iron tang of blood.

The crowd lifted in their seats and whooped, crying and hooting for more. The games had begun not an hour ago, but the corpses of seven men and two leopards littered the hard floor of the dusty stadium. Merchants laughed and traded coins, betting on every match in their private circles as the Emirs professed to their many wives they had known who would win all along. In the seat of honor, the Sultan watched with his prized eunuchs and courtiers, his trusted vizier and court sorcerer standing by his side. They watched as Mamluks jogged into the arena, moon-bladed halberds at the ready to escort the final survivor back to his cell while bare chested men ran out and began to dispense with the bodies.

Bahadir wiped his face with his heavy forearm, blinking away the sweat, before he bowed to the Sultan and the Emirs, prostrating himself as all who performed before them were bade to, and then he picked himself up and walked back into the shadows beneath the arena, where his fate would change forever.

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

Now that he had received a modicum of rest and the smallest bit of food, his mind could wander back to other things with more substance, such as pretty women and the one power. He preferred the former to the latter, but in Zoya's case, she was evidently a package deal. And his attention was more focused on the memory of the map than her at that moment, the intricacies of the undulating hills and sweeping breadth of trees, before arriving at the grassland that apparently had some Aes Sedai significance.

And the bloody Horn of Valere had something to do with it! He knew his teacher would have told him to toss the idea away. A fool's errand paid no dues, he had once said. And he had yet to be paid by the High Lords, not that he expected that payment anymore. It was not a smart decision, getting caught up in Aes Sedai schemes on a trek that led dark-one-knew-where.

But he was intrigued, nonetheless. And Tar Valon was not short of funds.

"I'll consider it," He said neutrally. She looked at him as if she could see right past his facade, and as far as he knew, she just might have that ability.

"You would be paid well," She remarked teasingly. "And you did save my life, and heroically helped us escape the ship. An Aes Sedai never forgets a friend."

He hesitated for a moment, considering. His thoughts drifted back to the boat, where she and he had decided to be honest with one another, no tricks and no foul play. He was used to being honest with rich employers and less than lenient with those who had but the promise of payment, but considering she was an Aes Sedai, and she was admittedly growing on him, he could speak plainly.

"I don't want to be involved with anything to do with the one power." He declared, letting the words hang in the air. "If you were an aristocrat I would serve you well to win your favor, if you were a local girl I would dance with you and maybe steal a kiss, if you were an illainer I wouldn't hold it against you, but you're an Aes Sedai. I don't know what to do with that but... if you give me your word you intend to treat and pay me fairly by the completion of this task, I won't fail in it. I have nothing else to do, save find a nice bed and have a bath, if I can."

He held his hand out for her to take, his sculpted nose casting a shadow across his lips from the filtered light that bounced off the top of the upturned ship. His eyes twinkled.

TOP OF THE MORNIN' YALL IM CRAZY AND WEIRD WOOOOOOOOOOO

Hey! you! yes! you! I'm Gale, a chaotic neutral and chaotic good roleplayer and storywriter who loves humor and chaos! my intrests are fantasy rps, undertale, dnd, and a custom story i'm working on. i love music, animals, and a good insult, even one drected at me, as long as it's funny. i have been told that i'm rude at times, but my friends think its just my tendency to jump first, look later. anyway, hope we'll be good friends!

@Gale

HELLO GALE

Tricksters and Theives: A Warhammer RP

Neil reloaded quickly, grinning wickedly at the skaven scurrying away in fear. But it was a short lived victory. He pulled himself away from the opening to check on Emmaline, who looked none the worse for wear. The slight scuff on her healthy cheek somehow enhancing her beauty. Luckily none of the bandits were relaxed enough to really pay too much attention, their boots stomping on the floors as they ran back and forth, cursing and shouting at each other. It was then Neil noticed that things had grown quieter. Not silent, of course. There was still the occasional glowing bullet slicing through wood, but no clan rats surged forward and the strange firearms the skaven used weren't assailing them quite as horribly.

"We got guys watching our ass?" Neil asked Johann, who had come back into the long gallery and knelt down again, sporting a pistol in one hand and a notched military saber in the other. He peered out of the window before ducking back down, having evidently seen nothing to fire at. There was the faint smell of something rancid in the air.

"I got Clause and Kurt keeping an eye on it, and Brant's barred the doors." He said, and coughed from the dust flying everywhere. He snorted and kicked a piece of fallen wood away from his position. "Hell of a day to join the crew."

"Least we had some fun, beforehand." Neil remarked casually, giving Emmaline a smile that brightened the room. She smiled back, but it was whiped from her face, her jaw dropping and her eyes widening. Neil wasn't sure what the matter was, but he rolled away from the wall just as Emmaline screamed his name, and in a split second he saw her concern. What almost looked like a floating ball of green was hurtling toward the shattered window between them and Johann. Neil tossed his hochland rifle and leaped as best he could from the awkward position, and if he wasn't so blessed by Ranald with quick reflexes and clever fingers, all three of them would have died a most painful death.

He felt the globe of poison glass land heavily in his grasp, and his breath caught when it still 'clunked' against the floor. By Ranald's luck, his hands had halted the momentum just enough to keep it from breaking, and Neil's lips formed a tight 'o' in amazement at how close that was.

"Here, let me take it," Emmaline whispered, but Neil hugged it close to his chest when she reached for it.

"Babe, I love you, but you're kinda clumsy." He said.

She placed her hands on her hips, her knees on the floor. "Someone needs to hold it while you fire, numbskull."

"Oh don't worry, they'll get their globe back." Neil said with a grin, and he hopped to his feet and poked his head out of the window. Even as he did so, he saw a cloaked rat with an ornate mask and a large pack strapped to its back producing another globe. Its eyes couldn't be seen, but the glass coverings made it look almost as if the skaven were part insect. "Johann!"

The bandit boss was already on it, readying a shot. A moment later, a kick and a flash of smoke. The rat fell over, cracking some of the glass with its fall. By Neil's estimation the skaven was twenty meters out, and Neil stood to his full height and tossed the globe he had to land amidst the ever billowing gas. Emmaline yanked at Neil's arm, and he nodded. "Boss, we got to get away from the gallery. We don't know if the gas will come this way." Emphasizing the word 'boss' to keep up the facade they wanted to join the outfit.

"What'll it do?" He asked hoarsely, reloading.

"Bad shit, let's go!" Neil remarked, and he followed Emmaline into the lobby down the corridor. As the two thieves rounded the corner, they heard the sound of screeching and the sound of iron on iron. A man grunted and yelped. Neil flipped his hochland rifle, hefting it as they entered the scene. Two skaven lay dead on the floor, bleeding from heavy cuts. One of the bandits was dead too, a falchion still embedded in his skull. Another bandit furiously defended himself against three skaven as more streamed out of what to Neil appeared to be a closet behind the staircase.

"Sigmar's balls." Neil and Emmaline remarked together, Neil redirecting his rifle and firing into the group hounding the bandit, Neil thought his name was Clause. The bullet punctured the neck of the first and the skull of a second, dropping two at once. Neil spun his brass covered rifle and ran in like it was a club, battering one of the skaven that had decided to sneak up behind the dueling bandit. If they didn't think of something, they might be surrounded again in a matter of moments. Emmaline pulled Neil back with the strength of desperation, and Neil saw her wild look.

He looked back at the other skaven charging in to harass Clause.

Clause hacked and stabbed, but took a cut in his ribs. He kicked the skaven in the head, but more swarmed around him, and Neil saw his eyes sweep over his and Emmaline as the two thieves turned and ran down the corridor. His cries of help followed them, but were muffled when Neil slammed the doors and Emmaline spun and performed a spell that melted the brass on the knobs and locks, fusing the doors together. The two sprinted back the way they had come, Neil holding Emmaline's hand as the lovers ran to a better position.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

The true drakwald was not for some days by horseback, but the woods infesting the roads out of Middenheim were still thick and ominous, and even when they thinned, steam wafted and small creaks of decrepit trees kept a man on edge. The road was soggy, but not so deep a horse couldn't traverse it well with an experienced rider. Kasimir kept the reins of his horse firmly in his hands, eyes glancing left and right every minute, ears opened and alert. He left the city of the white wolf nearly half a day ago, making his way down the mountain and reaching one of the many roads that led to Neiderung. He figured that would be where Lucius would take her, and unfortunately he knew Lucius better than most.

"Girl's an idiot," he sighed as his horse rounded the corner, and a small wayward village came into view. It spoke to the strength of the White Wolves and their constant patrolling that it was not a walled settlement, one of the very few in all of Middenland, as the shadow of Middenheim still towered over the region. It was relatively small as well, the main road directly apart of the travel road, cutting through the settlement as the central drag. Smoke puffed into the air from various small homes and businesses, and what men and women were out trudged by Kasimir with only giving him a cursory glance. He felt they were likely too busy to grant newcomers much notice, and the fact he was coming from the capital meant he was not a threat. But a moment later, he realized why so little attention was being granted to him.

Up the road, another rider approached. Kasimir raised an eyebrow, noticing the steed he rode was well bred and powerful, so stark white it almost glowed, even with the sky above overcast. Upon it rode an equally powerful looking man in a tabard and old-style chainmail, and as the man turned his steed to the left, Kasimir saw the grotesque display of three beastmen heads tied to the saddle, their mouths open in screams, fangs and tongues out for all to see. It took Kasimir a few moments to recognize the regalia on his tabard, and the what the antiquated armor signified. He looked up at the sky, thinking that Ulric had a real sense of humor. He kicked his horse forward, and tethered it at the same inn as the knight.

The fellow had taken off his plumed helm at the counter, searching through his bag and mutturing to himself in his foreign tongue when Kasimir approached.

"I would like to buy this man a drink." Kasimir remarked, placing two krowns on the counter. The barman pursed his lips, and then scooped up both coins. "Whatever he wants, and I'll have what he's having."

The man regarded Kasimir curiously, almost suspiciously. He bore a mustache a count would be envious of, and had deep set, green eyes that had an almost cerulean quality to them. His hair was matted and shaved into a short, flat top. He didn't invite Kasimir to sit, but he did give a nod in thanks. "Merci, monsieur."

"You do the land a service killing those monsters." Kasimir declared as the Brettonian knight ordered wine, pulling up a stool beside him. He had to hand it to the man, wearing heavy chainmail even when drinking showed dedication. "Could I ask what brings you so far north?"

"I serve ze ladee as zshe seez vit." He explained. "Ze derak wal iz dan-zsher-oos I am told. I seek ze favere of mon patron, and so I go weer ze monstres reside." The glasses of wine were placed before them both, and the Knight drank his without delay, Kasimir taking a more casual sip. After a few good gulps, he placed the beverage down and cleared his throat. "Wat breengs yoo to zis small villazsh?"

Kasimir smiled into his drink, but forced it to disappear. "I am the son of Graf Todbringer, Count of this besieged province. I am on the quest to rescue a noblewoman from an evil vassal. Ironically, the woman is Brettonian like you. My odds of success are slim to none, but I must see it through for my noble father."

The Knight's head slowly turned to look at Kasimir, his eyes penetrating into him. Kasimir saw the gleam, and it was as if the wine the man had so desperately focused on was swamp water. He turned in his stool, leaning forward, brows lowering. "Zis is non soom trick, oui?"

The rakish bastard raised an eyebrow as if the idea were preposterous. Truth be told, even he would have had a difficult time believing it were he not living the reality, and he reached into his pack to pull out the steel and silver sigil of Boris Todbringer's office. "This is my father's seal," He said, letting the knight examine the item. "And what would I have to gain by lying to you, sir? I only tell you because I know men like you are honorable, and would not dare betray me to my enemies."

He smelled the seal, and for a moment Kasimir thought he would test it by taste, but a few moments later he slammed the seal on the counter and raised his fist. "By ze ladee, I zshall 'elp you in zis quest, monsieur!"

DHARMA Initiative - LOST

You have my tentative interest